Flash Fiction: Special Bagels

INT – MANSION - OFFICE – DAY – WIDE SHOT

MR. X, a large, well-proportioned bald man in a nice suit, stands at his large desk. He is on the phone.

MR. X: Listen to me, I want this procedure to work, you understand?

He turns away from the camera.

MEDIUM SHOT – MR.X’S BACK OF BALD HEAD

MR. X: Again, I shall only repeat this once…I want this procedure to work.

Silence.

CLOSE SHOT – TELEPHONE CRADLE - Mr. X hangs up the phone.

INT – LABORATORY – DAY - MEDIUM LOW ANGLE SHOT – DR. HANZ AND THOM - DR. HANZ hangs up the phone.

DR. HANZ: He will not give up.

THOM: The man’s insane. They call us insane? They call us mad doctors? He’s the mad one.

CAMERA FOLLOWS DR.HANZ walking to a long bank of windows overlooking an operating theater.

DR. HANZ: Sanity is a lie, Thom. It matters not who is the ‘mad one’ in this situation because sanity is bullshit lies.

Dr. Hanz glances over to Thom, o.s.

MEDIUM SHOT – THOM - He’s barefoot, gnawing and sucking on the dirty toes of his left foot.

CLOSE UP – DR. HANZ - Sadness on his face.

DR. HANZ: (quietly) Sanity is made-up bullshit lies.

INT. OPERATING THEATER - LOW WIDE ANGLE SHOT – CAMERA SLOWLY ZOOMS UP TO DR.HANZ, LOOKING DOWN

DR. HANZ: (his voice muffled behind the windows) He wants her to have bagel boobies, then she shall have bagels for boobies!

Flash Fiction: Good Night, Mrs. Calabash, Wherever You Are!

I no longer weep for the alien dead.

I’m hardened by the fact that civilizations die not from without but from within. They drive themselves to death, whether through civil war, economic disaster, environmental damage, or irresponsible morality.

I’m part of a team that cleans up the remains of dead civilizations.

We landed on a planet our charts identified as X55-R3. Our first-drop recon team examined the writings of X55-R3’s long-dead technological alien race and discovered its now extinct inhabitants called the planet Earth.

Brecht-5 and I we were in our heavy, awkward environmental suits.

‘Will you look at that,’ Brecth-5 said.

We stood in reverent awe before a large structure.

 ‘By the Ancient Blurms of Nu’rff,’ I said, ‘a television broadcast station.’

Legend told of how The Great Blurm conjured from the heavens a device called television. This television was powered by the cathode ray tube. Television displayed phantasmagorical sights and sounds from beyond our mortal realm.

Television was a powerful gift from the Blurm, it was not a toy. Tragically, many stage 9 civilizations treated television like a toy, no different than how a young G’mmeduil treated an Am’hatt or G’loorp. Those stage 9 civilizations never made it to stage 10.

I placed my gloved hand against the metal door of the broadcast station. I felt like I was touching the Great Blurm.

 ‘Shame we’ll have to destroy it,’ I said.

Destroy the idea of television. Our species took it upon ourselves to prevent lesser, weaker, civilizations from stumbling upon a dead planet that was destroyed by television.

Very few civilizations could handle the awesome responsibility wrought by television.

I knelt down beside an ancient television set. The green-gray glass of the cathode ray tube had shattered. I said a brief prayer then stood back up.

‘Execute destruction sequence A6889,’ I said. ‘Let’s get the Shatner out of here.’

Flash Fiction: Yeah, But It Really Happened

Yeah, but it happened.

My friend, Philip, was a dullard. He was my best friend, and I loved the guy, but he was a dullard. He was the kind of guy who’d gulp down a scalding cup of coffee, scream to High Heaven that his insides were scorched, and then immediately gulp down another cup of hot coffee.

One day, he was as excited as a science fiction nerd who’d kidnapped Marina Sirtis and had her chained up in his attic, next to his collection of mint-in-box Will Riker and Deanna Troy action figures, and an autographed copy of Bill Shatner’s LP, The Transformed Man.

“You’ve gotta see something, man!” Philip said. His eyes were full of fire and he had seemed less like a dullard. He actually appeared intelligent. “I want to show you something f--king amazing.”

He rarely employed the use of hyperbole and profanity, so I was intrigued.

We hopped into my old jalopy. Yes, I said jalopy, got a problem with that? And no, this did not occur during the 1950s. So, sit on it, Potsy.

We raced through Grover’s Corner. Philip was full of anxiety, shaking and sweating like a gamer awaiting the new Olivia Munn swimsuit calendar.

We were on the old side of Grovers Corner. We’d raced past the abandoned, derelict single story buildings that once housed ma and pa hardware and grocery stores, and into the dusty, quiet part of town that makes you feel like you’re on the far side of the moon.

“Calm down,” I said. “What is this ‘thing’? What are we going to see?”

Philip smiled. “Oh,” he whispered, “you’ll just have to wait.”

I wheeled the jalopy onto Turner Lane and slammed on brakes.

“Holy, s--t!” I said.

And that’s when we saw “it”, the thing that encapsulates your entire knowledge of who you are and how you fit into the vast cosmos; the thing that reminds you that you are but a dried booger on the handkerchief of the universe.

We saw a THE REMAINING PORTION OF THIS TEXT HAS BEEN REDACTED by order #1142331456A - PRIORITY: MANOS **** EYES ONLY ****

Flash Fiction: The Guitarist's Dream

Okay, this is more like flash poetry...

Artist Link: http://www.flickr.com/photos/satterwhiteb/
   

Andrea tried in vain 
  
To sing her songs of love and pain
                 
But her guitarist was untalented and quite lame
           
Andrea grew so mad that she grabbed his guitar
         
And broke it over the poor guy’s head
           
The guitar exploded into wooden shrapnel
     
And the guitar player ended up oh so dead.

Flash Fiction: "Beware: Folk Rock"

                            


"Beware: Folk Rock!"

Image by Rich Griffith

It was another Thursday night, which meant another gig at the local coffee house, Ben Jonson’s Jonson. Tonight’s crowd was sparse, practically non-existent.


There was a dark, sullen, acne scarred hipster seated on a large, avocado green sofa. He pretended to read Sartre’s Nausea.


Two college girls sat by the stage. They were lively and colorful. One girl had a shocking turquoise bob and her girlfriend sported a bright red crew cut.


A tall man with short white hair stands behind the counter serving coffee and fancy cappuccinos

Lenny Trout and Caroline Schwartz-Bean took the stage. They were a semi-popular local folk rock duo called The Sheffields. They'd played together for almost eight years with only moderate success. If their fortunes didn't change anytime soon they'd have to call it quits.


And neither Lenny nor Caroline were quitters.


Lenny checked the amps. Caroline made sure the guitars were in tune. In addition to the guitars, they also had a nice Korg synthesizer.

Lenny sat on a stool. He strummed his twelve string acoustic guitar then glanced at Caroline. She stood behind the Korg and nodded.

Lenny struck a discordant chord. Caroline shook her head.

“Sorry about that,” Lenny said. “Let’s do it again.”

Another false start. Lenny laughed it off then he began again.

Lenny played a sweet, melancholic, chord sequence. Caroline played sparse notes on the Korg. She also sang lead.

“It wasn’t true, what they said to you, about me...” She cooed into the mic.

Tonight’s sparse attendance was actually fortunate because the acoustics of this coffee house we wonderful.

“Sometimes the truth is more true than true can be,” Caroline sang. "Remains of the day stole the only grains in my brain. What is true? What is lie? What is death? What is alive?"

There was a smattering of polite applause.

Lenny stood before the amps, a beautiful sunburst Les Paul Standard guitar, in his hands. 


Caroline played deep, descending notes on her blood red Fender Jazz bass guitar.

Lenny played a clean guitar lead with just a tad of reverb.

The two played for two minutes and then Lenny pounded out loud, screeching chords. He leaned back, the Les Paul high over his head, bent distorted strings cried into the night.

“Goin’ straight to hell, I’m goin’ straight to hell!”  Lenny growled. His rough, out of tune barking meshed well with the distorted whine of the Les Paul.

“Get out while you can! Get out while you can! Get...Yeah...Oh, Sh*t...”

He muffed the second verse but made up for it by launching into a blistering solo. His fingers flew across the fret board; his face contorted into the trademark orgasmic pain of the all powerful guitar god.

Caroline played a frantic, hyper-melodic counter bass melody.

“Get out before I go to HELL!!! Get out before I have to sell...you SOUL!" Lenny and Caroline both sang.

A Toyota Prius pulled into the coffee house’s car park. All four doors opened and 4 pairs of black trousers and black Oxfords emerged from the vehicle.

The driver stood over six feet tall. It was night time but he wore black aviator glasses.

“Never gonna fade! Never gonna die! I wanna get laid! I got it made! Oh, honey, I got it made!” Lenny roared above the cacophony of the distorted Les Paul.

The Sheffields were in the middle of their six-minute jam when the four men in black suits entered the coffee house.


“Get out before I go to HELL!!! Get out before I have to sell...you SOUL!" Lenny and Caroline sang again.


Lenny fell into playing rhythm thus allowing Caroline to take lead on the bass.


The man in the aviator glasses stood near the stage. His head slightly nodded in time with the music.


The tall man behind the counter leaned against a wall, his arms folded across his chest.

The jam continued for another minute and then the distorted guitar vanished into reverb and echo. Only low  bass notes could still be heard. 

“Sands of time find their way...into the veins that flow...through...my brain..." sang Lenny. 


Caroline sang harmony with Lenny: "Am I real...or did I die for no good reason...?"

The song ended with a slow, melodic whimper. The driver with the aviator glasses walked to the stage.

“The Sheffields,” he removed his aviator glasses.

“Yeah, I’m Lenny and she’s Caroline,” Lenny said. "And you are...?"

“Do you have a manager?” Mr. Aviator Glasses asked.

“Well, not really, no,” Caroline said. "we manage ourselves. We had a manager once but he was a complete d-bag. he ripped us off and-"


Mr. Aviator Glasses held up his hand. Caroline's voice trailed off into an embarrassed silence.


"Your name again?" Lenny asked. 

Mr. Aviator Glasses handed Lenny and Caroline business cards.

“Call me on Monday. I would like to manage you. I’ve heard good things about you. Good things. I've heard things.”

“Do you want us to play some songs for you now?” Caroline asked.


“No, not now. Make an appointment. Then shall hear you play. I shall hear you play.”

Mr. Aviator Glasses motioned to his black suited cronies and they exited the coffee house.

“That was Lester Von Halston. I can’t believe it,” said Lenny.

“Yeah, neither can I,” said Caroline. "The greatest manager in music history. What the hell is he doing way out here in Dumpwater U.S.A? What are the odds?"


"A billion to one?" Lenny replied.

“Wait...wait a second...Lenny,” Caroline said, “Lester Von Halston died two dead two years ago.”

“What?” Lenny said. “Wait, what? Dead?”

At that moment, the tall man with short white hair behind the counter, steps out onto the floor of the coffee house. He's clad in a beautiful hand tailored dark green suit.


He spoke with a haunting, funereal tone: “A two-bit duo struggling for years to make it big in the music business. Tonight they have a chance for success. Unfortunately, their only chance comes to them courtesy of...The Half-Arsed Subdivision of the Twilight Zone.”


Eveyrthing goes dark expect for two bright lights shining down onto Lenny and Caroline. They stare at their business cards, wondering what the hell is going on...


Demonic laughter reverberates in the air.

Fin.


The artwork comes from +Rich Griffith. This story is my contribution for Day 7 of the G+ Flash Fiction Project  coordinated by +Becky Raymond.


(c)2011 JohnEdwardMoretz. This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons and events in real life is but a coincidence.

Week Three of NaNoWriMo 2011

Well, it's week three.

At the rate I'm going my book will be finished on Christmas Eve, ha!

It's all good. At least I have a story, a plot, and some semblance of a structure.

I've been handwriting like mad. Just need to get an updated word count.

NaNoWriMo Update!

Well, not much, really too update. I have a title (I think), Entrails of a Dying Horse: Earth Songs of Yesteryear, and the genre will be sci/fanstasy/satire.

More news when there is more news to report.

Peace!