Category: Fiction

Flash Friday will be me showing you tiny pieces of fiction until I get bored with it or forget or get abducted by a gigantic sea gull. Note I say sea gull and not albatross. That asshat Coledridge screwed albatross for us as a metaphor and now we can’t use it.

Many of these are from the Reddit subreddit /r/writingprompts.

Prompt: The Alphabet Game: each sentence starts with the next letter of the alphabet.

Anytime any asks me why I insist on assaulting angels, I tell them. Because those bitches deserve to be beaten, bruised, bullied. Can you see me, there in front of a statue? Daring them to do something about it. Egging them on. Fist balled into tight packages of pain. Getting ready to rumble! Hatred spilling from my eyes. I start to dance around, weaving like a snake. Just when you think I’m, you know, just dancing…. Kapow! Let ‘em have it, right into the solar plexus. Make ‘em cry. Next, the kicking. One, two three! Punch ‘em a few more times. Quick as lightning. Really quick. Sting ‘em like a wasp. Till they can’t take no more. Unless they CAN take more, cause I GOT more to give. Very few angelic statues can stand my assaults. When I’m done, there’s just rubble, and crying. Xerox my face, put up all the signs you want. You’ll never catch me, jack. Zoos full of enraged gorillas couldn’t stop me, jack.

Prompt: The sun rose as normal, flooding the sky with wonder. Hours later, though, the sun has not set, has not faded, has not moved from its perch atop the clouds. What do people think? What do they do?

I’m sitting on my front porch, holding a copy of Harlan Ellison’s Shatterday and wearing a pair of the most powerful sunglasses money can buy. The sunglasses are stolen. I stole them because the idea that sunglasses can be powerful is stupid. They just sit there. They don’t do anything. They’re polarized and smoked and they don’t do anything to UV rays, they just block them, somehow. I’m trying to stare at the sun, but it’s still too bright.

I open the book to my bookmark, “Jeffty is Five,” but I can’t see anything for a minute because of the sun staring. I really hate Harlan Ellison. He’s an old man and a hack and an arrogant prick. But there’s this girl on the bus who likes him, so now I have to read this crap. Science fiction is for idiots.

And unfortunately for me, some idiots have very large boobs.

It feels like I’ve been out here for hours, days. Chitter chatter on the radio about magnetic pulses from the sun. Blither blather about America getting hotter while China starts to freeze. But I’m not a fool, I know that radios don’t work when magnetic pulses screw up the earth, and this radio, it was made in China, probably. Just another butt-load of fiction. Give me a break.

No, seriously, give me a break. If the earth’s stopped spinning, then I’m going to be fifteen for a very long time, and that is not acceptable.

Prompt: Your main character unearths something in their backyard. It will have some sort of impact on their life. (Original prompt required a 250 word limit. I liked my 295 word original better; got to this link to see my 250 word version if you want).

The rain stopped, so Marty got off his fat ass and went into the backyard to water the flowers. His wife’s bright idea, to plant them in a special bed, underneath the eaves. Where the sun and rain couldn’t get to them. Thank god Marty shot blanks.

Stepped onto the patio, in his socks, no sandals. Wet soaked in fast. God damn it, he said, then whipped his head around to make sure no one heard him. Taking the lord’s name in vain meant couch time, and the couch was in the living room, next to the kitchen, with the microwave, and the brightness of the clock always made sleep impossible. A stupid reason not to curse, but Marty’d been married for 20 years.

Stupid flowers. Marigolds, or something. Lazy Susans and Black Eyed Peas. Black Dahlias and or maybe Irises. Gouged out Irises, by the look of it. Double you tea eff, Marty though, since he didn’t like to curse in his mind either, if he could help it. Just in case. Did something dig up the irises?

Marty peered at the hole in the dirt. Wriggling inside it, the fattest dirtiest grosses worm ever invented. Marty felt his gorge rise, couldn’t tear his eyes away. The worm writhed. Mechanical, Marty reached for a hand space. Robotic, he stabbed the worm. And stabbed and stabbed and stabbed.

The back door creaked, and terrible voice said “What are you doing to my petunias!” Marty looked up at his wife, her face ashen, angry, face as flat as a 20-year-old couch and eyes as bright as a microwave clock light at 3:43 in the morning.

Marty glanced at the hand spade, back at his wife, at the spade, at his wife. Suddenly he had an idea.

fiction by Jason Edwards

Chemistry 1-A at Dunmaru High is buzzing with the usual student chatter. Jenni Olmack’s wearing that jacket everyone saw at Oldsen’s, the one that cost like a gajillion dollars. Greg Tarkley and Michel Inbay are punching each other in the shoulder. Everyone’s ignoring Lisa Besson because everyone always ignores Lisa Besson.

Mr. Kilsome walks into the room, chanting “All right, all right, quiet down.” Jenni glances over in time to see Greg mouthing exactly the same words, a big smile on his face. Nevertheless, the room quiets down. A few chairs squeak as students sit on their stools at their lab stations. Pots of powders, Bunsen burners, sinks, tongs, flasks and beakers. A school in a county that pays its taxes.

“All right everyone, here’s what we’re going to do today,” Mr. Kilsome says “We’re going to synthesize a very strange chemical, one of the least understood chemicals in the world. For this one, though, you’re going to need the heavy aprons.” Mr. Kilsome takes off his coat and reaches for his own heavy leather apron. Half the students file to the closets in the back—they’d learned chem-lab protocol on day one, so no need for everyone to clump up around the closets.

Lisa brings back an apron for Jenni, who takes it but otherwise ignores her. Greg brings one and throws it in Michael’s face. It’s heavy enough to smack him in the head. But Michael plays football, so there’s no way an apron, of all things, is going to injure him. He puts on the apron, and remains standing—the thing’s too heavy to allow for sitting on the lab stools at all.

“Goggles, everyone,” Mr, Kilsome says. The class obliges. “Gloves…” and everyone in the class pulls gloves from cubby holes at the lab tables. These are stiff, thick, heavy gloves. Soon the class, with the heavy gloves, thick aprons, and goggles, look like something from one of those weird 1950s German medical-horror movies.

“Alright. We’ll start with mystery pot one. Open that, and measure out 35 ccs of the white powder into a flask. Be very very careful—try not to inhale too close to the flask when you pour it in.

A few students glance around, a bit nervous. Greg and Michael fight for a second over who holds the flask and who holds the measuring spoons. Jenni stands back, arms folded awkwardly in the gloves, while Lisa does all the work.

“Good, excellent. Now, close mystery pot one—tightly! And open number two. Measure out 15 ccs into the flask. And whatever you do, do NOT shake the flask. Please, class, be careful.”

Lisa proceeds, hands shaking slightly. Murmurs from some in the classroom, but not as many as usual, a nervous silence. Greg and Michael, big stupid grins on their faces, are nevertheless a little more exacting in their measurements and cooperation.

Everyone sets their flasks down, and stand absolutely still, looking at Mr. Kilsome.

“Okay. Now, pour some water into a beaker, and make sure it’s cold, you’ll want exactly 25 ccs…”

“How do we know it’s cold with these gloves on?” Michael says, his voice cracking slightly.

“Use a thermometer, Mr. Inbay. The taps should run less than 68 degrees… if we’re lucky.” His face is grave as he glares at Michael.

Michael swallows, reaches for a thermometer. Greg turns on the taps. Lisa is still doing all of the work, but Jenni’s taken a few steps back, not realizing she’s now just that much closer to the students—and flasks—behind her.

“Once you’ve gotten 25 ccs of cold water, gently, and I do mean gently, pour that into the flask.” The students begin to pour. “Mr. Inbay! Gently!” Michael’s eye go wide and he stops pouring. “And you, Gregory, don’t hover over the top like that.” Greg steps back.

“By now your flask should have the powder mixture on the bottom, with the water on top.” He pauses for effect, and says in a lower tone, “uh, does anyone, uh have debris… floating in their water?”

“Oh my god,” Jenni says, backing up and pointing. “Hers does! Hers does!”

“Okay everyone. Start to stir the mixture, vigorously.”

“But you said not to agitate it!” says Gregory, a large frown distorting his face. Agitate is probably the biggest word he’s ever said.

“That was before you had the dihydrogen monoxide. Now stir! Stir!”

The students begin to stir. Lisa is holding her flask at arm’s length, head twisted to the side. Other students are following suit. Everyone’s eyes are huge behind their goggles.

“Once you have a uniform texture and consistency, set the flask down.” There are few thumps as students, eager to the get the flask out of their hands, set them down quickly.” Gently!” Mr. Kilsome shouts.

Greg and Michael set theirs down, jaws agape, staring. Lisa sets her down, eyes shifting back and forth from Mr. Kilsome to the flask.

The room is utterly still.

In a quiet voice, Mr. Kilsome says. “Now I will reveal to you the nature of this truly remarkable chemical. Are you ready?”

Nobody moves.

“Peel back the label on pot number one.”

Arms out stiff to keep from approaching the lab tables too close, the students pick up pot number one, the sound of labels peeling off like whispers in the silence.

Greg says, out loud, “Flour baking powder salt.”

“Yes.” Mr. Kilsome says, an evil grin on his face. “And now pot number 2.”

The students peel off the sticker on pot #2. “Powdered milk powdered eggs sugar”, Michael reads.

Mr. Kilsome says “The chemical we’ve just created… is fear.”

No one moves.

“We’re making pancakes?” Lisa suddenly shouts, and starts laughing. Other students follow her and start laughing as well. It’s the happiest day of her life.

Mr. Kilmore is laughing too. “And now we’ve created another fine chemical—relief!” The students laugh louder. “Go ahead and turn on your Bunsen burners. You should find wire frames, small frying pans and spatulas in the cabinets below your lab tables.”

The students continue to laugh and shout as they turn on the burners and pull out their pans. That Mr. Kilsome… what a crazy teacher. Greg socks Michael in the arm for being such a fraidy cat. Jenni steps close enough that Lisa can smell her shampoo, and they make eye contact for the first time, ever.

Mr. Kilsome smiles, and picks up another pot, making sure the false label on it hides the words “rat poison. “I’ve got the powdered sugar!” he shouts.

fiction by Jason Edwards

I am getting so damn tired of all these ninjas in my house. Stupid Japs. Look, I am not a racist. I’m not racist. I have three friends with Jewish names, my neighbor is a black guy, very friendly, and as for the Japs, I even like sushi, okay? I am not racist. I’m just so tired of all these ninjas in my damn house!

Like the other night, I’m in bed, trying to sleep, long day, I work for a living damn it. Then I hear something. Silent assassins my ass. I open my eyes, and up there, clinging to the ceiling, a ninja, just watching me. So I roll out of bed real quick, and thwip thwip thwip, three throwing stars right into the pillow where my head was just at! So I pull out a samurai sword from under the bed—yes, I have a sword, and you would too if you had ninjas—and when the little fucker drops down, I cut him up, good. Now I’ve got ninja blood all over my samurai sword, my bed, my clothes. And that pillow is ruined. I had to spend the rest of the night cleaning up, burying the body, bundling together towels for a pillow for the night since JC Penny isn’t open that late. I work for a living god damn it!

If they were predictable, that would be one thing. I can go two, three weeks with nary a ninja. And just when I think it’s over, it’s done, like they don’t come around in the spring or something, I’ll go to get some cereal out of the pantry and there’s one squatting there. Thwip thwip, use my cereal bowl to deflect the throwing stars, he comes flying out, I dodge, rip open the refrigerator door to block his ninja kick, and when he falls back, hurl the toaster-oven at him. I think the people at Bed Bath and Beyond are getting suspicious. I’ve been through, like, five toaster-ovens that way. I like toast.

I told James at work about it (he’s one of the guys I know with a Jewish last name). He thought it was a metaphor. “Get some Ninja-spray, Al.” They’re not goddamn slugs! They’re ninjas! 15th century feudal Japanese assassins! They’re not going to kept away with some pest strips and a good bleaching. Jesus Christ.

I showed him my scars. “I got this one a month ago. I was washing my car, minding my own business, and I couldn’t find the squeegee, you know, to wipe the water off the windows. Then I remembered it was in the trunk from when I took the car to the car wash that time. So I go to open the trunk, and out comes this ninja! In broad damn-it daylight! All dressed in black with that faggy red sash around his waist, waving a katana like a flag in a parade! He got me good, right here, before I wrapped the garden hose around his legs, punched him in the back of his head a few times, then stuffed him back into the trunk. Had to get seventeen stitches. The deductible on the insurance is killing me, James!”

He wasn’t impressed. Tried to show me a scratch he had on his shoulder. “Swordfight ,last week, with a pirate.”

I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me, until Dave popped up from his cubicle. “My sister was chased by zombies last week.” James just stared him like he was an asshole until he sat down again.

So far, I’ve been lucky, I guess—it’s only at home. There’s this bar I go to a few times a week, a nice little place, clean. Got a nautical theme. Pretty much anti-ninja, which is nice. I’m in there once, and this old pro’s sitting next to me. Seen her a few times, she knows I’m not shopping, so we just talk about sports or whatever. I tell her about my problem. “One was hiding in my bathroom once, in the tub, I could see him through the curtain. Managed to slice him down before he even made a move, buried him in the same curtain. So that was an easy one.” I laugh at the irony of it , sip my ginger n’ rye.

“You sure they’re ninjas? Maybe you got Yakuzas.” She’s smoking a cigarillo, looks almost more like a bandito than a pro, in her cowboy hat and bandoleer and chaps.

“What, the Japanese mafia? Naw, they don’t wear pin stripe suits or sunglasses or have elaborate tattoos. Just short little fuckers in silk pajamas and face masks.” I shudder and finish my drink. Munch some peanuts.

“Maybe they’re in disguise?” The door opens, this huge werewolf thing’s standing there, she pulls out her six shooter and plugs him between the eyes, blows smoke off the barrel and reholsters. “Silver bullets,” she says.

I shrug. “Another one, Larry,” waggle my glass at him. “Maybe. Seems pretty elaborate. I mean they only attack me at home. I figure Yakuza, they’d go for a car bomb or something.”

She shrugs back at me, adjusts her hat, stands up and throws some bills on the bar. “Maybe it’s an honor thing. I gotta git—got a client at 3:30.” Then she moseys off, sound of gunfire coming from outside after she leaves.

I get up to the use the can, and right before I open the door, I get nervous. I got my hand stretched out, just frozen like a jerk. What if there’s a ninja in there? I don’t have my samurai sword, I’m not quite drunk yet but a good ways along, so my reflexes won’t be so good. What if there’s one in there, got his katana and nun-chucks all ready to go. I’ve led a good life, I guess, other than this ninja thing. But am I ready to buy it, right here, in this shitty little bar, a handful of peanuts my last meal?

The light underneath the door goes off, and I didn’t even realize it was on, and I get this cold rush down my spine, cause that means someone’s in there after all, and I’m still standing there with my hand out when the door opens and Chuck Harper walks out. He goes “oops” like I was grabbing the door right when he opened it. Heads back to the bar. I get the shakes, go in, feeling stupid, cause like I said, they never attack me anywhere except at home. Make a mess on the toilet rim, I’m shaking so bad. But I get it cleaned up as I calm down, a bunch of TP, three flushes worth. I ain’t no slob.

I’ve tried everything. I’ve called the cops, but they don’t seem to care. I saw a psychiatrist, just to make sure it wasn’t all in my head. By the time we were through my second session, she told me “Al, you’re not crazy, okay? You’ve got ninjas, and that just happens sometimes. I can give you a prescription for valium, to calm down between attacks, if you want.” I took the scrip, but never filled it.

Camus, I think it was, in Myth of Sisyphus, said something about how, once you accept your punishment, it isn’t punishment anymore. At least that’s what the back of the book said—I never read the whole thing. Of course, he was talking about the punishment we get for bothering to stay alive. Like it’s our own damn fault we’re so miserable, when there’s always the suicide option. It’s not giving up, and it’s not noble, either. It’s just a choice, like choosing a blue tie instead of red a one. I can quit my bitching, let the ninjas do what they do, or just man up. There’s kids starving in Africa. They don’t got ninjas, but they don’t got boiled hot-dogs on Fridays either.

(Ninjas came at me while I was cooking those once. Spilled ‘em on the floor in the ruckus. I was pissed something terrible, let me tell you, for that one. But I still ate ‘em.)

Anyway. Here I am, sitting in my living room. TV’s busted, big crack in the window, pile of dead ninjas ruining my sofa. Three of ‘em. Three of ‘em came at me at the same time. I thought they were supposed to work alone. Maybe they’re getting tired of me too? Maybe they’re getting fed up with how many times I haven’t been killed by them yet. I don’t know.

Sure, I could just let ‘em do it, let ‘em kill me, let ‘em then dissolve back into the night. Cops’ll call it a heart attack or something. I’m 54 years old, that’s not too young. But it’s the principle of thing, isn’t it? Okay, fine, ninjas killed my dad, and his dad before him. It runs in the family, maybe. But I thought we were supposed to be making the world a better place, each generation. Thought we were supposed to be happier. I need this curse like I need a hole in my head. I need to be digging ninja graves in my back yard like I need new taxes. Gimme a damn break!

And now there’s a sound coming from the ceiling, a scrabbling sound, and I can hear something crunching over the broken glass I laid down in the crawlspace. Five of ‘em in one day, are you shitting me? I’d move, but let’s face it, the housing market ain’t what it used to be. I guess this is just my cross to bear. Stupid ninjas.

fiction by Jason Edwards

I know what you’re thinking.

You’re thinking: this guy right here, he looks just like George Clooney.

I get that a lot.

My dad looks like George Clooney. My mom looks like George Clooney.

Which makes me wonder about my dad.

My sister looks like George Clooney, which is weird, because I don’t even have a sister.

I called him up. I called George Clooney, and all was like, hey man, how many of my grandparents did you sleep with?

And he’s all: at the tone, the time will be one, thirty five.

Asshole.

I had an imaginary friend when I was a kid, which was cool, but last week he tried to friend me on Facebook.

Awkward.

He’s always imaginary poking me.

But what really sucks is his Farmville score is higher than mine.

Asshole.

George Clooney called me a few months ago. I figured he was pissed because I used his picture on my Facebook account. But I answered the phone anyway, and he’s all like, have you considered switching your cell phone service to AT&T?

Which was weird because I don’t even have a phone.

My sister calls me all the time.

She called me once and said, George, just remember, cell phones cause brain cancer.

And I’m going to call you once an hour to remind you of that.

But the jokes on her because I don’t even have a cell phone.

Or a sister.

It’s not easy looking George Clooney.

This is going to shock the ever-lovin’ heck out of you, but I don’t get out much.

Women come up to me, and I’m thinking, here we go with the George Clooney nonsense again.

And they’re all like, can you please leave the women’s locker room, immediately?

What the what? I was just looking for my sister.

I go to restaurants. You ever been to those? Nice.

I go up to the hostess and I’m wearing a hat, hoping she won’t recognize me.

She says, how many in your party?

And I say, It’s not my birthday.

No, she says, how many will be dining with you this evening?

I just shrug. I don’t care, as many as you want.

So she takes me to a table and I sit down and I say don’t worry. Just because I look like George Clooney, I’m not going to skip out on the bill.

Can’t promise the same for my imaginary friend.

Oh, did I mention? He looks like George Clooney too.

I mean, that’s what he tells me. I’ve never actually seen him.

I think he has the hots for my sister.

I can’t rob banks.

They’ll think George Clooney did it an innocent man would go to jail.

Not cool.

Can you imagine how awful it would be? For George Clooney? In jail?

All those anal rapists, saying, George, George, do some of that Oceans 11 shit and get us outta here.

Cause they’re in jail, they don’t know about the sequels.

And you know what sucks most about rape?

All of it.

I learned that on an afterschool special.

And don’t worry, I’m not going to make a joke about my imaginary friend raping my sister.

Not cause it’s not funny.

I just can’t think of any.

I’m dating this girl, and thank god, she doesn’t look anything like George Clooney.

Because that would be like having sex with a mirror, which I’ve done, and let me tell you, it’s not as fun as you would think.

The pillow talk afterwards was really awkward.

And when I didn’t get a call the next day, it was a real bummer.

But my girlfriend, now, she’s great. She looks like Jennifer Aniston.

Which was an easy switch for me because I actually used to date the real Jennifer Aniston.

It was pretty good for a few months, but when she found out we were dating, she dumped me.

But she stills sends me a birthday card/restraining order every few weeks, so we’re cool.

She’s very cute about it. She disguises it as a flyer for lawn services.

I’m guessing she does that so the postman won’t know who we are.

Although when he catches on that I don’t have a lawn, the jig is up.

Or a mailbox. Being homeless and everything.

But back to my girlfriend. She’s great. Except when she flirts with my imaginary friend.

You know what I mean. She laughs at his jokes. Asks him where he buys his imaginary clothes.

Pokes him on Facebook.

But other than that, and the fact that she doesn’t exist, she’s wonderful.

She’s an amazing cook. She makes this vegan steak tartar. It is out of sight.

I’ve lost ten pounds just thinking about it.

She gave the recipe to my sister, which was awkward, since my sister is a vegetarian, not a vegan.

When I was dating the real Jennifer Aniston, we used to get into fights about what to have for dinner.

I’d say Jen, Honey?

And she’d walk off the screen and I’d have to talk to Joey.

Who never talked back.

Asshole.

So it’s a good thing we broke up. I mean can you imagine. What if we’d gotten married?

And the real George Clooney’s girlfriend reads about it, standing in line at the supermarket?

She’d think her boyfriend got married without telling her.

And marrying someone without telling them is not a good idea.

Been there, done that.

Just ask my imaginary friend.

He got married to Stacy Kiebler. I have no idea who that is.

But she and I are friends on Facebook, so there’s that.

Anyway. I should probably let you go.

Just wanted to let you know what it’s like, looking like George Clooney.

What time will it be at the tone, did you say?

Thanks.

fiction by Jason Edwards

Dear Barbara: as you know, I died last week, so you can imagine my surprise when I found myself a few days later, clawing my way out of the earth. I didn’t have much sense of self at the time, only an insatiable hunger, but I’m certain I looked a fright: clothes hanging off of me in states of accelerated disrepair, flesh ripped and torn in places, bones exposed, etc. Hair matted with dirt. Maggots and the like in evidence. A fright, I said? I must have looked a horror!

And that hunger I mentioned: terrible. Terrific, even. I didn’t know what I wanted until I saw it: a young woman running down the street, blonde, screaming. I chased her of course, and eventually realized there were others like me also chasing her. I use the word chase, but it was hardly that, as all we could manage was a rotting shuffle. It was maddening, and most of us, me included, moaned loudly as we pursued.

Somehow, we caught her. I mean she would disappear, we would follow her scent, then lose that and sort of just maintain momentum of direction, then she would reappear again. She’d hide behind a piece of cardboard, or on top of a roof. I vaguely remember a crowd of us pounding against the glass of a door at the mall, until finally it broke and we poured in, reaching, clawing, grasping. There were gunshots, and the firing of a shot gun. Heads exploded. It was rather exciting.

There were people other than the blonde, running this way and that as well, but many of us were focused only on the girl. Something about the way she ran. It was almost as ineffective as the way we ran. She seemed to fall down a lot. She sobbed more or less constantly. And I don’t know how to put this: she was not built appropriately. It’s hard to say how, though. She was top heavy? I mean, she was not fat, she was sort of skinny (when we finally got her, there wasn’t much to go around). But her chest was not the right shape for the rest of her body. No matter how she ran, or jumped, or fell and got back up, her chest didn’t really heave and bounce like it should have.

I know its cliché, Barbara, to say that in horror films the black guy always gets killed first, or in science fiction its always the red shirts. But the whole time I and the others were chasing her– and it seemed like days– there was this inevitability about it all. Like she deserved to die? I don’t know if that’s a very nice thing to say, but I’ve been dead for a week now, and have only had the one meal– the girl– and perhaps I’m a bit irritable, so forgive me. And I admit, it could have just been a kind of zealousness on my part that made me so confidant she’d be my dinner, eventually and soon. Such hunger! Another cliché, I’m afraid: it was a force of nature.

We kept at it, all of us; what else could we do. Some of us became the worse for wear. Clothes became more and more ripped to pieces, more and more of our graying flesh was torn from our bodies, black ichor pouring from open wounds, and so forth. Is a zebra a white horse with black stripes, or a black horse with white stripes? Where we bodies with skeletons exposed, or skeletons holding up dripping tufts of decaying muscle? But we never stopped shuffling.

A shotgun blast rang out in the night, and I don’t know if any of us had enough sense left to make anything of it, except that it meant something warm and delicious was nearby. We went after it. Through a wooden fence, hammered into splinters. Through a field thick with dead grass and desiccated bushes. Across a dried creek. Some fell—they continued to claw their way along. Eventually we came onto a scene, a camp fire almost burnt out, that woman on her knees, sobbing, shotgun in her lap, bruises rising on her cheeks and arms, shirt ripped half off. A man in front of her, pants pushed down to his thighs, a gigantic hole in his back that went straight through to where it had come from his chest. The smell was invigorating.

She obviously hadn’t seen us until we were right on top of her (despite our moaning). Some of us jumped on the blasted man, and the sounds of their ripping, gouging, chewing was nearly erotic– that is, erotic if your only emotion is hunger. I and a few others grabbed at the girl. She tried to run, but was blind in the night, tripped once again, and we had her. We had her, Barbara, we had every last morsel of her.

Turns out her breasts were fake, and you might have laughed when one of us bit into them and they deflated sadly. I ate mostly from her leg and buttocks. One fellow seemed keen to crack her skull and eat her brains. I’m tempted to make jokes about blondes and brains, but you’re a blonde, Barbara, I know, and never much appreciated that sort of thing.

And since we’re on the subject of you now, Barbara, I suppose I should get to the point of this letter. It’s been a few days since I fed, and even when I was eating that poor girl, my hunger was never slaked. Not even a little. If anything, I’m hungrier than ever. None of us has seen a living soul since that night, and so we’re left to wander around, to try and deal with our own brains rotting in our heads, decay robbing us of memory and reason.

But I still have some memories, and I remember you. I remember once thinking how delicious you would be if I ever had to eat you. And now I think I do. I have to eat you.

I’m coming to get you, Barbara.

fiction by Jason Edwards

Let’s say you come into the middle of a conversation about fly fishing. And let’s say you don’t know anything about fly fishing. How long before you finally realize that what these two people are amicably chatting about is fly fishing? And let’s be clear, it will be an amicable chat. Can you imagine a conversation about fly fishing steeped in rage? You’re no psychiatrist, but even you could figure out that if two people are shouting at each other with words pulled from the vocabulary of fly fishing, spittle and blood-red cheeks and bulging eyes and stiff fingers poised pointed and poking heaving chests, the real subject at hand isn’t fly fishing. Something deeper, something historic. But don’t get distracted. You sit down in your favorite booth at the diner, the waitress already knows what you’re going to order, but she gives you a menu anyway and wanders off to get you a diet sprite. The only diner in pretty much the whole world that serves diet sprite. And in the booth behind you, two guys.

Let’s say one is called Zdenek Fibich. That’s a coincidence, but one of those coincidences that you don’t know about. In addition to not knowing anything about fly fishing, you know nothing about the famous Czech composer. And neither did this guy’s parents. They’re Czech, sure, emigrated. But Fibich isn’t the most uncommon name for those people, and neither is Zdenek. But you don’t know any of that. And Zed says something about how he really likes what she did with the sinker, with the granulated flecking, green and yellow, makes for a swirly kind of bite. Don’t giggle. Here’s the waitress with your diet sprite. Tell her: cheeseburgers fries. She’s not listening because she already knows.

And the other guy’s called Dave or something. How many Dave’s do you know? Probably thousands. Or, if not thousands, enough who know people who know other Daves until it numbers in the thousands. That’s a lot of freaking Daves! Dave replies something along the lines of her greeber has a nice tug too, and she used real fake ocelot fur for the flange mixer. Not too shabby.

Figured it out yet? What they’re talking about? Fly fishing? The trick is to not think about thinking about it. Rather, let your mind wander. Fish be eating flies. Have been for millions of years, evolved over the course of tens of millions of years to recognize that vibration in the water, jump up, chew on a tasty fly. And along comes man. Evolves over a few million years himself, but over the course of only a few hundred thousand, figures out fish, and over only ten thousand or so, figures out society, and over only a few hundred or so, how to build fake flies and fish with them. Well god damn.

Here’s your cheese burger. Toasted bun, cheap-ass cheese but melted just right, soggy onion soggy pickle. Remove tomato, pepper it and eat it alone. Remove lettuce leaf, roll into a lettuce-leaf roll and dip in mayo, eat alone. Open bun, squirt ketchup on bun, use crinkle-cut french fry to spread ketchup around. Close bun, take bite, take sip of diet sprite, listen to Zed say something about ocelot fur’s probably more expensive than necessary for a worker. A show , maybe, but c’mon. You got to stick those things in the water, eventually.

The book you brought with you? Ignored. What is it. Something by Richard Brautigan, or Percival Everett? You’ve read it before, no big deal, the burger’s delicious, as always, it’s a nice day outside, sort of overcast and drizzly and there’s talk of snow, but a nice day in the sense that after ten million years of evolution you’ve got a cheeseburger and all the fish have got are fake flies.

So now have you figured it out yet? That they’re talking about fly fishing? There was a clue, Zed mentioned water. And then Dave said back something about it’s all for show, really, since if a man needs to eat that bad, he oughta just go to the supermarket anyway.

See? Water, eat, that must mean fish. And those words, sinker, flecking, bite, greeber, tug, flange mixer. They’re all made up words, they’re not the words you would recognize if you knew anything about fly fishing. But since you don’t, those words are as good as any, and you need to focus on other words, like water, and eat.

I’m guessing you’re a pretty smart guy. Yeah, you’re stuck in your ruts, with your diet sprite and your cheeseburger and the way you eat the tomato. I know, I know, no sense in putting ketchup on a burger that’s got a tomato on it, and you like ketchup more than you like tomato. I get it. Listen to me, I’m complimenting you, I’m saying despite these ruts– for good reasons or bad, okay? Calm down– despite these ruts, you’re probably a pretty smart guy. You probably figured out that Zed and Dave were talking about fly fishing pretty darn quick.

But that’s where you fail, see. Sorry, but it’s true. Because, smart as you are, as soon as you figured out that they were taking about fly fishing, even though you don’t know anything about fly fishing, you stopped listening. So, you didn’t learn anything about fly fishing. You and your cheeseburger and your crinkle cut fries. Decent tip for the waitress. Hoodie and walk in the rain back to work. You didn’t learn anything. So much for evolution. If you had been one of those fish, you never would have learned how to bite.

fiction by Jason Edwards

from Diary of a Wolf Man by Paul Lucas:

I am a werewolf. Do you want to me to talk about the change? It hurts. Do you want me to talk about running free in the woods? It’s exhilarating. There’s really nothing more for me to say. Ask a ballerina what it’s like to perform in front of a theater, packed. She’s lithe, she’s supple, she’s graceful, she has dancing in her DNA– but not words. She can’t tell you. And even if she had the right words, you wouldn’t understand. She’s an alien, she’s a one-way mirror. I’m a werewolf. I’m blood and fear, moonlight and rage. I might as well talk about quantum physics.

Or molecular biology. My condition is not natural. I’m the one percent who survives one percent of the time. A werewolf is nothing but the inevitable consequence of metabolism taken to the utmost extreme. The beast hunts its prey, and devours the protein. But it must be living protein. So the beast infects its prey with enzymes that keep it alive. The prey burns through its energy stores, begins converting its own body into more protein. It lives while the beast feeds. Eventually, even magic cannot keep the carcass alive. The beast leaves behind a pile of offal.

Sometimes, but very rarely, the prey escapes before the beast is done eating. But it is infected, and it continues to change. It goes mad. It really is very painful. You don’t know how painful it is, and you will never know. Pain is just a word, and words have no meaning, wrapped in that kind of Hell. Hell is just a word too. Eventually, the body dies, the beautiful complicated interlocking systems broken down, converted to a pile of protein. It’s almost worse, to die like that for nothing. If you’re not even food, what’s the point.

And sometimes, even more rarely, the prey escapes, and it’s only barely infected. The enzyme gets into the blood, into the brain, into the endocrine system. The body burns, hot, and in this early stage, you can never get enough to eat. You have never know such hunger. Naturally, at first, you turn to sweet things, sugary foods. That kick. But it’s just a kick. Just a punt, and you need a catapult. You need a rocket launch. If you’re lucky- actually, if you’re lucky, you starve to death. They find you twisted on your kitchen floor, emaciated and drained, your skin still hot for days.

But if you can get on top of it, if you can stay fed, if you can get that protein, you can survive. That’s what I did. It chased me through a city park, had me, bit me, and ran with me into the middle of the road. We were hit by a car. I woke up in a hospital, surrounded by doctors and nurses. They were pumping me full of protein. I got on top of it. I survived.

Why wolf? It’s in our DNA, all animals share DNA, and the enzyme just reprograms you for a little while. It would be elegant if it wasn’t so horrifying. The full moon rises, and ancient strands of valine, threonine, alanine, and glycine, time wearied patterns, respond to the pull and begin to devour you from the inside. You grow, literally grow, like a baby grows into a young adult, but in the space of a few hours instead of a few decades. This is what I mean when I say it hurts.

It’s an efficient process but it consumes unworldly amounts of energy and there’s nothing left to do then but feed. Find something alive and keep it alive until it’s dead and then find something else and do it again. You’re gifted with all the tools to do this: hearing and smell and eyesight and speed and agility and, oh, right, what do you call the opposite of morality?

Because you’re aware, you’re so aware of every single moment. There’s no amnesia. A creature that grows from man to wolf in the time it takes to watch a bad movie has the advantage of certain evolutionary benefits– the man who woke up in his own bed, washed of the night’s blood, was easily naturally selected over the man who woke naked in a field surrounded by slaughter with no memory except yesterday’s growling stomach.

This is why I don’t talk about the change, talk about running in the woods. Those are romantic notions, and ask yourself this the next time you’re tooth-deep in a piece of fried chicken and you forget for a second that you have a job and a family and a cock and a Playstation: what if your entire existence could be defined in that salty bite? What if, when you took that bite, the result wasn’t bloat and shame, grease and fatigue, but instead it meant strength and power and more rage than any one man can justify stifling? Would you, at that moment, answer silly questions about how the fried chicken was coated with flour, why they chose those colors for the paper napkins? No. You would just keep eating. Just keep eating and eating and eating and eating. Until it was all gone.

Fiction by Jason Edwards

I’m eighteen, my dad’s forty, his best friend Regal is also 40, and Regal’s wife just had their first baby. I used to look up to Regal. But I don’t anymore. A few months ago, he told me he was having an affair. He confides in me, the way my dad wishes I confided in him. But I don’t like my dad much. He’s obsessed with his dad, my grandfather, who never can remember my name.

It was Regal’s idea that I write a novel and I’m afraid I’ve lost control of it. I broke a few rules, but I was getting into it, really flowing. “Maybe that’s the rule you should have broken, Rigal,” is what my dad said. You see why I don’t confide in him. The novel’s about a guy who’s writing a book (I know, never write about writers) about a man who’s trying to form a fantasy tennis league. Everyone keeps telling the writer that people are going to think he’s copying David Foster Wallace, just because Infinite Jest is about a tennis player. I least I think it is. I’ve only read the first 40 pages or so.

Regal’s been sleeping with his wife’s sister’s best friend’s cousin. I guess they met at a wedding, and then at a funeral, and then at another wedding his wife couldn’t go to because she was sick. They didn’t know at the time it was just pregnancy sickness. He and this woman got drunk and made out and just like when you’re on a diet and accidentally eat one piece of cake and you decide, screw it, and eat the whole rest of the cake, he slept with her. And they figured, they did it once, might as well do it again. And keep doing it. They don’t even live in the same city.

My grandad’s weird. He’s an ex-navy pilot, used to teach new guys how to fly Mustang P-51s, using old PT-17 Stearmans. A few years ago at my 14th birthday party he announced to everyone, including my guests, kids he’d never met, that he was going to buy and build a kit airplane, an RV-6. My dad thought this was an amazing idea, and decided to photo-blog the entire process. And that’s all they did for three years. I asked a girl to junior prom last year, and she said “Thanks, but I’m waiting for someone else to ask me. Hey, did your dad ever finish that photoblog of your grandad’s model plane?” I wanted to hit her, but she’s bigger than me.

My grandad’s in my book, because I wish he could at least remember me. Once he came close, but he called me Regal, not Rigal. I said “Grandad, in the novel I’m writing, you’re the writer’s uncle, the one who tells him his book sounds too much like David Foster Wallace.” My grandad said back to me “Just make sure he doesn’t smoke cigars. I hate cigar smoke.” We were at a birthday party for my twelve year old sister. I was getting bored, so I went out back to sit by the pool, and there was grandad and my dad and our neighbor, the one with the one huge eyebrow, smoking cigars. My dad said “Yes?” and I looked at my grandfather and said “I thought you said you hate cigar smoke, grandpa,” and he said “Mind your own business, Regal.”

So in my book the uncle smokes cigars all the time. In the book he’s writing, the guy who’s trying to start a fantasy tennis league, his best friend is based on Regal. But now that I know that Regal is cheating on his wife, I don’t know if he should be a best friend or just a good friend. Regal and his wife named their new baby after my sister.

After grandad built the kit plane, he traded it to a friend of my dad’s boss for a PT-17, just like he used to train guys on. Then he had it painted in the naval camo of the kit P-51. He said what he liked to do was pretend that the Stearman was a P-51 given to him by an old naval flight instructor in trade for officiating his daughter’s wedding. My dad thought this was brilliant and started a fake blog by this fake flight instructor so my grandad would have something to reference whenever people asked him what he was talking about.

My sister asked my grandad if he would officiate her wedding if she ever got married. And he said no, of course not, he wasn’t ordained. The story about getting the airplane from an old navy instructor was just a story. So in my book, the uncle who tries to discourage his nephew from writing a book like David Foster Wallace’s, he smokes cigars all the time, and somehow he’s the in the book about the guy trying to start the fantasy tennis league, too. He’s the one who officiated at the wedding of the tennis league guy’s best friend, but it turns out it was a fake wedding, and so when he cheats on his wife with his best friend’s daughter from the book I’m writing, it turns out he wasn’t really cheating because they were never married.

Which is really confusing, I know, how people from my book are winding up in the book about the fantasy tennis league. I’m trying to fix it, but I’m too depressed about Regal’s affair. Last time that woman was in town, she and my sister and my dad’s boss’s wife went to the mall to buy my grandad a hat to match the one he has from when he was in the navy. That way, they said, my dad could take a picture of it for the blog. They wound up at a salon and talked about hair and boys and my novel. I know this because my sister keeps a blog and talks about everything she does. That girl, the one I asked to junior prom, she leaves comments on it all the time.

And I guess I should be sort of flattered that they would talk about my book, and that should motivated me to finish it, get it published and then send signed copies to my dad’s boss’s wife and Regal’s girlfriend. But I have this stupid fantasy where she reads the book and she loves it and she dumps Regal and takes me and then the writer’s uncle fake-marries us and my sister gets a number three seed in the US Open and at the last second the fantasy tennis league is a huge success. So I don’t know where to put Regal’s girlfriend into the novel, or which novel to put her in. I don’t know if I should tell my sister our neighbor, the one with the one eyebrow, used to be a tennis coach.

Well, it turns out that my sister didn’t put everything that happened that day in the salion in her blog. That fat girl who leaves comments all the time told me. She left a comment and my sister wrote her an email directly. She told me after lunch in school one day that my sister told her in the email that what they really talked about was whether the uncle who is based on my grandfather should actually be actually legally licensed to do weddings, and he just lies about saying he’s not licensed so that people who are married will think they are not, to see what they would do. The reason my sister didn’t put that in the blog is because she thinks that I should put Regal’s wife in the novel to impress her so that she’ll dump Regal and take me and then our grandad can fake-real-fake marry us.

But what she doesn’t understand because she’s so young and stupid is that if I marry Regal’s wife then I’ll be his wife’s daughter’s step-dad and since she’s named after my sister, in my novel I would wind up starting a fantasy tennis league that has a huge success because my sister-daughter gets a three seed at the US Open. And if anyone finds out, her career will tank, the league will tank, and then the cigar-smoking uncle will say something like “Your novel is failing– at least David Foster Wallace’s novel was a huge success, although he did commit suicide.”

I have that scene in my head, all the details, and it’s driving me mad. I don’t want to write it, but I have to. I have lost control of this novel. The writer has his laptop, on his lap, in the back seat of a RV-6, with his uncle up front, flying them around Pearl Harbor. They’ve just come from the writer’s daughter’s 13th birthday party, so they’re wearing party clothes. The writer’s neighbor gave his daughter a tennis racket, and she thinks it’s from her father, and she’s very upset, since she thinks her father is cheating on her mother with a tennis player (he’s not). So he’s upset, and he wants to throw himself into research, fly around and write about Pearl Harbor from about 500 feet because maybe the fantasy tennis league in his main character’s novel will have had a great grandfather who was a naval pilot there.

And this uncle, he says, “Your novel is failing– at least David Foster Wallace’s novel was a huge success, although he did commit suicide.” And this guy will consider committing suicide. Right there, jump out of the plane. But that obese girl who wouldn’t go with me to junior prom, the one who leaves comments on my sister’s blog, she was hospitalized when she passed out a few days ago from smoking too many cigars. And I don’t want Regal’s wife’s sister’s best friend’s cousin to think that I think she was trying to smoke herself to death.

Because she would. Because my dad’s boss has a daughter who used take tennis lessons from our neighbor, the one with the one large eyebrow. And they still write letters to each other, even though she’s married now and divorced although she left a comment on my dad’s blog about my grandad’s fake ex-flight instructor friend that amongst other things happened to mention about how the lawyer who did the paperwork for their divorce wasn’t a real lawyer so they’re not really divorced. After my grandad said “Mind your own business, Regal” to me, by the pool, at my sister’s birthday party, instead of leaving, I said “Can I try one of those?” And my grandad said “Why, you want to smoke yourself to death?”

And my neighbor wrote about it in a letter to my dad’s boss’s daughter, who told my dad’s boss, who told his wife, who told my sister and Regal’s girlfriend that day that went hat shopping and to the salon. I asked my sister if she told that fat cow about the smoke yourself to death comment, and she said no, but in my novel, she did tell her, although in my writer’s novel about the fantasy tennis league, she didn’t.

So you can see why I am so upset. I have completely lost control. I have scenes in my head I don’t want to write, and people are hopping from one book to the other and into real life and back again. My grandad doesn’t know my real name, my father won’t stop blogging, and my sister told me that that porky chunker sent her an email saying she knows I’m going to give her, my sister, a tennis racket for her birthday, and I swear to god I’m not. I don’t think I am, anyway. Maybe I should.