A Further Five
Flash Fiction Pieces
by Barry Ergang
GLOBAL WARNING
"Your
writings are rubbish." The critic's words
echoed in the empty theater.
"I
succeed in amusing the public. That pleases me."
"The
rabble seeks ephemera. You must write what
endures."
"Only
soothsayers know what endures."
The critic's
lip curled. "The world will never know your
work."
"But the
Globe does," the playwright laughed.
"Farewell,
Shakespeare."
Originally
published in QPB Presents the World's Best
Shortest Stories (of all time), edited by Steve
Moss & John M. Daniel, 2001
**********************************
INFERNAL PARADISE
"If you
want to marry me, you'll have to get a job,"
she said.
"I'm a
writer." He gestured at his paper-littered
study.
"Get a
job with a steady income," she said
adamantly.
He winced.
"Writing is hard enough without your
nagging, Beatrice."
"You're
calling me a nag? That's it! I've had it; we're
finished. Go to Hell, Dante!"
Originally
published in Maelstrom, Vol. III, Issue 4, 2001
**********************************
EVERYBODY'S A CRITIC!
When his
friend drew an X through an entire stanza on the
manuscript, the poet grimaced. He felt as if his
heart had been plucked from his chest.
"You want
to cut all that?"
"It doesn't
fit with the rest of the poem," his friend
said.
"It seems
like such a waste."
"Appropriate
for this poem, eh?" the other laughed,
deleting five lines from another stanza. "Art's
as much about paring as adding."
"There's
a difference between paring and disemboweling."
"You
asked me to edit it, remember?" he asked
heatedly.
"Let me
put this delicately, Ezra: pound sand."
Glaring, the
other crossed out three more lines. "Tee ess,
Eliot!"
Originally
published at Flashshot, July 14, 2005
**********************************
A FAIR YELL TO ARMS
"Captain
Stone," the major said, "the enemy has
Captain Beecher and his squad pinned down twenty
clicks north of our position."
Worry lines
creased the corners of Stone's mouth. He and Al
Beecher had gone through Officer Training
together and were close friends.
"Beecher
needs ordnance--and needs it yesterday," the major
continued. "Get your squad up there to
provide reinforcements."
"Yes, sir.
I'll get Al--uh, Captain Beecher--whatever
support he requires."
Stone saluted
and turned to leave when the major called, "Captain?
Take plenty of ordnance with you."
"Don't
worry, sir. I'll remember the Al ammo."
Originally
published at Flashshot June 16, 2006
**********************************
A SUITABLE PROFESSION
Morrow's hand
hovered over the locker door's handle. "I
thought the pre-arrival indications were that the
Psor'ac aren't hostiles."
"They
were," Turner told him, slipping on a
protective coverall. "The indications, I
mean."
"And when
they landed, they were tested and found clean of
contaminants harmful to earthmen."
"Also
true."
"Then why
the hazmat suits?"
"Because
the other day something happened to a linguist
who was trying to communicate with a Psor'ac. The
thing threw up on her."
Morrow grinned.
"Was it something she said?"
"It's not
funny. The lab boys called the puke 'virulently
acidic'. It damn near sautéed the poor woman.
She'll recover, but she'll need a lot of plastic
surgery."
"You
think the alien did it deliberately?" Morrow
asked, opening his locker to remove the bulky
gray integument.
"We don't
know if it was an act of aggression or if the
Psor'ac got sick," Turner said. "Another
one puked in its room, burned a hole in the
mattress and seared a patch of paint on the wall.
It could be there's something in our atmosphere
that's affecting them. But whether they're sick
or hostile, you and I have to be in the room with
one for the next interrogation. So put on your
suit."
Morrow
fingered the coarse, heavy material, scowled at
the helmet. "I hate these things. They're
not exactly built for speed and comfort."
"No, they're
worn to be biled."
Originally
published at Flashing in the Gutters, June 3,
2006
**********************************
|
