FlashFictionMonth

There is a beast in the sandwich aisle of the small Tesco. Its number is 22. A group of teenagers stand by the bags of Doritos, watching it cautiously. One of them clutches a two-litre bottle of Coke like a club. An old lady steps past them and pushes the beast to one side, grabbing a chicken wrap. She raises a cheeky eyebrow at you as she returns, as if to ask why you’re still waiting. “Sorry,” you mumble, as you step by the teenagers as well. You stretch your arm past the beast—careful not to touch it—and end up with a BLT, completing your lunch with items from farther down the aisle. It doesn’t go through as a meal deal when you pay. There is a beast on the Diamond Jubilee bench in the town square. Its number is 6. The bench is a a PokéStop, and a gaggle of schoolkids in uniform surround it, occasionally looking up from their phones to chat and laugh. A dad nearby takes a phone from his child, carries it a few steps closer to spin the PokéStop, then carries it back. They move on

???. If you loved me, you’d let me die. Aaron&Erin, Erin&Aaron—it’s so funny, I said when I met you. How our names are the same. Speak it fast enough and there’s no difference between us. That was as true in sixth grade as it is now. Sometimes if we touch it seems like our skin could meld. Maybe. But lately I’ve been starting to wonder if that means the same thing for you, as it does for me. I did let you kiss me when you asked. Maybe that was a mistake. I told you: I like hand-holding better. You told me: we really need to get back to work. The people around us don’t understand. They don’t get anything at all. In between the class assignments and the way I’ve seen you looking over high school brochures even when you’ve said again and again that you’ll go wherever I go—in between all that, we have something more important to do than play. No, that’s wrong. Play is the important part. The play, that is. The one we’re making. And it’s not about anything stupid either. Not young

The woman spits another venomous, spittle-fueled insult at Kana, but this time she doesn’t respond. She just cocks her head in that way puppies do when they’re listening really hard, and I think, okay here we fuckin’ go! But instead of the deadpan retort or heavily sarcastic reply I expect, Kana’s words are soft and almost… lilting. “Who hurt you?” Her eyes are both hard and soft - somehow penetrating. It’s an eerie thing to watch that look spear someone else and hold them captive, even if just for a moment. It’s been trained on me before, but I’ve never watched it directed at someone else. The woman stammers, unsure at first how to respond to the complete turnaround in Kana’s behavior, expression, and words. “What?” she sputters. “Who hurt you?” Kana repeats. “You know what they say - hurt people hurt people. I want to know who fueled the hurt you’re hurling at me and all these others.” For a moment - just a moment - there’s a well of vulnerability in the woman’s creased blue

It’s not often you find a child who is truly unmanageable. One who no one can deal with at all. One who even the most loving of parents would say they wish they could just send that child back, trade it for another. But for those that are so abhorrent, for parents who are begging for some solution, there is us. Camp Forgotten is your wish come true, your light at the end of the tunnel, your chance to trade in that clunker of a child of yours. To some, Camp Forgotten might sound cruel. The name alone sparks terrible feelings, but let me assure you that is by design. The children left with us are the worst of the worst, and our name is a reminder to them that they have been so awful that the world would like to forget them. In our many years of operation, we have found that in order for these children to change into functional members of society, they must first understand that their current self isn’t wanted by anyone and must be abandoned, forgotten, here at camp. If you are worried

A warning to you children all who dwell this region round, For in the woods at Carterhaugh there roams a great hell hound. And if you go by Carterhaugh, he’ll chase you out of breath. Then he’ll pin you to the floor and lick you half to death. Now Janet was a wilful child, who ne’er did as she should; She filled her purse with doggy treats and ran straight to that wood. She had not stepped inside the woods a foot but barely three, When she spied two glowing eyes a-peering round a tree. She threw a ball, he brought it back, then led her to a glade, And there upon the soft green grass they sported and they played. They chased around played tug of war, he fairly won her heart, And Janet, she decided then, that they should never part. They lay together, dog and girl, exhausted from their game, And from the collar round his neck, Janet read his name. “Tamelene” the tag did say but what turned her heart to ice, Was the footnote scratched in underneath “The Devil’s Sacrifice.” “Oh

A tree falls down in the forest. Its death is not a surprise, and one day its friends would follow it, losing their struggles to the Choking and the Hollow, but for now, they hold on; and for now, they watch as sunlight shone through the gap in the canopy, setting the stage for the dead one’s funeral. A tree funeral is a long affair, conducted by fungi and attended by woodlice, beetles and many other creatures. Tiny creatures that seem to rise, fall then disappear in an instant when the trees aren’t paying attention. Then again, most creatures are too short-lived and fast to the trees. The springtails and earthworms arrive last, feasting on what left of the tree’s corpse before it becomes one with the soil. The soil that would now makes a perfect nursery. There is a moment of stillness, as if the trees are holding their breath. Then there, emerging from the soil, the green shoots of the young ones. So young that time still feel fast to them. The trees knew that most of them won’t

“Has Harry told you about tulpas yet?” “That Spanish thing?” Ryan had seen a restaurant in town. “I dunno if it’s Spanish, but it’s like…” Anton leaned in closer “…an imaginary friend! Like he’s gonna think about this anime girlfriend really hard—he’s way into anime—and that’ll make her real. It’s way sad!” “Yeah, sounds weird.” It did sound sad, but Ryan hadn’t actually heard Harry say any of this. He wasn’t even positive he knew who Harry was, except that he strongly suspected he was the fat guy with the Bleach t-shirt. “You here for pre-drinks?” asked Anton. “No, I’m…” Ryan had been thinking of heading down to the club later, but since it was 4pm and Anton already had a Strongbow he got the feeling this might be one of those days they never made it out of the communal kitchen. “Was there a torch in here?” “Don’t think so.” Ryan spotted it by the microwave and picked it up. “What do you want with that anyway?” “Gotta grab a book for ‘Literature in Translation,’ but all the

We emerge from our grand sanctum to find our peace disturbed by a couple of lowly, roughhousing pests. The first one, we recognize: all coils and claws and clicking, an unfit patchwork mess strung together by its vulture’s stomach. We grimace at the echo of its howling innards, the saliva spilling from its chittering mouth. And bound so very tightly in its slimy coils… A new one. We seize the familiar beast by its shoulders, yank it back with our many arms. It thrashes and shrieks in its grating excuse for a voice, so we shriek back, bear teeth upon teeth upon teeth upon teeth. It lunges. We mirror. Our fabric rips. Its flesh and fur carry no taste, its blood textureless between our fingers. At last, we catch on its scuted underbelly and pry a scale from its place. With it, we send the thing scrambling away, whimpering, into the dark. We survey our small, sticky spoil. Dull, but clean enough. The color of wilted cherries. Ah, but we needn’t worry about that. We’ve just