Flash Fic: Rule the World by Marjolijn-Ashara, literature
Literature
Flash Fic: Rule the World
“What are you thinking about?”
“How I'm going to take over the world.”
“Oh, honey, really? We're at the recital of your youngest son, the least you can do is pay attention.”
“I know, darling, but -”
“No, no buts, you know he worked very hard on this. For weeks he's been looking forward to you coming to see how he leaves his inferior classmates in the dust.”
“Sweetie, I'm an evil genius, it's who I am! I can't just turn it off!”
“Of course I understand that, but we're your family. We just want to spend time with you. When is the last time we had a romantic nigh
They lay in silence for a while. Then it occurred to Judith that this was an opportunity she had wanted for a long time, and she would be just as stupid as Tiny Emily accused her of being if she didn’t take it.
“Hey, Kendra?”
“Yeah, Judith?”
It felt weird now that they had names for each other, but she pressed on. “What’s it like? You know. Being alive.”
Kendra was silent for a while, and Judith again thought that she had fallen asleep, but then came four words.
“I had a dog.”
“A dog?”
“Yeah. His name was Stanley. He fe
He's drunk in the backseat.
"Anna. Anna. Anna," he moans, as if my name is a broken record his throat can't stop scratching; his voice is nettles and thorns, every natural prick and annoyance. My knuckles go white on the wheel.
Ryan's riding shotgun and he won't look at me. "If you need me to drive him home, I can do it," he offers sheepishly. I don't answer, just press my foot to the gas and let the engine's rusty roar engulf John's voice.
I peek in the rearview mirror. John's laying across the seat like a dead trout, and I can tell Ryan hasn't even bothered to buckle his seat belt. There's a photo album in John's arms that he clings to w
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to anyone, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author owns exclusive rights to this work.
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I stand alone. In the field of grass high enough to tickle my bark three feet above the ground, I stand and I wait. It doesn't take long – it never does. My knotted branches fascinate them, and they come ever closer. If they're in large groups, I simply wait and do nothing. Too many, too fast, and they'll notice. They'll know what I am, and I have no defense against fire or blade.
So I wait, until it's only one or two that come. And then – then I smile inside
There were days counted by the number of moons that waxed and waned in her mouth, days carved out of the fluted chest of some beached whale, bones whistling in the winter wind. There were days punctuated by how many suicide notes were swallowed down with a shot of whiskey, days gathered together from the charcoal of a thousand wasted yesterdays, I built all these bridges and became a wickerman fit for burning.
I have stared giants in the eye, have sunk through bleached reefs where sharks bleed, have split my sides open to let out some of the sadness welling in my chest. I count days with her mouth as the sundial, I rotate like the shadows of
"Tam."
He heard the whisper, but detected no movement in any of the seven tubes. Life signs remained null. No one was awake, but he knew what he had heard. It sent a chill through him.
"Shut up, Tam, and pass the damn wrench."
Tam Sutherland continued to stare at the Sleepers through the silver glow of the stasis field. The repairs had been slow, and his partner, a woman with maddening resolve, had decided talk was bothersome. It didn't matter they were the only two awake on the blasted moon. Dr. Stanton wanted nothing to do with him.
"The sooner we finish, the sooner you can go home and I can get back into meditation," she had said.
Wel
Hugh Everett's ashes are in the dumpster behind the restaurant I work at. I know because they start moving on Monday. By Tuesday, there is a writhing charred leg and parts of his open torso. Wednesday, he speaks to me for the first time.
"What year is it?"
"I think you might implode if you knew."
"Makes sense. Do you smoke, doll?"
I light a cigarette for him, having pulled it with quivering fingers from my apron, and put it in his mouth. He leans up against a garbage bag leaking shake mix and puffs, exhaling clouds.
"This is weak. Lady cigarettes."
He rips off the filter with his teeth. He only has three fingers on his left hand and hi