Friday Flash Fiction Story-- UFOGG

“Like Superman?” Jimmy said almost hopefully.

I shook my head. “No. Not like Superman.”

“Oh! Oh! Roswell! Area 51! Independence day!” he suggested excitedly, “Star Trek? Star Wars!” There was waving of arms. Above his head.

I sighed. “Do you have to define my existence through television and movies?”

“Yes.” As if it was absurd for me to think it could be understood any other way. I did a classic facepalm before I felt his hand on my shoulder. I looked up.
He let his hand stay on my shoulder for a moment longer than necessary. Stifling a giggle, I wondered if he noticed. Then I wondered if he did it on purpose. I could never really figure out what we were, Jimmy and I. We were friends, of course, but sometimes, I thought we could have been something more. And when he touched me, I could almost believe he felt it too.

“Define the new through what we know, we do,” he said, “Mmm-hmm.”

“You suck at Yoda, but fine, I guess...” Shrugging, I looked at him sideways. I paused. “Roswell then.”

He nodded, understanding, and for a moment I was purely glad he was in my life—whatever he was. I did just want to be a normal kid, like those in Roswell. It was all I had ever known, and then suddenly, I find out this strange truth about me, the truth that changes everything about everything. But it’s all right, because I had Jimmy to help me through it, to help me find my way back to normality.

“Want some hot sauce then?”

The image I’d pictured of him leading me though a thick forest suddenly crumpled in my mind’s eye. I shot him a look.

“I’m just joking, Bree,” he said, “Wait, should I still call you that? Bree?”

“What else would you call me?” I said.

“Alien interloper?” His hands twitched as though they were about to start waving around again. I eyed them, willing them to still. “Spawn of the non-Earthlings?”

“How about Un-human Former Ordinary Girl?”

“UFOG? Nice try,” he said, “It would have to have a double “G”. Un-human Former Ordinary Geek Girl. UFOGG. Or does the geek negate the ordinary? But no. Just no. Let’s stick with Bree. Deal?”

“So very much a deal.” I grinned back at him. We shook on it. So human name Bree it is. But I couldn’t help but wonder--did I have another name? I stared up at the night sky and the stars stared back at me through the clouds. On a less cloudy day, could I see the planet of my ancestors?

He tugged on my hand, and I gave in, standing up with a groan. “Walk and talk,” he said, “Okay, so why Roswell?”

I shrugged. “Because they were cool.”

“As opposed to Superman, of course.”

I groaned. Back to Superman. “Bah. I don’t have superpowers.”

“They had superpowers in Roswell. You need to re-watch your DVDs,” he said, “In fact, I’ll make you a list of necessary viewing. Think of it as a history lesson of your people.”

I stopped walking; he didn’t. “My people?”

“Okay, okay. Alien folk,” he amended quickly, walking back to where I stood.

“What? No, I mean, it’s all fiction, and not about my people or whatever.”

“How do you know they didn’t encounter your kind and base the movies off that?” he asked, tapping my arm a few extra times for good measure. I hadn’t thought of it before, but it could be possible. And there are a lot of movies.

“Aha!” he said triumphantly at my lack of response.

“Do you care that I’m...not....human?” I asked.

“You were never human,” he said, “Why should it start to bother me now?”

“Thank you,” I said. I felt tears swim over my eyes and spill out over my cheeks.
He wiped them away, his fingers tracing their own paths on my face. “Don’t cry, Bree...”

We were so close, one of his hands on my waist, the other catching an errant tear. My breath caught. I looked into his grey eyes, grey like the clouds above, grey like his sweater and he smiled. He moved his hand to the back of my neck, guiding me closer yet. Finally, I thought, all these years I’d been waiting for this moment. Finally.

His lips descended towards mine. All I could hear was my heart beating too quickly in my chest. I closed my eyes, leaned yet closer.

“Firefly?” he whispered.

“What?!” I muttered. Of their own accord, my eyes opened slightly. “There were no aliens in Firefly.”

His smile widened. “Okay, you pass.”

And then, finally, we kissed. It was only for a moment, but it was a moment I’d been waiting for since I’d met him.

“That was...” he breathed.

“I know,” I said, smiling back at him. I loved that his arms were still tight around me. We stood like that for a moment that I would have stretched into eternity if I could.

“I feel like Captain Kirk,” he said.

“I know.”

Flash Fiction Story: Destiny

His hand closed upon my shoulder. I lifted my head at his touch, but
didn't look back. I knew him well enough not to have to. The dark
flowing robes, the sickle. It could be only one.

"It's time," he said, "I'm sorry."

The words echoed ominously in the air as he withdrew his hand.

As he laid a scroll upon my outstretched palms, he looked almost
regretful. I unrolled it and read the single printed line without
reaction. "This is a death sentence," it proclaimed.

"Destiny to be met and all," he said in a voice that was barely
audible. Even so, I heard a smile in his voice, a hunger in it, that
belied his apparent regret.

I opened my eyes then, rubbed the sleep from them, and put on my
favorite wig--the one that looked even better than the hair that once
flowed luxuriously from my now-bald scalp.

"Destiny," I said, "The name's Mirabelle. Nice to meet you."

**********************************************************************************

http://groups.google.com/group/flashfictionfridays?hl=en: Read, Write, Join, Comment! New stories (1000 words or less) posted every Friday.

Flash Fiction Story - Worst Case Scenario

"What's the worst that could happen?" she asked, in her best I'm-being-reassuring voice. It sounded vaguely familiar, like Mom's, before the stroke.

I paced around the room another time for good measure before answering, "He tells me he's put fast-acting poison in my coffee and I'll be dead before I can stand up?"

She pursed her lips. "Don't drink the coffee."

"He could put it in lemonade, too."

"For Heaven's sake, Marcia," she said, "you don't have to list every possible drink they sell at the cafe that could be poisoned. All I'm saying is don't do anything you're not comfortable with."

I blinked back tears. "I'm not comfortable with this. With any of this."

In one smooth motion, Pamela left her chair and was immediately beside me, shrink-wrapping me with her arms.

"I know, baby sister, I know," she murmured into my hair. "Do you want me to go with you? I could, you know. Or I could go instead of you."

"I haven't been your baby sister for a couple dozen years now," I said, "and no, I have to do this alone."

I tried in vain to disentangle myself from her all-encompassing arms. She always turned into such an octopus when she hugged. She hugged like her hug was the only thing keeping the hug-ee from being swallowed up by the earth. I'd say her hugs brought out my claustrophobia, but that would be a slight exaggeration.

Pamela squeezed me even tighter before finally releasing me. "You'll always be my baby sister. Even when you're as old as dirt. Hey, remember when Pluto was a planet?"

I awarded her a a subtle upward tugging of my lips that only she could have caught and she grinned triumphantly back at me in response.

"Okay. Here I go. Moving. Anytime now. See you after the Last Great Meet-up. Bye-bye." But my feet didn't obey my words and I looked at Pamela helplessly. "Well....this is me going..."

"Careful, don't get whiplash..." Pamela shot me one of her infamous looks, again reminding me of pre-stroke Mom. I may have been the one to resemble Mom the most when it came to looks, but Pamela had definitely inherited her mannerisms and intonations. I never told her this, though, in case it made her stop.

"Right. I can do this," I said, "I'll just go. Tell him in the end, love just wasn't enough. Tell him it was fun. Tell him I'll always remember him. Not tell him what he has to change because there's no point. Give him back his jacket and that random orange sock. And then get the hell out of Dodge before I pull a Niagara Falls."

She smiled wryly at me and handed me my own coat. With one last lingering look into the mirror, I strode semi-confidently to the door.

"Hey, kid?"

I turned around, eyebrow raised.

She paused, poker-faced. "Don't drink the lemonade."

******************************************************************************

http://groups.google.com/group/flashfictionfridays?hl=en: Read, Write, Join, Comment! New stories (1000 words or less) posted every Friday.

Flash Fiction Story: Silent Treatment

So she's sitting there again when I come in. On the floor, cross-legged, facing away from me. At first I think she's doing one of those exercise things, whatever you call them. Pilot-eez or Yoda or something. I know she's not, but I try to pretend.

"Hello, dear, I'm home..." I say.

I put down by bag and take off my coat before I glance back at her. Sure enough, she's still in the same position. If I had some fraction-measuring ruler, I doubt it would have registered even the smallest change. I hate how she just sits there. She does this now. I come home, and she doesn't react. She robot-ifies. It's a thing.

"Did you make anything for dinner?" I ask.

Again, no answer. Last night I had to eat emergency rations. I tried to give her one but she didn't even blink at me. When I got up in the morning, she was still sitting there, the un-opened rations bar same as where I'd placed it. If it keeps up this way, I'll probably starve. A man can't survive on emergency rations forever. He'd die of culinary boredom. It happened to a friend of mine. He wrecked his shuttle on some human-forsaken planetoid and when rescue found him, he was dead
as the 'toid. There were still plenty of Emerations so it's not like he ran out of supplies. They did an autopsy but afterwards, all they could say was he should be alive today. I knew the guy: he lived for food, and Emerations just couldn't cut it. Don't want to end up like him, but with her sitting there like that, I think I might be on the same damn 'toid, emergency-rationing myself to death.

When we first got married, things were different, things were simple. I got home, she was there, dinner was made, love was made, sleep was slept. That was before my promotion. We were young and in love and all that. Things were different afterwards. She couldn't support my work,
she said. It's wrong to de-ecologize a planet for our own use, she argued, there are other beings to consider. Well, excuse me for trying to provide for her, for the family we were supposed to have. And those beings? Not even sentient. She wants to sacrifice our livelihood, our futures, for insects and rodents and plant life! Ridiculous.

"Okay, dear, I'm going to bed then. You coming?" I say, grabbing an Emerations shake for variety. Same awful substance, in liquid form. I can't decide which is worse, so I alternate.

She doesn't say anything. She's probably waiting for me to go into the other room before she moves. She's probably sitting there wishing I would just leave. These days, even though I know she hates my job as much as ever, she probably wants me to stay there all the time, not come home at all. She's probably glad she couldn't have children now.

"That's it," I say, "The final push of my abort-mission button!"

So I get back into the room where she's sitting and tap her on the shoulder. I'm not going to stop until she reacts. Took a couple of minutes, but then she turns her head and opens her mouth, and her eyes lock onto mine.

"Three days, five hours, twelve seconds since I left this robot in my place," a strange electronic version of my wife's voice says, "and you have failed to notice the difference. Should have done this long ago. Have a nice life."

I stand there, this robot wife of mine still sitting cross-legged, staring up at me and all I can think is how amazing technology is, that it can look like real anger in those computerized eyes.


**********************************************************************************

http://groups.google.com/group/flashfictionfridays?hl=en: Read, Write, Join, Comment! New stories (1000 words or less) posted every Friday.

Flash Fiction Story-Recipe for Love

INGREDIENTS

• 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil, once around the pan in a slow
stream
• 1 tablespoon butter
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• 2 shallots, minced
• 1 cup vodka
• 1 cup chicken stock
• 1 can crushed tomatoes (32 ounces)
• Coarse salt and pepper
• 16 ounces pasta, such as penne rigate
• 1/2 cup heavy cream
• 20 leaves fresh basil, shredded or torn
Serve with:
• Crusty bread, for passing

Heat a large skillet over moderate heat. Add oil, butter, garlic and
shallots. Gently sauté shallots for 3 to 5 minutes to develop their
sweetness. Add vodka to the pan (3 turns around the pan in a steady
stream will equal about 1 cup). Reduce vodka by half, this will take 2
or 3 minutes. Add chicken stock, tomatoes. Bring sauce to a bubble and
reduce heat to simmer. Season with salt and pepper.
While sauce simmers, cook pasta in salted boiling water until cooked
to al dente (with a bite to it). While pasta cooks, prepare your salad
or other side dishes.
Stir cream into sauce. When sauce returns to a bubble, remove it from
heat. Drain pasta. Toss hot pasta with sauce and basil leaves. Pass
pasta with crusty bread.*

It was that recipe that made her fall in love with him. She still
liked to look at it from time to time, to remember the dream of it--
the fantasy of that first night.

Two years after her husband had left her for the pretty blonde dental
hygienist, the seed that was her loneliness had grown into a tree
whose shadow she lived in daily--until one morning when she found she
no longer took comfort from its shade.

"What do I have to lose?" she said, with a laugh, to a friend that
day.

"Meet your Match: A Match Made in Heaven!" proclaimed the site, but
the repetition and play on clichés did nothing to encourage her. At
first she debated each question at length. Some (Would you describe
yourself as introverted?) were easy to answer while others (If you
were a part of a pineapple, which part would you be?) perplexed her.
After a while, she clicked responses without thinking, without even
reading the question in its entirety. If she happened to catch a
mistake, she often didn't alter it--for reasons which alternated
between skepticism and fatalism.

When she bit her lip, took a deep breath, closed her eyes and clicked
"finish", she nearly passed out. Almost immediately, her matches
started flowing in. Caroline skimmed the matches, eliminating the ones
with the more unsavory words or pictures. Of the ones that remained,
most were so formulaic that she passed over them too, their printed
words devolving into "blah blah blah" in her mind's ear.

Just when Caroline had given up hope of finding anyone worthwhile to
"wink" at (wink? she thought, Seriously? I'm supposed to "wink" at men
that interest me? Maybe it should be "honk". How crude!), his profile
caught her eye. Oh, he was attractive, but it wasn't his photo that
captured her.

Instead of writing about himself (as most self-centered men seemed to
enjoy on this site), he'd posted a recipe. What a strange thing to do,
she thought as she tapped "print" repeatedly.

In the car, for the first time in years, she found herself excited for
dinner.

At the grocery store, Caroline searched for the ingredients with
relish, pausing each time she saw someone plucking the same items off
the shelves to wonder if she had seen the same profile, and was
preparing the same dinner. Somehow, it made her feel far less alone.

In her kitchen, sautéing seemed sensual; turning simmering into
boiling was almost climatic. And eating it did things to her pallet
she hadn't thought possible.

By the time Caroline had finished savouring the last bite, she was a
little surprised to find herself thoroughly in love. Only that, after
all, could have made her rush to her computer before even clearing the
table or washing the dishes.

Scanning all the supposed heavenly-made matches, she desperately
looked for her love, "Cooking4U". Caroline could scarcely wait to
"wink" at him, to tell him how much she had enjoyed dinner, to find
out his real name, to meet him in person. If he was anything like the
pasta, she thought, she really had found her match. Visions of a
spokeswoman-future flooded her thoughts. She could see an image of
herself with her handsome new husband, and a quote, "I met my match,
and you can too!"...or something more original, some clever play on
words that would melt the hearts of naysayers and bring love to the
searching.

Oh yes, months later, she could remember the fantasy of it all, could
still taste it on her tongue. It wasn't unlike her first marriage.
Perhaps it always started that way, before diminishing into reality.
Maybe there was a biological reason for it; there usually was for such
things. Or maybe the heart was simply funnel-shaped, closing off until
but a trickle might escape into it.

She'd still make the pasta, of course, it was too good not to. Not for
herself, but for others, and then afterwards, when her friends and
family would drone on at length about how amazing it was, she'd
readily hand over the recipe. When they'd ask where she'd come across
it, though, Caroline's lips would curve into a bitter-sweet smile.
That was the one secret she'd never tell, the one story she'd keep to
herself. After all, she'd die before letting anyone know she'd fallen
in love with an ad for a cookbook.

*Recipe passed along to me years ago by a friend; original source
unknown

**********************************************************************************

http://groups.google.com/group/flashfictionfridays?hl=en: Read, Write, Join, Comment! New stories (1000 words or less) posted every Friday.

Flash Fiction Story--The Great Puzzle

I poured another glass of my favourite merlot and picked up the postcard again. It wasn’t really anything special; just a few seagulls flying across a mostly blue sky overtop sparkling blue water. Tampa, Florida scrawled across the top left corner.

Of course, I knew who it was from before I even turned it over. Wanda. The woman for whom my father had abandoned my mother and me almost 15 years ago. Wanda, the woman who’d made more of an effort over the years to reconnect the two of us than he’d ever made in his entire life. Wanda, the woman whose very name made my skin crawl.

I’d received dozens of such postcards over the years. They always seemed to have some kind of animal on them. Dolphins. Whales. Alligators. Puppies. Sickening really.

So when I picked up this one, I expected the typical message on the back: Hi Sweetest Girl! Your Dad and I are having such a fantabulous time here. You should come and visit! He misses you soooooo much!!! We know you’re busy, but please try to write us back sometime! Bundles of love with bows on top, Wanda and Dad.

Something along those lines.

I never thought I’d wish for another postcard like that. And, well, I guess I still wouldn’t. I just wasn’t expecting this. I suppose no one ever really does.

With another sip of wine, I turned the card over and re-read the message.

“Dearest Sammie, I’m sorry to have to tell you this...but your father no longer flies high in the sky of life with us. He passed peacefully on Aug 7th, with me and your step-brother at his side. I’m sure he would have wanted you to be there...there just wasn’t any time. He loved you sooooo much!!!! Please write back, come visit, the funeral is Monday. Bundles of love as always, Wanda."

Who tells someone their father’s dead on a bloody postcard? And who makes a stupid pun on said postcard? Seriously.

I drained the last of the wine in one giant swallow. Wishing the bottle wasn't already empty, I pushed the glass out of the way.

The Great Puzzle. Dad's little pet term for life. And, of course, he was obsessed with actual puzzles. It was the unrequested unwanted gift he'd always give me, year after year, without fail. Come to think of it, he and Wanda really did deserve each other.

The funny thing is I couldn't not complete the puzzles he gave me. I don't know why. Like I was compelled to do it by some higher, father-loving-despite-everything power. Until this year. The FLDE Powers That Be had finally given up too and so this year's puzzle was still carelessly wrapped in silver paper, unevenly folded, with tape peeling off.

I'd told myself I'd open it if--and only if--he ever convinced me that there was more to him, and to us, than this pointless gift. Enough's enough, you know? But I guess that’s one day that’ll never see light.And maybe this last puzzle could my good-bye to what was and what could never be.

I tore it open, and tossed the wrapping to the side. The puzzle was a shot of earth as seen from space and had a thousand pieces. Literally.I sat there for three and a half hours putting it together. I'm really good at puzzles. Lots of practice, I suppose.

The phone rang a few times, like an alarm clock valiantly trying to wake me from this strange dream. I ignored it.

I fingered the last puzzle piece. It was mostly white, with some red,and it fit exactly no where. Certainly not in the empty spot somewhere in Australia.

"Damn him," I muttered, "That's just like him, give me a puzzle that can't be solved. Way to give me closure, Dad. Very freaking thoughtful."

I tried to force it in anyway, even though it couldn't possibly fit. In frustration, I flung the piece onto the table. It bounced once and landed face down. That's when I saw it, printed in ridiculously tiny letters. I had to get out a magnifying glass just to read it. I have no clue how he managed to write so bloody small.

"I'm sorry I never quite fit in your life. I have the puzzle for this piece, and you have the piece to my puzzle. Try again? Love, Dad."

Tears flooded my vision as I dialled a number I had memorized long ago but never called. It rang only once. I wasn't ready. But I guess you never really can be.

"Hello, Wanda?" I said, "It's Sammie."

************************************************************************************
http://groups.google.com/group/flashfictionfridays?hl=en: Read, Write, Join, Comment! New stories (1000 words or less) posted every Friday.

Flash Fiction Friday Story--Always Space for Jealousy

This week's story is in response to a prompt/challenge to include the following:

Main character: A jealous husband
Antagonist: mutant squids
Setting: outer space


*******
Chrissy manoeuvred herself over to the window and stared out. Outside the spaceship was dark and starless; inside almost the same.

“What are you looking at?” John asked, floating towards her.

“The vast nothingness.”

“Don’t lie, you’re dreaming of him, aren’t you?” His frown was all-encompassing.

As his space-suited fingers found her arm and clamped down, Chrissy sighed.

“There is no ‘him’. ‘He’ was fixing our shields, that’s it. I promise.”

“Better be it. Or I’ll fix his shields,” John muttered.

Something caught her eye as she rolled them, something purple and large, with tentacles thick like elephant trunks, and eyes like wormholes.

“John!” Chrissy screamed, “Turn the boat! Turn the boat!”

“Holy freakish mutant squid!” John yelled as he clamoured to the wheel and turned it hard starboard.

The squid casually grabbed the ship with two of is tentacles, peered inside curiously for a moment, and then shoved the boat away.

As the boat somersaulted into relative safety, Chrissy and John sat in stunned silence for a moment.

"Chrissy?”

“Yes, John?”

He looked down, wishing he could resist asking the question, but knowing he couldn’t. Managing not to tap her fingers, she waited.


“Tell me the truth, okay?” he said finally, “you know before when you were looking out of the window so dreamily? Were you....were you looking at the squid?”

**********************************************************************************

http://groups.google.com/group/flashfictionfridays?hl=en: Read, Write, Join, Comment! New stories (1000 words or less) posted every Friday.