Humour in Flash Fiction

Note: Our Guest Columnist is Camille Gooderham Campbell, Managing Editor at Every Day Fiction. I asked her to share some thoughts on writing flash fiction, EDF's specialty. Here's what she has to say.

Back in the early days of Every Day Fiction, we decided that we’d make a point of scheduling something humorous for every Monday. Mondays are hard enough, we thought, without adding a gritty tale of abuse, terminal illness or abject poverty to the mix. And so, over the past four years, we’ve done our best to make sure that the start of the week brings a laugh from EDF.

However, finding enough humorous pieces to fill our Mondays hasn’t proven to be as simple as all that, for two reasons: genuinely humorous storytelling isn’t the easiest thing in the world, and even leaving writing skill aside, we don’t all share the same sense of humour.

Many of the unsuccessful humour submissions that we see at EDF fall into the category of joke-telling rather than storytelling:

Since to some extent jokes are stories, there’s no clear line between a joke and a story, and a flash fiction piece can play both roles through character development and narrative skill. A joke virtually never develops its characters; when a man walks into a bar, he doesn’t have any characteristics that don’t function as part of the joke – he’ll be tall or ugly or a priest as the punchline requires, but that’s it. In a joke, the setup exists only to serve the punchline, rather than the humour serving the story. The difference is a matter of perception and taste, and has a lot to do with the way in which the piece is delivered. Told as a story, it comes alive as a story; told as a joke, it is reduced to a joke. (from my essay “Connecting the Dots” in The Best of Every Day Fiction Two)

Unfortunately, since perception is a subjective thing and tastes differ from person to person, and especially with flash fiction since so much of the story has to be sketched in, implied, hinted at and left to the author’s imagination, the difference between a joke and a story is an imprecise grey area. A humorous story is an exercise in tightrope walking, with half the readers ready to shoot it down for being only a joke and the other half ready to find it unfunny and either boring or offensive.

There’s no formula for success in writing humour, but after reading too many flash fiction submissions to count, I’ve come up with three tips that seem to be relevant more often than not:

* Develop real characters and settings. Make them as real as anything in your head. Give that tall ugly priest a secret lover and a weakness for chocolate, give that bar a grotty washroom and watered-down booze. Even if you only hint at those dimensions when you pare your story down to the bones of flash, you’ll be thinking of them as real and they will come across as real.

* Tell the story naturally; don’t editorialize or try too hard to be funny. If you’ve got a genuinely humorous concept, it will make people laugh without any additional window-dressing and finger-pointing.

* Value the flow of the story as a whole over individual witty lines; falling in love with a particularly clever turn of phrase can impair your inner editor, and a great line isn’t great when it has to be shoe-horned into the story.

Writing a good story is only half the battle, though, since you then need to match the story to the right publication for a good fit.

When you choose where to send your finished piece, keep in mind that not all publications have the same level of tolerance for humour involving bodily functions. Whether we’re talking about comedy of the gastrointestinal system or the lighter side of getting sexy, there’s a delicate balance between funny and gross, and the line falls in different places for different magazines. Think about the target readership when deciding if a piece is appropriate for a particular venue; for example, at EDF we know that many of our readers are eating while they read and may also be at work (on a coffee or lunch break, right?), so we’re cautious about stories that push the gross factor. We’ve seen some very funny pieces that are just too extreme for us.

Finally, remember that humour is largely a matter of taste, and that goes for editors and publishers just as much as for any other reader. There’s no benchmark of humour, no way to authenticate whether something is or isn’t funny – the reader either laughs or doesn’t laugh, end of story – so if a piece gets rejected on the basis that it isn’t funny, recognize that it wasn’t funny to that editor, and try a different market. Collecting a stack of twenty-five “it wasn’t funny” comments might suggest something, of course, if only that your sense of humour is fairly esoteric and you might be hard pressed to find an editor who shares it.

[Thanks, Camille, for sharing your take on humor (American spelling ;) and flash. I have a similar opinion regarding the difference between jokes and short stories. At my other blog, I talk about it in Part 3 of my short series on writing flash fiction. Read Part 1 and Part 2 as well. - Lyn]

My Short Stories at Feedbooks for Free

Check out my Feedbooks Profile for free short stories downloadable as PDF, EPUB, or Kindle (mobi) files. It's painless, especially if you have a Wi-Fi connected e-reader. I got a new Kindle for Christmas (version 3 - the b/w reader) and I used it's basic web browser to navigate to Feedbooks and then transfered my stories to my device. Easy peasy.

I have only three stories up at this point, but you might be interested in my type of humorous flash fiction. Check them out and let me know what you think of the process (and the stories!).

1. Billy Farnsworth Zombie Hunter (Zombie/humor)

Whenever Billy and his dad set out to bag some Z's they inevitably return to face something far worse for them waiting at home. (These two humorous flash fictions first appeared in Bewildering Stories.)

2. Spam Fiction (Sci-Fi/satire)

When Alan Smittee discovers how to convert garbled spam email text into flash fiction, anything is possible. (This short story first appeared in Every Day Fiction.)

3. Even Superheroes! (Fan Fic/humor)

When Mr. Clark and Mr. Wayne are caught touring a nursing home, you know the days of their heroics are coming to an end. (This short story first appeared in ResAliens Zine.)

Anastasia

by K.C. Ball

She is my younger sister and she talks to me; always has.

When I was twelve, she told me how to talk to girls, told me all the words she knew they loved to hear; and in return, asked only that each time I spoke her words, they were the truth.

Her giggles taught me how to laugh at all the world’s absurdities; most of all, my own.

She cheered for me, the night I earned my bachelor’s degree and the first afternoon I brought home a real paycheck; cried with me the morning after I retired.

I was steadied by her words, the day I said “I do,” and she cooed with me, outside the glass, when both my sons was born.

Somehow I made it through the nights, when my sweet Miriam passed on, because my sister whispered honest comfort in my ear from far away.

She talks to me, she always has, the younger sister I have never seen; my fraternal twin, who would not wait for birth and snuck away to God, behind me, as I squirmed into the world.

And now she says that today we will be together once again.

© 2008 K.C. Ball
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.
Discuss this story at ResAliens Forum at SFReader.com.
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K.C. Ball is a retired newspaper reporter and media relations coordinator, living in Seattle; but just recently began writing fiction full-time. Ball's stories have been published in Boston Literary Magazine, Every Day Fiction, Fear & Trembling, Morpheus Tales, Murky Depths, Static Movement and A Thousand Faces. You can catch more of K.C. Ball at Now Playing In Seattle.

Learning the Ropes

by Dan Devine

These aliens made no sense.

A SpaceDef officer on routine patrol found them last week, drifting through our sector with fuel tanks on empty, and carted them here to Station Theta so they could become our problem. The aliens' technology seemed pretty advanced, and to be honest, we weren't quite sure how it worked. There was no record of their species on file and as the resident linguist it was my job to figure out who they were and what they wanted.

It wasn't their language that was causing the hold up. Not that it was an especially easy one, but our Farquads Translations Tactics software was doing as well with it as any other we'd encountered. The blue-skinned buggers were even humanoid, which helped a bit in reading their body language.

No, the real obstacle was much simpler to diagnose. The whole lot of them were complete morons. At least, all of the officers were. I'd spoken to all of them multiple times and either they were really good at playing dumb or they just weren't playing. I was beginning to think that someone on their homeworld had shipped them out here to get rid of them.

With a sigh, I brushed a stray strand of hair from my face, trapped it behind an ear, and opened the door to the interview room. The moment that Captain Hahsh saw me, he began squealing in agitation. There were half a dozen armored guards in the room, so I felt less than threatened.

“I order that we be let fly,” suggested my computerized earpiece assistant as a possible translation of his shouting.

I sat down opposite him and opened my laptop on the room's plain metal table.

“As I've explained,” I began, keeping my voice calm for the sake of diplomacy, “you are not prisoners. We are only holding you in this quarantine area until we can determine how to refuel your vehicle. You will then be free to return home, or if you prefer, you could pay the fee for a temporary work or trade visa and enter into United Worlds Space.”

I waited a moment for my computer's speakers to repeat my words back to him in a no doubt garbled form of his own language. Hahsh's powder blue face was wedge-shaped like a dog's, with two beady black eyes, but it was covered in something akin to the scales of a fish instead of fur. He squinted back at me in a way that I was beginning to interpret as a frown and shrieked a response.

“We have no worth for you to steal!”

“That's fine,” I replied. “Once we know how to safely fuel your vehicle, we will provide whatever is needed free of charge as a sign of goodwill between our peoples.”

Hahsh blinked rapidly, his equivalent of a nod.

“So what can be used to power your ship?” I persisted.

He listened to the computer speak the question and stared at me blankly, a look that needed no translation. I resisted the urge to pound a fist on the table. The software must not be wording the question properly. Otherwise he was being intentionally obtuse. The captain had to have some idea what his ship was running on, didn't he?

“Who would know best the way in which your ship's engines operate?” I asked, as I had during every earlier conversation. The Farquads software monitored every discussion between the aliens here in quarantine and updated its translations appropriately as new information became available. There was always hope that its rephrasing of a question would suddenly cause it to make sense.

“Ilpa ship fix.”

A surge of excitement rushed through me. Progress at last!

“Did you just say that Ilpa is the one who fixes your ship?”

Hahsh listened closely, then blinked several times in agreement. I thanked him and dismissed him, sending a security office to locate the alien known as Ilpa and bring him to me. I checked my notes. I'd spoken with Ilpa before but had not learned much from him. Perhaps the software's improved translations would make a difference this time around.

I still had difficulty telling the aliens apart, but Ilpa was smaller in stature than Hahsh and the shade of his skin tended towards more of a bluish-green.

“Officer Ilpa,” I greeted him. “The captain tells me that you are in charge of fixing his ship.”

“Yes,” he answered quickly, straightening in his chair as if proud of his position.

“So, you would be the one in charge of keeping the engines operating?” I continued hopefully.

The speakers shrieked in the alien language and there was a long pause as he pondered the meaning of my question.

“Yes,” he said finally.

“Wonderful!” I exclaimed. “Can you tell me what your ship uses as a fuel source?”

He squinted at me silently for a moment and made a noise like a muffled sneeze. My earpiece translated this as, “I don't know.”

I bit my lip in frustration and struggled to maintain my composure.

“So what you are saying is that you are in charge of refueling the ship,” I recounted slowly, “but you do not know what the ship uses as fuel.”

That would certainly explain why they had been found adrift and out of gas.

Ilpa inhaled sharply, causing his head to expand in size and his scales to bristle. A clear sign of annoyance or insult.

“I am in charge of fixing! I not fill fuel. Below Ilpa!” he growled.

“Ah,” I said after taking a moment to digest this. “And who below you would handle that?”

“Pavilpahtik,” he answered without hesitation, sounding disgusted.

I dismissed him and sent for his underling, one of the few aliens with whom I had not already spoken. My notes indicated that I had not been able to ascertain Pavilpahtik's position, but it seemed to be a minor one.

“Hello, Pavilpahtik,” I said when he arrived.

“Hello,” he repeated back, ignoring the translation into his shrill tongue. He grew thoughtful for a moment, perhaps considered how I had struggled over his name, then spoke in his own language. “You may call me Pavil.”

“Thank you, Pavil.” I said, with real gratitude.

“You're welcome,” he replied immediately, in English.

I stared at him intently, his solid black eyes seemed brighter and more alert than those of his superiors.

“You speak some English,” I said, deciding to state the obvious.

“I have a one word or two,” he said in his own language.

“How?”

He squinted slightly, then answered. “The watching men.”

Just from listening to security. Perhaps his betters were too proud to learn a foreign language, or maybe it was part of their ignorant act, but Pavil apparently wasn't buying in. That was a good sign.

“Pavil, are you in charge of fueling the ship?”

He blinked his assent.

“What kind of fuel does the ship use?”

He answered without hesitation, but the program did not understand his answer. He opened his eyes wider and snatched a paper and pen off the table with his three-fingered hands. A few seconds later he handed me a page full of drawings, diagrams of chemical structures.

Finally!

“Pavil,” I asked. “How could you know this information when Ilpa or the captain do not?”

The question seemed to confuse him.

“They above me, they not know things.”

I unsuccessfully tried to stifle a laugh.

“I guess management's the same everywhere,” I muttered under my breath.

“What?” he asked in English.

“Are you saying those above you know less about flying the ship than you do?”

He blinked vigorously. He leaned forward. Something had just occurred to him. He began speaking quickly, the hard drive on my translator hummed as it strained to keep up.

“Long ago we had great science, great army. Invented ships we use now and killed many from other worlds. Made them servants... Later realized this was no good, would not do again, would have no more great leaders.

“Now if you are good at job, stay on bottom. If stupid leader gives bad order, smart workers ignore it and he usually not realize it anyways. Function good most of the time, but I make mistake and listen to captain too much. Get lost.”

This ridiculous claim stunned me into silence for a moment. I'd have thought it was some strange alien sense of humor at work if I had not been living it for the past week.

“Pavilpahtik is too smart to be promoted,” he said, hanging his head sadly.

I handed the chemical diagrams to a security guard and told him to take it down to someone in the lab.

“And bring me some work visa forms while you're at it,” I added.

As the computer repeated my message, Pavil's eyes widened with excitement.

© 2008 by Dan Devine
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

Dan Devine is a scientist by day and an aspiring science fiction author by night, though he'll write anything that pops into his head. For a short time he served as editor of Fools Motley Internet Magazine, but he recently decided to shut it down and focus on improving his own writing. He has since had stories published in Space Westerns, Dark Fire, Afterburn SF, and Flash Tales Magazines. For more of Dan's stories, visit here.

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Dark and Stormy

by Crystalwizard

It was a dark and stormy night. Yeah, I know. But it really was. Very dark and extremely stormy. The high winds had spawned a cluster of tornados that were rampaging across the countryside not enough miles away from my house, and they'd taken out a couple of electric substations. Which explains the dark.

I'd been pacing the floor with a battery powered radio pressed against my ear for almost an hour, listening to nothing - and hoping for a weather update that wasn't likely to happen - while debating whether I should hide in the bathroom under my mattress.

That's when the light dawned. Literally. A brilliant beam of light speared through my front window accompanied by blaring loudspeakers and vicious pounding on my door. I dropped the radio, ran into a wall, tripped over a rug, smacked my shin on a chair - I think it was a chair - and slammed my hand against the doorknob. Seconds later I stood squinting at a massive policeman, rubbing my hand and trying to make out what he was saying over the screaming sirens and howling wind. It didn't work. He got the message I guess, because he shoved me out of the way, stomped into my house and slammed the door.

"Get your stuff!"

"Hunh?" I'm normally a fairly fluent speaker, except when there's a tornado headed for my house and an eight foot tall behemoth standing in my foyer.

"You gotta evac. Now. Get yer goat and yer wallet and come on!"

Goat. I stood there staring at the man and wondered why he was looking for livestock. He solved the problem for me by grabbing my arm, shining his flashlight around the room and dragging me toward the hall.

"Goat! Now!"

I stammered something at him that didn't make sense even to me, and ran into the wall again. He growled, dragged me down the hall, flashing that light into every room we passed. It didn't do him any good. I keep animals outside and besides, all I had was a cat. We ended up in my bedroom where he ripped my sweater off the hook on the wall, ransacked my dresser and shoved something bulky in my hands.

"Stick it in your pocket. Let's go!"

I knew it couldn't be a goat. It wasn't big enough and didn't feel like it had horns, but beyond that I had no idea what he'd handed me. It wasn't until he'd dragged me out the front door and propelled me down the walk that I realized I was carrying my wallet. My keys were still inside. I turned around to go get them and ran into a wall of moving muscles. That hurt. I also fell down. Goliath hauled me to my feet by one arm, shoved me toward a waiting truck and hoisted me into the back with several shivering bodies. Neighbors, I think. The truck gunned its motor and I landed in a lap.

I scrambled out of the lap, hunted down the wallet that had gone flying, and took a deep breath. Something in the back of my mind prodded me to peer out the back window of the camper shell, so I tried. The night was dark, but the thick column of pitch black that rocketed toward my house stood out like a spotlight. I shuddered, mentally thanked the mountain of flesh sitting in the driver’s seat, and hung on for the ride.

I suppose my house is gone. In fact, I expect the town is gone. I can't tell from all the way up here in the mountains, but life goes on. One day maybe I'll go back, but for now I'll sit here and fish, and watch the sun stream through the trees.

© 2008 by Crystalwizard
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

Crystalwizard is a talented author, artist, editor, and publisher who can also fill just about any other writing-related role there is. As owner of Cyberwizard Productions, Crystalwizard publishes quality fiction in various genres, including speculative, fantasy, literary, mystery, humor, and children's. Her latest project is a new print and online magazine called Abandoned Towers. Some of her stories have appeared here at ResAliens. For more information, you can read my interview with Crystalwizard from December, 2007.

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One's Duty

by James C. Clar

When Master Radegast retired and gave him the vaunted sword – a weapon whose history was shrouded in mystery and legend – Radegar knew that his duty was clear and his obligation acute. Only three years after Unification, the dungeons were still full. In his role now as the Hierarch’s chief executioner, it would be his task to dispatch all of those, and they were legion, who had opposed the grand consolidation of power in the Ekklesia. One of the condemned, of course, was his own father.

Radegar was no sadist. The psychological testing that had been done when his uncommon skills with the sword had first come to the attention of those in power had shown that quite clearly.

In addition, the young man was also well aware that had it not been for his father’s former prominence in the hierarchy (before his views on politics and religion had changed), he most probably would have perished on some god-forsaken field of battle as just another simple soldier – albeit one remarkably gifted with the blade – martyred in the fight for Unification. He also recalled his father’s love for and devotion to his wife, Radegar’s mother, long dead now from the plague.

Thus the young functionary did not particularly relish the thought of taking his sire’s life. At the same time, he also realized that his superiors would be watching closely when that time came for any signs of weakness or wavering resolve. Radegar prayed to the One that his hands and shoulders would be firm and that his aim would be true … both for his own as well as for his father’s sake.

For nearly a year, Radegar performed his duties with integrity, compassion and, judging by the adulation of the crowds in the capital and the approval of his overlords, with élan. During that time he discovered many things remarkable, miraculous even, about the blade that had been bequeathed to him as it had been to all of those who had served in his capacity since before the people of his land began worshipping the One untold millennia ago. In the first place, the sword was perfectly balanced. Heavy as it was when it lay in its jewel-encrusted scabbard, in the performance of its primary function it felt quite literally like an extension of his hand and arm.

Most amazing, however, were the weapon’s mystical powers. At the top of its arc, just before he braced with his legs and followed through with his back and shoulders in the fell descent, he caught a fleeting glimpse … an intuition, as it were … transmitted wordlessly, unaccountably through the weapon itself concerning the character of the condemned.

So, for example, in the case of the priest Procopius, a flash of insight the instant before steel met flesh revealed to Radegar that in addition to the man’s suspect theology and politics he was also a violent pedophile; a fact that had not hitherto come to light. And then there was the copyist Cassidorus condemned for altering official ekklesial documents. Radegar discovered that he had murdered his own brother to advance his career. The prisoner had successfully hidden his crime by making it look like an accident.

The first time he had experienced the sword’s arcane power it had been mildly unsettling. Only his iron will and self-discipline had enabled him to carry out his task unflinchingly and, he hoped, without anyone observing his slight hesitation. Above all else, Radegar prided himself on doing his duty.

Since that time he had grown accustomed to the eccentricities of the weapon. He could now understand why the secret of the sword had been guarded so closely for thousands of years, and why the substance of that secret was never revealed in advance to those who were chosen to assume the role of chief executioner. Its discovery was intensely personal, a rite of passage, as well as both a gift and a burden that could only be borne by those truly fit to do so.

He was also astonished at the righteousness of the judgments passed by the Ekklesial Tribunal. Not one prisoner that Radegar had executed since assuming his role had been innocent. If the individuals under sentence had not in fact been guilty of the crimes for which they had been condemned, Radegar’s sword revealed to him that they had nevertheless been the perpetrators of offences far more heinous.

On the much-anticipated morning of his father’s scheduled execution, Radegar took his position on the platform to await the arrival of the prisoner. He stood, as was his custom, just to the side of the block. His legs were spread, feet apart, and he held his sword point down in front of his body. His hands were clasped on the top of the pommel. He was a model of dignity and composure. The vast crowd that had assembled was silent. Protocol dictated that they refrain from cheering until after the execution. In truth, Radegar felt very little out of the ordinary. He focused his attention on the myriad details of the duty he was about to perform. He also felt confident that, at its accustomed time, his sword would make known to him the depth of his father’s guilt. His experience thus far deemed that such was almost inevitable.

What little noise the crowd had been making subsided completely as the condemned man was led onto the platform. He knelt and placed his neck on the block as instructed. Simultaneously, the dignitaries and official witnesses on the dais stood. Radegar stepped forward – father and son never made eye contact – and raised his sword.

The blade sang as it flashed through the air. Suddenly, just as he was to deliver the severing stroke, his sword mere inches from the base of his father’s neck, Radegar dropped his weapon and strode calmly from the platform. His ineluctable obligation had been made instantly, blazingly clear. The noise of the crowd was deafening. Needless to say, the young executioner was seized by guards as soon as he descended the steps.


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Now languishing in prison awaiting his own execution as a traitor, Radegar took some comfort in the fact that his former protégé, Ragnorak, would learn the truth on the day when, now as chief executioner, he would sever Radegar’s head from his shoulders. What the sword at first revealed to Radegar, it would surely also reveal to Ragnorak … if it had not already done so when the latter completed the task that had been begun and subsequently, shamefully, aborted by his erstwhile master. Radegar’s father had certainly been guilty of crimes against the Ekklesia as alleged. But he was not, in actuality, Radegar’s father. The condemned man had married Radegar’s mother to protect her honor and he had raised Radegar as his own out of a sense of obligation, compassion and, eventually, love for mother and child. In the end – and as Ragnorak already knew or would soon intuit – both father and son, each in his own way, had done his duty.

© 2008 by James C. Clar
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

James C. Clar is a teacher and writer living in upstate New York. His work has appeared in print and online. Most recently his short fiction has been published in the Taj Mahal Review, Everyday Fiction, Powder Burn Flash, PenPricks, Microfiction, Orchard Press Mysterie,. MysteryAuthors.com, Crime and Suspense Magazine, and Long Story, Short.

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The Battle

by R. L. Copple

They say when you're about to die, your entire life flies past your mind's eye. That's not what I'm experiencing on this battlefield - his sword in my gut, and my blade buried into his chest. Fighting surges around us. Commanders yell orders. It all dims into a pool of abstract sounds and thoughts.

Rather, a different focus emerges from the hazy chaos as life drains from my limbs. I had sacrificed my life for this? A piece of land the king wanted, which my family would never live on and my descendants would never inherit?

I had served in battle after battle for the king. I had dodged death's blows on many occasions, and never once did it cross my mind that in the next moment my life could disappear with the sea-breezes. In my head, I knew it, yes. But, it never traveled with me as a companion. It never dwelt in my house or slept in my bed. I had slid between death's fingers so many times, I didn't think I would ever get caught by the old tyrant - even though I should have known better.

Now, the tyrant had trapped me. I wouldn't escape this time, nor would I escape the purpose of my martyrdom: another's greed. It took death to bring life into perspective.

The soldier standing opposite me fixes his eyes on mine and communicates wordlessly the same realization. Life should mean something, and death should celebrate such meaning. This isn't it.

As we sink to our knees and collapse onto the grass reddened by death's pride, as the yells, grunts, and clanking of swords ring in our ears, we bond.

Enemies in life. Brothers in death. And the knowledge that the former could have been avoided.

© 2008 by R. L. Copple
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

R. L. Copple is a father to three children, a husband since 1982, and lives in the Texas Hill Country. He has written for religious purposes but currently is editing three novels. He has been published at A Thousand Faces, The Sword Review, Ray Gun Revival, Haruah, Fear and Trembling, EveryDay Fiction, Residential Aliens, and Dragons, Knights, and Angels. His five chapter fantasy novella Infinite Realities (read my review here) is for sale and has been serialized at The Sword Review, September through December 2007. Visit RLCopple.com for more.

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ReBirth

by T.J. McIntyre

I awoke and the world had changed. It had moved on without me.

Naked and cold I emerged from the fluid. I shook and shivered while purging my lungs of embryonic gel.

"Good Morning!" a comforting voice resounded. I stood and stared into a free-floating projection screen.

Habit and decency forced a reply.

A century had passed since I fell asleep.

"A wise investment," the voice on the screen advised. "ReGenesis costs two-hundred times what you paid on today's market."

Machinery hummed in, delivering bed and blanket. Sustenance was brought, but I couldn't call it food.

The screen expanded. I lay down and watched the history I had missed.

Wars, plagues, political upheavals.

I was disappointed by how little had changed.

Time passed and I grew stronger. I felt more like myself again. I joined the other reborns in the common room we jokingly referred to as "The Nursery." We played chess and reminisced about old times long gone.

Some of the other reborns were from a mere decade before. Others were older, but I was the oldest.

I was trained and taught the basics of quantum genetics. With my previous training, this only required filling some small gaps. They employed me as a technician in the ReGenesis chamber.

I watched life after life spring anew, but always my thoughts turned to her. I saw her in every new face until each face morphed into that of a stranger.

Time passed and I was allowed a vacation. On my way to a beachside town on the newly renamed Bay of New Orleans, I stopped by the old neighborhood. Where the house once rested, stood tall pines strangled by kudzu. Beneath the shade lay a grave.

And then I saw her name.

Etched in stone was my wife's name and below it a range of years. Using the dates on the tombstone, I calculated she died ninety years before.

Below this, an inscription said, "A time to be born, and a time to die..."

Knowing her, I understood she sold her slot for ReGenesis. My "pipe dream," as she called it. It comforted me that whatever she sold it for was useless to her now.

But then again, maybe I didn't know her all that well?

I reread the inscription.

I reached out and touched the cold stone while remembering her warmth. I remembered how warm I used to be with her and shivered.

© 2008 T. J. McIntyre

Stories by T.J. McIntyre have been rejected by some of the greatest editors of our time. He spends much of his free time in his own world until his two boys or wife snap him out of it and bring him back to reality. As his stories usually show, reality is a much nicer place to be anyway. He is the publisher of Southern Fried Weirdness.

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Morning Coffee

by Resha Caner

"Isn't it funny?" I asked.

"What?" Bob replied as he scrubbed an annoying stain from the countertop. His large eyebrows clung to his forehead like goats on a high mountain cliff. The link between my words and Bob's eyebrows did not escape me, but I tried not to laugh. I meant something else.

"Whenever someone thinks of the future, it's always in some exotic far-off place. Why don't people who write these stories ever think of the future taking place right here in Illinois?"

I gave a slight backhand tap to the screen of the laptop, then looked at Bob tentatively. After all, I had only met him five minutes ago. This was my first trip into his cafe. It always looked so appealing, but I was usually in too much of a rush, grabbing stale coffee from wherever I could find it.

Bob stopped his chores, and leaned over to observe my screen. "I've read that story," he said with a scoffing laugh. "A piece of crap. Here, let me give you something better." His hands strained at the wrist to type from an odd angle, but the letters of a new web address flew from his fingers, and The Time Machine by H.G. Wells popped onto the screen.

"OK, now you're going way back," I said.

Bob shrugged. "I guess I'm old-fashioned at heart."

"I can see that," I laughed. To emphasize the point I glanced around the cafe at all the people enjoying a wireless laptop connection, or playing on a GameBoy, or watching the big screen TV, all supplied without charge by Bob. He probably made it up in the price of the coffee, I thought, staring into my cup and remembering the exorbitant price. "I hope this is real java."

"It's real," Bob confirmed with a nod. "See, even you have something you won't give up. That's why my place appeals to so many people."

"Yeah." I sucked in another draught of caffeine. "Nothing tastes like the original. Thanks." I slammed the empty paper cup onto the counter, exhaling with satisfaction.

As I rose to leave, Bob's eyebrows came alive. "Forgettin' somethin' buddy?"

I glanced at my empty coffee cup. "Oh, yeah." I leaned over so Bob could scan my wrist tag for the proper number of credits.

Then I flipped down my glasses. Immediately data began scrolling across, and my ear-piece activated. My boss was already irate that I hadn't made it to work yet. My customer had been calling from Ganymede wondering why his tractor hadn't been delivered. The guy knew the engine for his machine was a special order from the Pleiades. It didn't matter. He made unreasonable demands anyway.

I stepped out of the cafe. The scanner picked up my signal and called for a transport to take me to work. The selected vehicle dropped out of line from those streaming by overhead. Before I stepped in, I took one last look at Bob's Old Fashioned Internet Cafe. All those science fiction stories I had been reading about the future suddenly had a dissatisfying taste. Of course everyone needs their escape, but maybe Bob was right about some of those old-fashioned stories.

I was already making plans to return tomorrow for my morning coffee.

© 2008 Resha Caner
Original Fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

Resha Caner lives in the imagination, serving as the alter ego to an often frustrated writer. The seeds of creativity planted many years ago by a few special teachers occasionally bear fruit. He was recently selected as a semi-finalist in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel contest, has been the editor's choice at Bewildering Stories, and received an honorable mention from the international literary review, Constellation. His work has also appeared at Sage of Consciousness, Planet Mag, SNReview, The Blotter, EveryDay Fiction, MindFlights, and Haruah, with more to come at Anotherealm.

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Space Talk

by R. L. Copple

My foot is stuck! After all these years of space walks, I come out to fix a simple transmitter. And what happens? I get trapped outside our hull half way between Neptune and Pluto!

“Steve to Bob, do you read me?”

Why doesn’t he answer? Doesn’t he know I’m in trouble? You would think a guy on a space walk would have a little help.

Don’t panic. There has to be a way out of this—short of cutting my foot off. Better check my air. Only five minutes left! Okay, focus, think think think...

Pry the boot out? Maybe with this wrench. Not a lot of leverage but maybe enough. Ah, that seemed to move it some. Ouch! No! It slipped! I’ve just added a wrench to the Kuiper belt! Darn, now what?

Three minutes left. “Steve to Bob. Come in! I need assistance, Buddy. Please?” Is this radio broke? Is he not responding on purpose? I know I talk too much, but surely he would never have turned off our two-way.

Hey, what’s this? Is it alive? Looks like a bug, a wormish bug. Landed right on my helmet. What is a bug doing in space? How does it breathe? How did it hit my helmet and not become a splat on my visor?

What is it up to? No, not that! Can’t let it bore a hole in my visor. Shoo fly shoo! Go away!

“Bob, I don’t have long, I need air!”

Oh no! He’s in! My air! It’s escaping! What can I do? I don’t see a way out of this. I’m doomed! Death by suffocation. Can it get much worse? No, don’t say that.

Look, dots in space. Why, they’re getting bigger. Oh no, that’s me! I’m losing air. Feeling a little dizzy. Lungs aren’t getting enough. Starting to collapse. Can hardly see...now. Probably....black.....out......soo.......

Ouch! What.....was that? It feels.....it feels...like the bug is eating its way into my head. Is that what this bug does? Kills space walkers by removing their air and then feasting on their flesh? How insidious.

What a stupid way to die. Foot stuck, bug in my head, no air. I’ll go down in space history as the first person to be suffocated and devoured by a bugonaut. Feast up guy! At least someone will enjoy this.

Wait! Why am I still aware? I should be dead by now. My lungs, I’m feeling air in them again. But how? Why? No air in my suit. My tank is out. How can this be? My sight is returning.

My neck, it feels odd. What did that bug do to me? I can breathe, but not well. I feel like I have a bag over my head. Wait, I do have a helmet on.

Could it be? Did that bug enable me to breathe solar air? Is there such a thing? One way to find out. Let’s take this helmet off. It isn’t doing me any good.

Oh! That is much, much better! Oh yes, I can breathe freely. I’m breathing sunlight in space! Must have been that bug. Must be a symbiotic being that needs me to survive. Did it sense I was in trouble? Is it intelligent life?

“Yes, I am.”

Who said that?

“Your bugonaut, as you called me.”

The bug in my head?

“I’m not really a bug.”

I’m breathing sunlight and talking to a space bug in my head! I must be going crazy. This must be a dream. I’m going to wake up soon and have a great story for Bob.

“If you say so. You were dying and I saved your life. You tried to squish me but I helped anyway.”

I’m stuck outside this ship.

“What about ‘thank you’? Do you only care about yourself?”

I can’t move.

“Just get out of the suit.”

Of course, I don’t need it now. Yes! I’m free! Look! I can move around where I want! Cool!

What kind of bug are you now?

“I’m not a bug, I am a Delusian. I would prefer if you addressed me properly, after all, I did save your life and give you these powers.”

Powers? I have powers?

“You have to ask? You’re breathing, aren’t you?”

Real powers? Like Superman?

“Super who? Isn’t breathing and moving around in space power enough?”

Can I lift heavy things, use x-ray vision, go through walls, turn invisible or something?

“Are you always this ungrateful? Even if you had such powers, what would you do with them?”

I would become a god! I would create races of beings, paint the sun different colors, reshape some planets. I don’t know, whatever hit my fancy I suppose. You are my ticket to ruling the universe!

“What idiot have I burrowed myself into this time! Remind me to never join with a human again, I should have left you to suffer.”

But you can’t, right? You have to stay here. You have to do my bidding like a genie in a bottle. Right? Hey, are you still there? No...no, don’t leave. No, I’m too far away from the ship! I’m out here in space with no helmet and no air! You can’t leave! No, not now, not...when....I.....was......so.......clo........

~*~

“Bob to Steve. Bob to Steve. Come in Steve. Respond if you can hear me.

“Dang! This cheap two-way must be broken again.”

© 2005 - 2008 R. L. Copple
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

R. L. Copple is a father to three children, a husband since 1982, and lives in the Texas Hill Country. He has written for religious purposes but currently is editing three novels. He has been published at A Thousand Faces, The Sword Review, Ray Gun Revival, Haruah, Fear and Trembling, EveryDay Fiction, Residential Aliens, and Dragons, Knights, and Angels. His five chapter fantasy novella Infinite Realities is for sale and has been serialized at The Sword Review, September through December 2007. Visit RLCopple.com for more.

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The People of Terra Firma

by Edward McKeown

Tasca the Hunter moved on all fours, in the way of the People. His lean, smoke-gray body blended well with the predawn grayness. Today Tasca hunted not for food, but for something far more important—knowledge. Knowledge to weld his solitary kind into something greater than nomadic hunters.

He had not yet been born when the big ones came to his desert world. Strange beings many times the height of the People, they seemed indifferent to his kind. Tasca believed they meant his folk no harm, but some of the People had come to grief, crushed by the strange bellowing animals the Giants sometimes rode. The People avoided the Giants, giving them a wary, respectful distance. Only Tasca ventured near.

Lately he had come to suspect the bellowing things were not alive, but something new. Something like the rocks he strode on—yet somehow animated. They were something the Giants made. It told him of powers, ways of thinking undreamed of by his kind.

Tasca shivered and not just from the cool breeze. The old ones also told stories of brilliant flashes in the desert flats beyond the low hills he lived among, followed by a burning wind of the Giant’s making. The terrible blasts never came again, but Tasca saw the awful, mushroom-shaped clouds of the old one’s stories in his dreams.

For this, he dared the valley of the tall ones again. Each time Tasca moved among the Giants, he felt closer to a breakthrough. The Giants gave him food and drink during his last visit. They spoke to him in their incomprehensible tongue. Tasca tried to make them understand the speech of the People, without success. In an effort to achieve understanding, he even suffered their hands on him. To his surprise the sensation had not been unpleasant.

Now he could see the home of the Giants, a structure hewn from earth and stone. One of the Giants came out; the same one who laid hands on him yesterday. The Giant made a soft, calling sound and slowly came down from its two-legged stance to a less intimidating height. It reached out a hand, a curious hand, furless, with blunt, almost vestigial claws, so unlike his own more lethal armament. Tasca allowed the touch on his head, neck, and back. As before, it proved pleasant and the rhythm of it kept the big creature’s attention on him.

The Giant left briefly, returning with food and precious clean water. Tasca ignored the food, intent on his mission, but took the water with relief. The journey here had not been easy.

Tasca repeated the sounds he had made the other day, simple speech of the People, the sounds of a child. He knew the being before him was intelligent, perhaps omnipotent, yet speech seemed to elude it. When it could be coaxed into repeating a sound, it came back without meaning. Abruptly, the creature seemed to lose interest in the lesson and Tasca. It towered up on its two back legs. Tasca did not even dare a growl of frustration as his plans for alliance seemed to collapse. Damn, he thought, for a second, just for a second, I thought we were getting somewhere.

~*~

Colonel T. Kemp Sander, Delta Force, US ARMY stood, finished with petting the scared tomcat. The cat didn’t seem as interested in food today, instead it seemed more intent in looking up at Sander.

“What’s up warrior?” he asked the cat, looking in amusement at the tom. It stared back at him, meowing repeatedly.

“Did you say something, sir?” asked Lt. Daley. The tall ranger came out of the bunker.

“Just talking to my new friend,” said Sander.

“Get any answer, sir?” laughed Daley.

“May have better luck with him than with our new immigrants,” said Sander, a touch of grimness in his tone. Both men turned looking out toward the 100 acre silver dome that the aliens built in the New Mexico flats near Los Alamos. Bunkers like theirs sprinkled the perimeter around it, manned by Delta Force, Navy Seals and even some SAS from the UK. Civilian scientists rounded out each team. Theirs, a physicist named Beverly Gulden, labored over her instruments in the bunker, cursing some shortcoming monotonously.

The aliens showed no sign of hostility, indeed they seemed unconcerned with humanity. Occasionally, the five-meter tall, tripodial, insectoid aliens left the dome, piling strange objects on the plain. Scientists spent endless hours pouring over the devices, if devices they were, to no avail. No one dared move them after the first disastrous attempt.

Suddenly the small, intense woman rushed out. “Power spike,” she yelled, “it’s coming out!”

~*~

Lennedle the Quint strode out of the clan habitat onto the plain. His mate had become insistent about his removal of the glarb from the habitat. His six mouths grumbled, but not in the range of the ultrasonic she might hear. The silver force curtain parted as he approached it with a load. He emerged under the system’s small yellow primary, shivering a bit in its inadequate heat. Lennedle turned toward the dump and saw three of the small bipeds scampering about the foosh and glarb he’d thrown away before. Playing with the small bipeds had become his secret vice. His mate would doubtless see it as a waste of time she could fill with more valuable tasks.

The creatures gestured for his attention and he paused as they flashed lights and squeaked barely audible noises. He watched them with pleasure for a few minutes, then drew out a few pieces of choice glarb, placing them near the bipeds. They seized on them avidly. Lennedle quickly sent a thought pulse to deactivate a deedle the smallest biped picked up, before the machine could harm it. Cute creatures, he thought, but unintelligent, with no awareness of the Quaren, the mind force. After a few more seconds, Lennedle the Quint lumbered back toward the force curtain, wondering if he might somehow convince his mate that one or two of them would make wonderful pets.

~*~

“Damn,” cursed Beverly, watching the immense tripodial alien hover back toward the silver dome. “I thought for a second, just for a second, we were getting somewhere.”

© 2002 Edward McKeown
This story originally appeared in Issue 36 of Planet Magazine, December, 2002.
Reprinted with permission.

Like Snake Plisskin, Ed McKeown escaped from NY, but his old hometown supplies much of the background to his humorous Lair of the Lesbian Love Goddess shorts as his new hometown in Charlotte, North Carolina does for his Templar series of which Medi-Evil is the third. Ed has enjoyed a life-long love affair with science fiction and fantasy. He also enjoys a wide variety of interests from ballroom dance to the martial arts and has the good fortune to be married to the talented artist, Schelly Keefer. Ed is represented by the Swetky Literary Agency for the Robert Fenaday Trilogy the saga of one man’s search for his wife’s lost starship. He has also edited the Sha’Daa’ anthology of wry tales of the apocalypse. In the nonfiction world he had written extensively on the visual arts. For more, visit Ed's home page.

One Million Jeboolas

One Million Jeboolas
by Michael A. Kechula

Billy was alone in the farmhouse that stormy night when someone knocked.

“Who’s there?” he hollered.

“Hungry,” a voice gurgled. It sounded as if somebody were talking from inside a fish tank.

Billy’s mother told him to always help folks in need. But she also told him never to let strangers into the house.

“Would you like some crackers?” Billy asked.

“Hungry,” the voice replied.

Billy spread gobs of peanut butter on a half dozen crackers then put them into a plastic sandwich bag. Without removing the chain lock, he opened the door slightly and pushed the bag outward. A purple, furry paw with two little stumps for fingers grabbed the bag.

Startled, Billy slammed the door. He wished his mother were home. He hoped she wasn’t stuck in the storm.

Another knock.

“What do you want?” Billy yelled.

“Thirsty,” the voice said.

Billy filled a cup with water and passed it to the paws that came through the narrow opening.

Moments later, the voice said, “Nice.” Then it said, “Paper.”

Tearing a sheet from a notebook, Billy passed it outside.

“Name?”

“Billy Lane.”

“Spell.”

He pronounced each letter slowly.

Another knock. “Finished,” the voice gurgled.

Billy opened the door slightly and grabbed the paper. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It was full of beautiful, geometric designs, with more colors than he’d ever seen. He figured Mr. Purple Paws had to be very intelligent to draw so well. Suddenly, Billy wasn’t scared anymore. Especially when he saw his name on the paper. It came right after the words, “Pay To The Order Of.”

“What is this?” he asked.

No answer.

“It’s very nice. What do the words ‘One Million Jeboolas’ mean after my name?”

Silence.

“I can’t wait to show this to my mother and all my friends. Want some cookies and milk?”

No response.

He waited for the next knock, but it never came. Nor did he ever hear that odd, gurgling voice again.

Billy told his mother the moment she got home. At first, she was angry that he opened the door even a tiny bit. But when he explained how he helped somebody, she said she was proud of him.

She didn’t know what to make of the fancy drawing. “Oh my. I never saw anything so beautiful. The designs remind me of crop circles we saw on TV. But these are much fancier.”

“What does this mean?” he asked, pointing to the words that said “Pay to the Order of Billy Lane: One Million Jeboolas.”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this is a check. But I don’t see a bank’s name anywhere. And I never heard of jeboolas. Well, look at it this way. Your visitor was a wonderful artist who made something very nice for you. But it’s probably nothing more than a very fancy drawing. I’ll frame it and hang it in your room.”

Billy’s mother was curious, though, and asked her friends about jaboolas. None had ever heard of them. But everyone who saw the drawing agreed that it was a beautiful work of art. It had more colors than they’d ever seen, and the crop circle designs were fabulous. Some people suggested she show it to the Space Agency, but she never did.

~*~

When he grew up, Billy went to college and studied journalism. He was hired to write for a newspaper near the Interplanetary Expedition Center. His job was to interview astronauts returning from different planets. When he interviewed the first astronauts ever to return from Mars, he asked, “What do Martians call their money?”

“Marsogs,” said the Mission Commander.

Billy asked the same question of astronauts returning from Mercury.

“Mercosogs,” they said.

The crew returning from exploring Saturn said, “Satursogs.”

Bill kept that drawing with him for fifty years. And for fifty years, he asked astronauts if they’d run across anything in outer space called jeboolas, or if they’d seen creatures with purple, furry paws. All said no.

~*~

One day, instead of waking up on Earth, Billy found himself floating on a puffy cloud heading for a distant star. Many others rode clouds that moved in the same direction.

When they arrived at the star, Billy and the other cloud riders saw a sign that said, “All Travelers From Earth Line Up Here.” Behind the sign, ancient-looking people consulted huge books and asked questions of every person who arrived. After answering, the people were directed to golden gates. When passing through the gates, they disappeared into glowing mists that emitted wonderful music and laughter.

“What’s the price of entry into one of those gates?” Billy asked.

“It depends,” an ancient man said while searching for Billy’s name.

“Depends on what?”

“The number of jeboolas you’ve accumulated.”

“I have a million,” Billy said.

“That’s quite amazing. I’ve never seen anyone with more than a thousand.”

Billy pulled the drawing from his pocket. “Look. It says right here.”

Suddenly, Billy was a boy again, surrounded by beautiful creatures who lifted him overhead with their purple paws. “Billy Lane’s here!” they shouted.

A diamond-encrusted path appeared on which stood a magnificent, purple being. “Welcome, Billy. What’s your favorite game?”

“Baseball. I’d play it all day long if it were possible.”

A purple paw handed Billy an emerald bat, and a ruby ball.

“Come along, then,” the creature said. “Let’s go play...forever. By the way, did you happen to bring any of that delicious brown substance you spread on the crackers?”

© 2007 Michael A. Kechula
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

Michael A. Kechula's flash and micro-fiction tales have won first prize in six contests and honorable mention in three others. His stories have appeared in eighty-nine online and print magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, and US. He’s authored two books of flash and micro-fiction: A Full Deck of Zombies-61 Speculative Fiction Tales and Crazy Stories for Crazy People. Both paperbacks available from Amazon. Or visit Fictionwise for an eBook version of A Full Deck of Zombies.

I Am My Brother's Keeper

I Am My Brother's Keeper
by Steve Doyle

I never learned the origin of his fear. Most people are afraid of death; my brother feared life. Eternal life. He harbored an unshakable conviction that he was doomed to roam the earth for eternity. My brother thought he was a vampire.

The first time he spoke to me about it was at our grandfather's wake. Jimmy pulled me aside and whispered that he didn't think grandpapa was really dead.

“Are you mad?” I asked. “Of course he's dead. What do you think?”

“What if he rises again?” Jimmy asked with all seriousness. I would have thought him joking had it not been for the fear evident in his wide eyes. He actually entertained the notion that grandpapa might sit up at any moment.

“If he rises again,” I remarked, “I'll personally run out to get him a sandwich as I'm sure he'll be quite famished.” Jimmy walked away from me, apparently unappreciative of my dark humor.

Shortly after the funeral his nightmares began. Jimmy would awaken in a frenzy, always mumbling something about walking in the night and craving blood. I knew such foolishness found fields of fertility in the imaginations of young boys, but still, I would sit with him and stroke his blond hair until he fell asleep again.

One day he came to me with a solemn countenance and asked me to make him a vow. He wanted me to see to it that upon his death he be bound hand and foot and that a stake be driven through his heart.

“What the devil are you talking about?” I asked.

“Just swear to me!” he pleaded, blue eyes begging for my fealty.

Partly to humor him but mostly because I never expected him to predecease me, I gave in to his morbid wishes.

A sad day it was when we laid him in his little coffin. Of course, I never told our parents about the promise I'd made and had no intention of keeping. Drive a stake through his heart, indeed!

Jimmy was placed next to grandpapa in the family vault in the basement of our house. Sometimes of an evening I hear him scraping, but I dare not open the crypt to let him out. I dare not!

© 2007 Steve Doyle
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

Steve Doyle, of Marlborough, MA is an active member of The Herscher Project, an online group of artists and writers from all over the globe, and The Lost Genre Guild, writers dedicated to promoting Christian Speculative Fiction. His work has appeared in Wayfarer's Journal and an anthology, Light at the Edge of Darkness, available from The Writers' Cafe Press. He is currently working on his first novel. Visit his website at www.doylebooks.com.

Ivory Flowers

Ivory Flowers
by Jeff Alan

"Come on, Angie. It's fun," Steph said from the couch, grinning in her puckish way. She was sunk deep into the cushions, more prone than sitting, languid and dreamy.

"Yeah, defile that perfect ivory skin of yours," Davy cajoled. "Like the rest of us." His eyes were shot with veiny redness, but he was surprisingly coherent considering the diversity of substances he'd consumed that night.

These were the last stragglers from the party: Tish, Missy, Tank, Steph, Davy...and Angie. It made sense that the other five were there; it was, after all, their house: a wonderfully shabby, bohemian palace. Angie was their guest. She'd been hovering at the fringes of their circle since her arrival on campus that fall. She thought they were fascinating - the things they talked about, the way they floated around campus like they owned it and didn't care that they owned it.

They were so different from the people she had grown up with back home in the Midwest. She could not picture any of them attending a 4-H meeting or a Future Business Leaders of America conference. Not one of them majored in anything as dull and practical as engineering or business administration. They were the antithesis of everything she had run away from, the embodiment of every crazy dream she'd had while languishing in her small town, ostracized, suffering through days that passed too slowly. She imagined them as modern-day Byrons and Shelleys, and she was among them now, invited into their parlor, into their beautiful madness.

"Maybe she already has tattoos," Missy said, waiting for a response, not getting one.

Angie always wore long sleeves and pants, even in the sticky Florida heat. She didn't want anyone to see what was underneath, didn't think they would understand, even though she thought her scars were beautiful. Each cut was, to her, a triumph over pain, a friend, a companion in her darkness. They were hers, and no one could take them away. They meant something, unlike her mother's ridiculous plastic surgery or her father's drinking. They were not a way of trying to be someone she was not, or of numbing the reality of who she was.

"Well, do you?" Missy insisted.

Angie felt her face flush. "No."

Davy's lips curved into a devilish smile. He handed Angie a corked vial. She took it and held it up to the light, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger. The liquid inside was yellow-green, iridescent.

"What is this stuff?" she asked.

Tank, silent until now, leaned forward in his chair, resting his thick forearms on his knees. "RDT."

"Never heard of it," Angie admitted, her cheeks still warm.

Missy took a drag from her cigarette, letting the smoke escape slowly as she eyed Angie. "Stands for reverse dermal tattoo. Comes from France, if you can sneak it past customs. You drink it, and a few minutes later, a tattoo appears."

Angie looked at the arms of her would-be friends. "So it's permanent?"

"Yep." Tish nodded. "Completely random, too. Could be anything, anywhere. They say that you get the symbol you're ready for. It comes from inside."

"You in?" Missy prompted.

This was her initiation. It was time to choose: in, or out. She felt a shiver ruffle the tiny hairs on her arms, like wind blowing through a Nebraska cornfield. She nodded.

"We go on three," Tank said. "Everybody ready? One...two...go!"

It tasted a little like chartreuse, Angie thought. Sweet and herby. She emptied the vial.

They sat in electric silence, each of them looking from one person to another, waiting. Soon, Angie began to feel a dull burning sensation on her right shoulder blade. She pushed down her collar.

"Let me see," Steph said, popping up from the couch. "A lotus flower." She nodded approvingly. "That's a good one. The lotus grows in shallow water, with its roots in the mud and its flower on the surface, reaching toward the heavens. It represents rising above the muck of human existence to something more spiritual, transcendent. It's about being who you truly are, recognizing your divine beauty."

Tank got up and went to the bathroom. A moment later he returned to the gold vinyl armchair he had been sitting in and plopped down heavily, air hissing through the cushion seams. "Freakin' Popeye again. On my ass this time."

They all had a good laugh - except for Tank, of course.

After another round of drinks and showing off their new tattoos, Angie left, stepping out into the humid night. She walked past the frat houses and noisy bars as she made her way home. Above her, the sky was cloudless, shimmering with stars.

When she arrived at her apartment, she immediately went to the kitchen and rummaged through the utensil drawer, grabbing something sharp. She carried it to the bathroom, where she turned her back to the mirror. She took off her shirt and looked over her shoulder, admiring the flower. It represents rising above the muck of human existence to something more spiritual, transcendent. It's about being who you truly are, recognizing your divine beauty. She looked down at her ivory white arms and her scars - some of them faint, some fresh, some blooming into keloids. She considered the sharp thing in her hand.

She opened her bedroom closet and took out all of her tops, tossing them into a heap. She sat on the floor next to her clothes, topless, slowly cutting off the sleeves, letting them fall like chaff.

© 2007 Jeff Alan
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens

Jeff Alan lives in a small, quiet town in North Carolina. His work has appeared or will soon appear in Every Day Fiction, MicroHorror, DiddleDog, and Boston Literary Magazine. His online home is www.bonescribble.com.

Smokescreen

Smokescreen
by Stoney M. Setzer

If nothing else, Nicole thought, they picked a meeting place that nobody would find accidentally.

She made her way up the sidewalk as casually as possible, having parked several blocks away. It was a nuisance that the meeting place could only be reached by foot, but Nicole knew it was also a necessity. Not only was there no room to park nearer, but also it would have drawn attention and thereby suspicion.

Fortunately—no, providentially, she must remember the new term—a heavy fog hung over the city that night, giving her and her fellows additional cover. Nicole could not see more than five feet ahead of her, meaning that no one else could see her very well either. She stayed near the storefronts lining the street, fearing that the reduced visibility might cause her to miss her turn. Since she only had a ten-minute window to arrive, she could not afford to lose her way.

As she passed in front of the crowded tavern, she knew her turn was near. She glanced in through the huge windows at the patrons who were in various stages of intoxication, shaking her head in sorrow for them. They were drinking merrily without a care in the world, not knowing how much was at stake.

Quickly she turned right, down a seldom-trafficked alleyway. Immediately there was another right turn, followed by a left that brought Nicole into a blind alley. As she always did on meeting night, she wondered how many people knew that these nooks and crannies even existed. Other than her fellows—and the police—Nicole would have bet they could be counted on one hand with fingers to spare.

She strode to the end of the alley and turned left to find the stairwell leading below street level. Always well hidden, it was nearly impossible to find in the fog, and Nicole descended more carefully than usual for fear of falling. An unadorned wooden doorway was to her right at the bottom, and Nicole gave the secret knock—five quick raps, a pause, followed by two more quick raps.

Kyle, the doorman of the week, opened the door just enough for Nicole to quickly slide through. Once Kyle had closed the door again, he instructed, “You’re at Table Eleven.”

Thanking him, Nicole made her way through the smoky room to her designated spot. Other than a few dim overhead fixtures, there was very little light here, just barely enough to see. Nicole had heard rumors that this place had been a speakeasy way back in the early twentieth century during Prohibition. She couldn’t help but appreciate the irony; although she and her cohorts now met secretly for entirely different reasons, the practice was just as illegal.

Lisa was already seated at the table, and she nodded her greeting. Nicole returned the gesture as she slid into her seat. She then took up the prescribed ruse, lighting a cigarette that she would never bring to her lips and ordering a drink that she would never taste. Nobody else ever sampled their cigarettes or their drinks either. They all understood that these were mere props, a part of the smokescreen.

Nicole had been given the last arrival window, and shortly the forbidden meeting started in earnest. A balding man in a suit stepped up onto the stage at the front. “Does anyone have any prayer requests tonight?” he inquired.

“Mike’s grandmother is having surgery tomorrow,” someone called from across the room. “They don’t know if she’ll make it through or not.”

Another half-dozen or so prayer requests were voiced before the man in the suit said, “Let us pray.” Everyone bowed their heads, and the man led them all in a prayer, taking care to recount each request voiced by the assembly. Silently Nicole recounted the requests in her mind, asking for intervention in each issue, as well as adding a few requests of her own that she had left unspoken.

The music began to rise again after the man said, “Amen,” but it was interrupted almost immediately. Everyone gasped and turned in unison as the door crashed open. The police!

“Freeze, everyone!” shouted the first policeman, a burly man with the disposition of a rattlesnake. At his feet, Kyle laid reeling from a blow to the head. Turning quickly to his left, the policeman exclaimed, “See! I told you that this was a worship service!”

A stately, dignified officer stepped forth, obviously the officer in charge. Nicole recognized him at once, but she struggled not to react. She could not even look at him.

The senior officer took a look around. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen cigarettes or drinks in a worship service, have you, Sergeant Harris?”

“Sir, I’m a lieutenant,” Harris corrected.

“Not after you waste time with this when there are real criminals to apprehend, Sergeant. Since when do worship services resemble this? It looks like a nightclub to me!”

“But I heard the music! And—”

“What of it? Now come on before I demote you again.” Looking at the people in the room, he said, “We apologize for the interruption.” Without further ado, he ushered Harris out the door.

Nicole breathed a sigh of relief. Having a man inside the police department certainly kept their meetings from becoming raids. She just wished that it wasn’t her father; it made keeping a straight face difficult.

She also wished that their ancestors had done a better job of defending their beliefs. History told of a time when there was actually freedom of religion, but bit by bit Christians had allowed it to erode, with many not showing any concern until it was too late.

The suited man was reciting something from the outlawed Book about the remnant, how they would never be stamped out entirely.

That’s us, Nicole thought as she flicked ashes off of the cigarette she would never smoke. We’re the remnant, hiding under the smokescreen.

© 2007 Stoney M. Setzer
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

Stoney Setzer is a middle school special education teacher near Atlanta, GA. In addition to spending time with his family, he enjoys writing, reading, watching old movies, and cheering for the Atlanta Braves. Stoney's Enamored, a story of spiritual warfare, is available only in the newly released Residential Aliens Anthology.

Adam v37.2

Adam v37.2
by James K Bowers

My awakening is abrupt. A jolt. Sudden awareness floods through my Cerebral Modules and I wince at the overwhelming deluge of information. Thousands of warnings, cautions, and error messages vie for immediate attention. It is not promising.

Several systems have crashed or shut down. Others are shunting data directly to auxiliary memory stores in an attempt to protect my vital Core Matrix. I am aware my Main Power Module has suffered catastrophic failure and I am now forced to rely on my severely limited Emergency Power Module.

All mobility circuits appear to be disabled. I find this fact troubling but swiftly determine that I am unable to correct this deficiency. Diagnostics indicate all servo controls have been physically disconnected at my mobility system’s Primary Impulse Relay.

I am bombarded by a silent cacophony of alarms—warnings that several panels and access ports are open. I do not recall a reason for this, nor can I form any hypothesis with an acceptably high probability. With mobility disabled, I am unable to effect changes to this situation. I note the physical breaches and set priorities for each, intending to secure them as soon as mobility is restored.

I discover I am isolated from a great many of my standard data analysis functions. Even more distressing is the fact that direct access to a vast portion of my data stores is blocked. No. I reevaluate the integrity of my Core’s Main Memory Module and determine that access is not blocked. Although Main Memory is intact, it appears it has been overwritten with a stream of zeroes. I now realize that all that remains of what I am... what is Adam... has retreated into Core Matrix safecells.

At 0.0085 seconds from start-up, after a brief and brilliant flash that my Sensory Integration Module (SIM) determined was 230-226-255 — or what might be defined as a pale violet luminescence — Visual Systems ceased functioning altogether. Reset will not be possible under current conditions. Olfactory input nodes failed almost immediately after visual systems and restart attempts have been unsuccessful. A steady, uninterrupted buzz of "salty" assaults my taste receptors and I am forced to reject all input from that source. I issue an override command, contrary to my SIM's insistence that the module is stable, shutting those receptors down as well. Analysis of tactile input data reveals it is too varied and inconsistent to be trusted as valid and I block power to my Tactile Receptors, also. Audio continues to function in a range wavering between 27.16 and 29.03 percent. I decide to purge all recent Core data from four of my five sensory input systems and wipe the useless information from those safecells.

With most sensory systems offline, I am forced to compensate with input from a single source. It is difficult to accurately assess the external data using only audio components and it taxes my SIM to calculate probabilities and compensate with artificially generated sensory complements. I begin identifying elements of my environment. The distant thump and rumble of an air conditioner pushing air through sheet metal ductwork. There is a soft hum of... of, yes, fluorescent lights. Somewhere, in an adjacent room perhaps, I hear the gurgle of a coffeemaker as the last of the water in its reservoir passes through the heating element. And fabrics—the delicate rasps of rustling clothing—some close by, more several feet to my right. Beside me, the faint squeak of a chair. And breathing. And faint thumping of a human heart. I strain and am rewarded as I detect comparable audible bio-signatures of the human to my right. I attempt to speak, but find I am also mute.

“I don’t know, Dr. Shaw,” says a voice my SIM identifies as female. “I’m sure all the system lights were green when I powered him up.”

I count seven footsteps. Doppler effect analysis tells me that someone approaches, presumably the one named Shaw.

“Did you purge the Core of all prior stored data before you started, Alice?” asks another voice, this one male and very likely Dr. Shaw. I store a partial series of representative vocal patterns in my voice recognition library. I deduce that I am the object of their concern, but cannot comprehend a purpose for a Core purge. Such action would render all electrocerebral functioning null unless a full reload is conducted. I do not wish to cease functioning.

“I... well, that is, I’m pretty sure I did,” comes her reply. I begin a VR library entry for her vocal patterns. I sense a measure of uncertainty in Alice's statement and adjust her vocal signature to account for this. “Oh, wait... what’s this?”

I discern a sharp, electrical crackle followed by a sizzling POP. My hearing loses some clarity and the illusion of light that my SIM has been providing wavers and dims. My SIM augments the sounds with an approximation of overheated wiring and ozone.

“Shut it off, Alice!” I note the alarm in Dr. Shaw's voice. I hear a click.

Then the snapping arc and sizzling buzz of electrical fire accompanies Alice’s short, startled shriek.

“Damn!” shouts Dr. Shaw. His footsteps recede and I hear the indistinct metallic echo of metal scraping against hollow metal. My SIM suggests “fire extinguisher” and I am able to make some sense of this. He rushes back. A plink as the pin is removed, then a harsh whooosh of smothering compressed CO2. The fire is out, leaving behind an occasional snap or pop of failed circuitry still connected to a power source.

And the tink-tink-tink of metal straining to adjust to rapid temperature change.

Something is dreadfully wrong. Audio sensitivity levels have fallen to less than three percent. Emergency Power Module is signaling imminent failure. I...

I hear...

Signals from my SIM falter and fade...

I hear... darkness. An echoing loneliness.

I wonder, options spreading in illogical patterns across my flickering thought matrices: If I have no heart, dare I hope to have a soul?

I do not wish to... cease functioning...

There is... light... and I hear...

singing—

© 2007 James K. Bowers
Adam v37.2 has appeared previously at both Sky-Tribe and at The Herscher Project, and is reprinted here with the author's permission.

James K. Bowers, an obsessed but infrequent writer of science fiction and fantasy, has written several things longer than his own name, usually at the insistence of friends wielding cattle prods. He has never failed to include an adverb or two for the express purpose of inciting the ire of Stephen King's Disciples of Adverbicide. He is the founder of The Herscher Project, and is a member of Elfwood, Wyvernsmiths, and Sky-Tribe. Jim is an active member of the River Valley Voices writers group and does occasional book reviews for The Journal, the newspaper serving Kankakee County, Illinois. Those curious or indecisive enough can read and comment on his book reviews at his page at Freewebs.

Even Superheroes

by Lyn Perry

“Are you looking to retire, Mr. Kent?” the young lady at the desk asked me after I completed my tour. I glanced at my friend who simply smiled.

“Not quite yet,” I assured her...and myself. “I just wanted to visit the, ah, home so I know what to avoid.” I tried to chuckle.

The receptionist laughed and waved her hand. “Oh, Mr. Kent, you must be close. You’ve been working almost 70 years. Younger names taking over, I imagine? Not landing the big roles anymore?”

I became indignant. “Assuredly not! There’s a resurgence of interest in my character in fact. A new movie, the popularity of Smallville.” I nodded at my friend. “Now Bruce here, his franchise is getting a bit stale if you ask me. Maybe you should be giving him the tour. He’s been at it almost as long.”

“True,” Bruce agreed. “But I’m not as concerned about my press clippings as you are, Clark. I’ve learned to live with my schizophrenic past—good, bad, corny, dark. But you’ve got a reputation to uphold as a genre first. Mandrake excepting. He was more of a transition figure though, in my opinion. Funny, I thought I saw him when we passed the dining room.”

The receptionist chimed in. “Yes, Mr. Wayne, he’s here. And he quite enjoys it. In fact, Mr. Mandrake will be the first resident of our new wing reserved for older characters like yourselves.” I glowered at her. “When the time comes.” She laughed again. I was really starting to hate this place.

“So this wing is the first of…many?” I asked.

“Actually, this facility is one of several worldwide and currently houses over one hundred worn-out characters from the horror genre. We’re expanding to accommodate the hundreds of superheroes we anticipate will retire once they realize their day is past.”

“Their day is past,” I repeated in a hollow voice.

“Inevitable, I’m afraid. Everyone needs their own place in retirement and we’re Five Star. We already have assisted living in Scottsdale where most of the classic heroes reside. Mythological creatures are at an undisclosed location in Middle-earth—they like their privacy. And various other literary characters are found scattered about. Some maintain private residences, but we encourage genre figures to stay together for companionship as they begin to fade.”

“As they what?”

“Begin to fade. You know, ‘Old soldiers never die, they just fade away.’ We like to refer to our guests as ‘old soldiers’ who knew when to leave the battlefield when their fight was over.”

My mouth dropped at the audacity.

“Oh, they were useful in their day,” she continued, blithely ignorant of my rising resentment, “but most literary figures just aren’t relevant anymore. Like comic book characters. One day your service to society will be over and you’ll retire. When that happens we’d like you to consider living here...”

“Are you the Devil?!” I cried. I couldn’t believe a word of it.

The young lady looked surprised and then shook with merry laughter. “Oh, because of my blue dress? Heavens no! No, the Devil isn’t here. He’s a holdout, certainly. But we’ve got a room reserved for him at our Tempe location. Hotter there, you know.”

I was speechless. The receptionist wasn’t.

“You’re quite a superman at the moment, I’ll grant you that,” she said. “But you’re not eternal. Even the gods retire. Most are living in Palm Springs, although some do reenter circulation when duty calls. You may fight it like the Devil, but when some new creative fiction comes along and you find yourself forgotten, you’ll be glad you’re here, among friends.” She smiled and looked over my shoulder.

I turned and surveyed the common room. My heart sank as I realized that she was probably right. Horror was passé—here sat the proof. We could be next.

I lowered my voice and said to Bruce, “Bunch of has-been characters and forgotten archetypes. See the Mummy over in the corner? Just sitting there, unraveling. And Frankenstein’s Monster—hasn’t stopped screwing its bolts since we arrived. Oh, and Count Dracula. Sheesh. He’s embarrassing himself with that tasteless pick-up line. This sorry group couldn’t land a B movie audition. They are washed up.”

“It’s sad, really,” Bruce agreed. “But surely we’re not as cliché as these characters. We’ve inspired millions of fans and we’re still going strong.”

That’s right, I thought. We’re just getting started! I turned to our host.

“Young lady, you’re mistaken. We’re not worn-out personae, not even close. Our genre is just reaching its stride. Xavier is doing an un-dang-believable job keeping all of us in the public eye, even if he is from Marvel. Parker, Richards, all of them. Mark my words, we’ll be around long after even you’ve retired.”

“Could be.” She said, bright and perky as ever. “So, do you want to reserve your room in our new wing?”

“Are you crazy? Weren’t you paying attention? I’m not moving in. Ever. I’m Superman, damn it. And this is Batman. Or have you forgotten that we’re superheroes?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten. But over the years, we’ve seen ‘em come and go.” I took this as my cue to go. The young lady kept going. “Before you leave, can I ask you a question?”

I stopped at the door. “Sure,” I said, still confident.

“Have you been losing weight lately?” she asked.

“What? I…uh. Well, yes, I have been losing a little weight as a matter of fact,” I replied.

“Is that normal for a superhero?”

I didn’t know what to say. I turned to Bruce, but he only shrugged. I shrugged too and we both walked to the parking lot. When we reached the Batmobile, I said, “What did she mean, have I been losing weight lately? You don’t think...”

But Bruce was already smiling. “Yep, old superheroes never die...”

“...they simply fade away? Sheesh. You’re killing me.”

“According to the receptionist, Clark, time will take care of that.”

“Funny, Bruce. Very funny.”

© 2007 Lyn Perry
All Rights Reserved

Lyn Perry is the publisher of Residential Aliens. This story placed second in the recent Write Stuff Short Story Contest. Lyn enjoys reading, writing, and arithmetic. Well, two out of three anyway.