Flash Fiction

A few flash fiction stories for your entertainment. Enjoy!

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She
By Michael Thomas-Knight

She came strutting into my room like the queen of the lair, assuming total control over all that surrounded. The atmosphere, the aroma, every molecule of air, tingled with attentiveness to her unspoken command. She pulled the drink from my hand, downed the wine from the glass, and then smashed the goblet into the bedroom wall. It shattered – an explosion of crystalline chimes. Wearing no more than black leather platform boots and a white tank top, she pranced across the shag carpet and threw herself down upon my bed. The sheets puffed up around her like a billowing cloud in her wake. Settled; she smiled at me with her eyes and beckoned me with a curl of her finger. All of this would have seemed quite natural, the usual faire, if not for the fact that she had been dead for some fourteen years.

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Eight Seconds of Torment
By Michael Thomas-Knight

Eyes open wide. Adrenalin, panic, confusion. Dirt against my face. Wet leaves try to smother my breath. The gray façade of a large tree stump comes to focus in my view, about two yards away. I can’t move, can’t pick myself up off the ground.

Flashes of memory. Camping in the state park. Awakened. A man with an axe. Big man, large bald head, crazy eyes. Do not like this man. The tree stump, cut smooth, like a tabletop. Dark stains in the wood grain. My memory fades away and I am back in the moment.

Suddenly, movement erupts from behind the tree stump. Someone stands. I try to move again, I can not. The person moves toward me. I see black Converse All-Star sneakers, like my own, and blue jeans.

The person lurches, walks awkwardly, aimlessly. Thankfully, it is not the big man. I shift my eyes upward as far as I can see. Soft flannel shirt, white and brown. Looks familiar.

The person stumbles over a tree root and falls to the ground alongside of me. Stillness. On his shirt collar, a Mets pin and a American Flag-Veteran’s pin, like the one my father gave me. Around his neck lays a gold chain and cross – the one my wife had given me on my birthday. I move my eyes further. Something is strange; something is wrong with what I am seeing.  Then I realize, there is no head, there is no head… there is no head… there… is… no…

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Pop Dolls
By Michael Thomas-Knight

There are creatures that walk amongst us, parading as humans in unnatural parody – skin stretched to the limits of physics until a glossy sheen pervades – lips bulbous and swollen, a mockery of youth. Large honey-hive breasts, devoid of natural purpose, stand firm in their death – inanimate, plastic, pretense. Scarred and hardened tissues, hidden beneath hairlines and in the folds of the body, remain unseen from the prying eyes of the camera. Eyes that don’t blink, too wide, like fright’s graven image, engage their creepy stare, as hair – color washed away by chemical poisons – sits perfectly arranged, atop their empty heads.

False youth in a zombie parade, a society of Frankenstein brides, marching to the beat of easy money on reality TV. Pop dolls, everywhere I look, drained of life and soul but still they walk, an Arian race of dead skin and plastic replacement parts, false beauty to fill their voided hearts.

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The Station
By Michael Thomas-Knight

I assumed ghosts and spirits had taken over the station. Humanly figures moved about with a dream-like quality. Last night, sleep had consumed me and I missed the last train to Albany. When I awoke, the morning sun blazed brightly through the windows of Buffalo Central Terminal.

My co-workers had left me behind, not notifying me of the departing train. We all attended the seminar on ‘insurance algorithms’ together. We had been discussing it last night, although much of it’s content was beyond me. You’d think they would have awakened me and said, Jimmy, the train is here.

Upon closer inspection of the persons in the terminal, I realized they were not ghosts. They were quite alive but moved unnaturally. I walked up to the woman with the purple knit beret and fur-collar wool coat as she paged through a magazine. She wore leather Bebe ankle-high boots which were very popular these days. I waved my hand in front of her face. She could not see me. Her chest rose and fell with calm breaths. I leaned in closer to feel the warm air from her nostrils and smell the fragrance of lavender upon her neck. When she moved she became a blur. She took no notice of me at all. I looked around. The terminal buzzed with commuters running for trains and waiting for departures with I-phone earbuds in their ears and laptops in tow. The faster they moved the more blurred they became.

I knew I was not dead. I had sustained no injuries; I had no run-in with thugs the previous night. Somehow I had fallen out of time. I could not keep up with the advances at work. I could not keep up with the hustle and bustle of this modern world any longer. I had slipped out of sync… with everything.

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