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Flash Fiction Month #2, Episode 5: The One Drop Society

The final installment of Flash Fiction Month #2 is a story idea I’ve had banging around the inside of my cranium for some time. Extracting stories from your head and putting them to paper (or pixels) is a good way to stave off madness. Read the last installment here, and read the installments from the first Flash Fiction Month here.

NOTE: This story contains sensitive content that may be offensive to various demographics. You’d think they wouldn’t be able to collaborate to deadly effect, but Destruction released a song called “United By Hatred” on their 2nd album, Eternal Devastation (which I have, in fact, reviewed). Any resemblance to actual political positions, real or imagined, historical or contemporary, left or right, purple or pink with yellow polka dots, etc. is entirely coincidental.


It’s 1842. For whatever reason, the town of Aschaffenburg in South Carolina recently passed a law stating that a person with even so much as one African ancestor would be considered black for legal purposes. One of our undercover agents blew their cover by calling the proposed bill a “one drop rule” in a fit of spluttering rage. When we were done reprimanding him, we admitted he’d given us an idea.

Read more…

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Flash Fiction Month #2, Episode 4: Partially Hydrogenated

We are up to four episodes of Flash Fiction Month now! It all ends next week, but try not to think too hard about it. Sometimes, you just have to live in the moment. The overall plot of today’s story was inspired by a longtime reader’s suggestion. Read the last installment here, and read the installments from the first Flash Fiction Month here.


Somewhere in the unfathomable depths of rural Iowa…

Okay, let’s be honest – Bill doesn’t like carnivals all that much. Sure, he tags along if his family wants to go to one, but the peculiar mixture of low budget thrills and low budget customers doesn’t quite sit right with him. Too much of either actually tends to make him wake up in the morning with either a hangover, or a stress migraine. Still, he’s here, so he figures he ought to man up for his wife and kid and try to make the most of the day. Bill has, however, picked up a few tricks for minimizing the casualties of carnival. First, he gets all of his thrill riding out of the way in the morning, when his breakfast (bacon and eggs) has settled a bit, and isn’t quite at risk of emergency ejection. Afternoons, on the other hand, are a better time for games and shows that don’t require quite the same level of physical endurance and toughness. After all, it’s not like he’s the one getting dunked or shot at. In the middle of all of this, though…

“Get yer fried butter here! It’s deep fried, it’s buttery, and this is the only place ya’ll can git without your doctor having a heart attack for you!”

Bill has already sampled enough fried carnival food to legally change his name to “Big Bill”, but the novelty of fried butter is simply too much for him to pass up. He heads over to the stall that’s selling the product and asks for a portion.

“Fried butter! Bright as the moon and tastes better, too!”

That’s a little weird, but the carnie is still following through and prepping Bill’s “food”. He pays for the fried butter, eats a piece; I’m not entirely sure what he was expecting, but he seems to like it, at least as a work of carnie art.

“You like that, eh? Got plenty more where that came from, n’yeh,” says the carnie, finally addressing Bill, who has by now pushed down about half his portion and is beginning to reconsider his initial approval. It seems a bit too greasy, even for carnival standards.

“You know, I just go with the moon stuff because the kids seem to like it,” the carnie continues, because Bill’s suddenly glazed expression makes it obvious that he’s clearly very interested in what the carnie has to say. “Thing is, nobody’s ever been to the moon, so I don’t know if it’s true.”

“I, I, what?” Bill finally says. His mouth doesn’t feel right. There’s a congealed mass of something inside that’s interfering with his diction. It turns out to be fried butter.

“Oh, sure, they broadcasted moon landings in 1969, but everyone knows those are fake,” continues the carnie. Fried butter was an afterthought – this is his true passion in life. “Haven’t you seen them so-called photos? They’re full of flaws and glitches that a trained eye can see.”

Bill is questioning whether or not he should eat the last blob of battered butter. It looks like it’s beginning to get cold.

“And for every faked photo, there’s a photo or film that NASA claims exists, but it’s missing! Do they think we’re all rubes?”

Bill is beginning to question the entire course of his life about now.

“And NASA is still faking science in an attempt to drain money from the military! We have to do something about, I-”

“I gotta get to the bathroom, man. I’m gonna hurl-” Bill can’t even finish his sentence before the fried butter and other carnival delicacies (partially reconstituted by now) force their way up his digestive tract and end up spattered on the dirt below him.

“You okay, man? I was sure I washed my hands before I served you?” says the carnie, who clearly doesn’t have the temerity to preach to the sick. Let’s hope his boss didn’t hear him.

Flash Fiction Month #2, Episode 3: Emergency Preparedness Edition

Another episode of the second season of Flash Fiction Month! How many of these are there going to be? (Hint: Probably five). Today’s installment is inspired by actual events… which I altered just enough for this story that I won’t have to pay anybody. Read the last installment here, and read the installments from the first Flash Fiction Month here.


“Aw, crud baskets! The power just went out!”

Joan didn’t really need to tell me. The sudden darkness and awkward silence that descended on the house were evidence enough. The lights flickered on briefly for a few seconds about a minute later, but then they were gone yet again.

“Guess we’d better call the electric company,” said Joan from downstairs. “What was their number again?”

“I think I wrote it down on a magnet on the fridge,” I responded. “Use your phone as a flashlight.”

“I can’t! I left it charging in the living room, and I can’t see anything! Can you help me out here?”

Luckily for Joan, mine was literally at my desk. I navigated down the stairs with some trepidation, but eventually I managed to make my way to the living room without breaking any important limbs. To my consternation, Joan’s phone was, for all purposes, a torch cutting through the total darkness of the living room, and I was wondering why she couldn’t use its reflection or other forms of luminescence to make her way towards it. I valued my life too much to actually express these thoughts to her face, so I just grudgingly unplugged the the phone and brought it to her.

“Excellent! I’m getting that number and making a call. Just sit tight and we’ll have power in no time!”

Five minutes passed. The bastards at the electric company had apparently put Joan on hold. I made my way over to the window – it looked like all the rest of the houses on the block were electricity-free for the moment. Nobody outside, either – I guess they were just sitting tight and waiting for the power to come back on. But I’m better than that sort of passive behavior, so I had to find something to do.

It occurred to me all of a sudden that I had a mostly charged smartphone in the palm of my hands. When did that happen? No matter. I logged onto Facebook – my circle of friends was up to their usual shenanigans – pontificating, photobombing, pigging out, and so forth. Nobody else seemed to be complaining about a lack of power, which was further evidence for this being an entirely local problem. I started composing a status message.

“The power just cut out here. That’s super lame, and it’d better come on soon!” I ended up writing; now to wait and see what happens. Several minutes passed without the electricity being restored, but then…

Samantha just liked my post! Life is sweet. I mean, not the outage, but the rest of my life is still pretty good.

Flash Fiction Month #2, Episode 2: Mission Impossible

Another episode of the second season of Flash Fiction Month. Read the last installment here, and read the installments from the first Flash Fiction Month here.


Resolved: We should increase marshmallow consumption by at least thirteen percent. Anything more than twenty percent may result in a potentially undesirable chemical cascade.

Also resolved: The price of peanuts, and their corresponding paste and butter products is too damn high. We do not have other options, and the vendors understand this on the most intimate of levels. Regardless, we must increase peanut product consumption as well, although it may take several months to form a reasonable estimate.

There is one major logistical facility approximately 2 kilometers to the east that contains supplies of our required sustenance. It is heavily fortified – the entire facility is, in fact, encased in a foundation of reinforced bricks and concrete. Furthermore, it is surrounded by dangerous, rugged terrain full of rapidly moving obstacles, and also static barricades that can tear through even the thickest armor if we are not careful. The only factor in our favor is that this fortress is understaffed. While the building is heavily trafficked, the majority of its visitors are travelers from distant lands who seek to use its services, as opposed to defensive personnel. If we make our move at a time when the place is undermanned, then our chances of success are substantially increased.

To this end, we have requisitioned a special combat package from home base that will assuredly increase our combat effectiveness on this mission. Since heavy armor is most likely to be unnecessarily cumbersome and would provide insufficient protection against enemy fire or environmental hazards, the equipment included focuses on boosting mobility, firepower, and to a lesser extent, stealth capabilities. This is ideally going to be a quick smash and grab mission – get in quickly, disable all opposition, acquire the victuals, and get out, ideally before the place goes on full alarm. Of particular note is an experimental nerve gas dispenser that can incapacitate organic life forms in a fifty foot radius, although so far we have only managed to scrounge up a few canisters of ammunition.

We have forty hours to prepare. Best of luck, and pray to your various gods that you’ll survive.

8:26 PM, Shopping Pun Mart Superstore:

“One loaf of bread, one package of Jif peanut butter, one package of marshmallow fluff, a half gallon of milk, two pounds of bananas, and a package of breath mints. That will be $11.38.”

“I’ll pay with cash,” I responded, handing the cashier a twenty dollar bill, and getting my change, receipt, and a bag of groceries in return. I left the store without incident.

“Fucking price gouging stores. Do they think I’m made out of money?” I muttered under my breath. “Next time, I’m going to Market Basket.”

Flash Fiction Month #2, Episode 1: Stage VI

Flash Fiction Month is back! The rules are the same as last time each of this month’s posts will be a self-contained story, most likely of about the usual 400-500 word length. I make no guarantees of subject, style, or anything else. You can read last year’s installments here.


Six years ago, I found a discolored patch of skin on my leg and went to see the doctor. Turned out that I had a malignant melanoma that I’d luckily caught very early on. We excised it, I did my share of chemotherapy, I recovered, and then I went on with my life, seemingly unharmed but for the need to schedule extra maintenance checkups with my doctor to make sure it didn’t come back.

Six months ago, I got a strange envelope in the mail with no return address. It contained a musty, foul-smelling piece of paper stained with brown ink that vaguely resembled words, but was otherwise completely unintelligible. At the time, I thought it was a prank gone wrong, so I tossed the letter out in the garbage. It slipped my mind soon after – I had a lot of important projects going at work that I didn’t want to leave hanging.

Six weeks ago, however, I received a much more disturbing letter. A pair of lawyers (Richard and Simon Dowling, who had colonized late night TV with their advertisements and burnt their phone number into my mind) sent me a letter informing me that one of their clients had demanded restitution from me for “unlawful separation”, and since I had refused to provide it, I was now required to appear at my local courthouse.

“This has to be some sort of joke, right?” I asked them in a call I placed soon after. Read more…

Flash Fiction Month #5: Lone Wolf On The Battlefield

Flash Fiction Month comes to an end with this installment, but the concept of flash fiction lives on! You might see more of it in the future. Read the previous installment here.


Excerpts from an anonymous letter:

Inevitably, historians will claim my downfall came at the moment I managed to weaponize student loans. I’m surprised nobody had the idea back in the days of metal currency, or even paper currency (which is obviously lighter, but it wads up well), but it turns out that even a simple credit card can wreak havoc, as long as it’s fired at relativistic velocities. The first shot wasn’t merely liberating. I imagine conventional gun owners enjoy the first shot beyond all the others for the power it unlocks within them, but when your first shot tears a hole in a mountain and keeps going, unscathed but for the trail of a superheated shockwave it tears across the sky, you would know you’ve come upon a weapon of immense power.

The targets, on the other hand? I initially wanted them to believe that I was simply trying to make them wealthier, but no matter how much I preloaded the charge cards with cash, none of them really had the manual dexterity or heat resistance to snatch my ammunition out of the air, at least not in a form that the average ATM would accept. My aim wasn’t very accurate, but it didn’t really matter since even a near miss was enough to turn anything nearby into a dark shadow on the ground. Incidentally, I feel like I’m running out of things to shoot at, but even now I occasionally see a tank or a helicopter on the horizon. I think they’re out to get me, and I keep trying to bribe them to go away, but I’m running really low on wealth and I’m afraid my bank won’t offer me a loan so I can keep going for a bit.

I actually managed to catch some emergency broadcasts early in my travels. They’d already labeled my efforts a “mad rampage” and were telling everyone to get as far away as physically possible in order to avoid being vaporized. I realize that my actions have cost some lives, but frankly, the media has some really messed up priorities. At no point did anyone discuss the economic aspect of what I was doing, and even I can think of a few consequences – mostly related to deflation and the other effects of a reduced money supply. Still, a few hundred thousand dollars of debt multiplied by a few hundred shots, while enough money that you shouldn’t scoff at it, is a drop in the bucket compared world currency reserves. Things probably won’t get that bad.

Anyways, I think I see another plane on the horizon. I hope it’s not a passenger jet; I’ve already set a dangerous precedent by firing at one and I would hate for Boeing or Airbus to lose even more of their assets.

Flash Fiction Month #4: Religious Epiphany

I know little about the readers of Invisible Blog, and their browsing behavior, but they can always read the 3rd installment here.


“What’s that on the road? It looks sticky,” my daughter Anna said to me one warm, sunny day when I was supervising my childrens’ play time. She was pointing at a dark red discoloration towards the center that was roughly aligned with our driveway, perfectly placed for cars to repeatedly run over it. I sighed – with her fifth birthday a few months behind her, she was beginning to notice things about the world that I could not leave unexplained lest she begin to develop some dangerous ideas.

“That, my daughter, is God. You must treat it with the utmost respect and reverence,” I explained. She raised an eyebrow; meanwhile, her twin brother George waddled over to listen; even though he’d asked the question a few months earlier, his presence, knowing grin, and overfed mass would help drive in my points.

“Mommy told me that there are many gods, like Odin, Thor, Loki, Freya, and others. Is that Loki?” Anna asked me. This presented something of a problem I had to deal with before I could continue.

“Your mother, as a devout Odinist, will never agree with me on religious matters. We promised not to argue about it, but just between you and me… well… I don’t believe in those gods and never will,” I responded. As I spoke, I got out of the lawnchair I’d been reclining in, walked over to our cooler, and picked out a sealed vial of chilled blood. It was about a day old (I’d drawn it personally from a passing solicitor), but the cold had kept it reasonably fresh until then.

“By far, the most important part of worshiping God is feeding it, so that it may manifest more powerfully in our world. I will demonstrate.” I walked over to the stain, and after making sure there was no oncoming traffic, I unsealed the blood and slowly dribbled it onto the red stain in the road.

“How often do you do this?” Anna asked.

“No less than every three days, and preferably more. God is hungry and must feed until the great awakening… which could even be today, if we’re lucky.”

And then we were lucky, for the blood-stained asphalt began to glow bright yellow. Eerie multicolored runes and sigils appeared in midair, tracing an elliptical orbit twelve feet tall and perhaps half as wide. I gestured for Anna and George to stand back as the air between the corruptions faded to a dull brown, interspersed with a foul gray smoke that was beginning to expand out towards us. I remembered this from my training – any moment now, something would emerge from the coalescing portal to reward my efforts in tending to it!

“ARE YOU THE BEING WHO SUMMONED ME?” a voice called out, seemingly from everywhere and nowhere, although most likely still on the other side of the portal.

“Oh great master from beyond, it is I who has brought you forth into this world to do as you please! What is thy bidding?” I shouted back. Usually, I wouldn’t be so obsequious, but I had to set a good example for my daughter.

“DON’T OPEN THIS PORTAL AGAIN. I’M TRYING TO FARM PRESTIGE IN BLACK OPS III.”

With that, the portal popped out of existence with none of the drama that had heralded its initial appearance. The red stain on the ground disappeared. Anna raised an eyebrow.

“So… uh… is your mother taking converts?” I asked Anna, but she ignored me as she went back inside to play with George.