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Flash Fiction Friday: Vampire Swans Ate My Office Building

by: Cornell R. Nichols

When I got to work on Monday, 8 a.m. sharp, vampire swans were eating their way through my office building. Zipping around the corporate high-rise in a flock, a ballet, a whiteness, they have managed to strip away the concrete from all twenty regular and five executive floors with hundreds of razor-sharp teeth. Vampire swans can live on concrete from just about anything, even pavements and skate park ramps, but for some reason they prefer to collapse skyscrapers. Today they chose the one I work in.

Or used to work in, I suppose.

There was scarcely anything left except for naked plumbing and twisted steel rebar. Loosened glass panes kept falling onto the plaza, threatening to cut passersby in half, but through some amazing hive-mind instinct, vampire swans avoided them with ease, circling in search of another scrumptious bite of hardened cement.

I put up both hands awning-like to shade my eyes from the sun and located the all too familiar desk on the thirteenth floor. As I was watching, the entire structure groaned and bent to the side. The desk slipped through the absent window and crashed in front of the fountain. My worn out squishy stress toy wheezed its last, pierced through the chest by a pencil, and fell silent forever.

I sat on the bench across the road and took out my packed lunch. Biting along to the chomping of vampire teeth, I watched the urban tower collapse into a heap of debris. A pod of mummy seals flippered by, and each of them gave me an awkward hug, wet bandages brushing against my neck. When I finally stopped shaking with disgust, the swans were flying away towards the park—a dark wedge against the chemically bleached blue sky.
I went to the nearest antigravity bar. Half-flipping onto the ceiling, I noticed several people from work—silent, pale-faced, slumped over snifters of lighter-than-air whiskey and inverted beer bottles—but the place was mostly empty. My boss was committing hara-kiri in the corner booth using only a cocktail umbrella. Nobody tried to stop him, even as blood started raining down onto the hardwood floor.

I ordered a Bloody Mary and strapped myself to the seat next to some balding stockbroker type. I told him my office building had been eaten by vampire swans. He told me his lunch had been raped by ghoulverines.

“They started appearing last week,” he said, punctuating the sentence with a painfully long, bottoms-down sip of his Bud Light. “Long as you have a home-cooked meal in a Tupperware or some veggie shit, you’re all fine and dandy. The undead fucks won’t even sneeze at a thing. But who has time to cook at home, amirite?”

“Sure thing,” I said just to keep him talking.

“So there I am, my company’s food court, about to bite into one of those foot-long monster sandwiches, extra cheese, when the pack arrives. Salivating acid, stinking like an open grave somebody took a piss in. Everybody stops eating because, well, you can’t swallow a bite when you see—and smell—something like that. And then . . . and then raping starts. Male ghoulverines grinding against the table to ejaculate in bowls of ramen. Females masturbating with hot dogs and pickles. Some S&M freak putting his rotting nads in chili con carne and stabbing people with plastic utensils. Complete mayhem. Last thing I remember, two of them jumped onto my table. One put his foot-long dick in my foot-long sandwich and the other one started dripping snatch juices all over the special sauce. Then I went to my happy place. When I came to, that damn lunch was still in front of me. Like the vicious fucks expected me to eat it after what they did to it! Still feel like barfing just thinking about it.” He finished his God-awful beer and unstrapped himself to get another one.

When he returned, he launched into a spiel about secret government labs. “It’s all part of their plan, you know? I mean, where else could these aberrations have come from? Huh?”

I nodded, even though I knew he was wrong.

Vampire swans were never meant to eat buildings. Somebody created them to stop the bigwigs from filling the world with concrete, bulldozing nature. Ghoulverines? Probably a way to force people to eat healthier. Just like mummy seals and their hugs used to be there to reassure you, convince you that you are not alone.

But somewhere along the way, intentions got twisted. Skyscrapers started falling, more and more lunches got sexually assaulted, fleeting comfort became a reminder of your crushing loneliness. And we were left with this. A world forever unwinding, desperate for a miracle.
I left the antigravity bar around 8 p.m., just when my boss’s body started to decompose, dripping black juices from the ceiling.

Taking a shortcut through the mall parking lot, I heard a faint moaning coming from the alley behind the silent movie multiplex. Hardly believing my luck, I searched around the dumpsters, and sure enough, I found a grimy Bride of Frankenstein there, wavy white hair strands and stitches included. I managed to wrap my coat around it and half-carried, half-dragged it home.

Back in my basement, I introduced the Bride to the huge black ram I found in my backyard last week. Sitting on rickety steps, I watched the two of them go at it behind a stack of year-old newspapers.

Soon my new pet will give birth to a flock of Frankensheep. Maybe they will teleport into offices and stress people out by pissing on electrical outlets. Maybe they will roam the malls, eat people’s credit cards and shit them out onto a huge pile.

Or maybe—just maybe—they will pay off student loans, vomit lollipops onto sick children’s beds and wage nuclear war against vampire swans. I can only wait and pray, and hope, just like so many people before me.

Maybe this time the world can change for the better.

________

Cornell R. Nichols is a writer and translator who wishes he had a Frankensheep. Or at least a phantom okapi. He usually writes in his native tongue, but words like “chrząszcz” and “gżegżółka” are slightly too extreme even for the bizarro crowd. Polish speakers can visit his alter ego’s site at kornelmikolajczyk.blogspot.com.

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Send your weird little stories to flashfictionfridaysubmissions@gmail.com.

New Release: Eviscerator

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Vex Valis—doctor. Vex Valis—rocker. Vex Valis—iconoclast. You would think Vex Valis has it all but what Vex has is a secret that rots away at her from her very core. Vex is infected with Gut Ghouls and will do anything to be rid of them, even if it means consorting with subterranean worms or blending science and the occult in dangerous and unsavory ways. You may envy Vex’s jet-setting Dark Wave scientist lifestyle but you won’t when you see the trials incurred when she catches the attention of a being that rends people and worlds alike, the scrutiny of…The Eviscerator

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Flash Fiction Friday: Fuck You Very Much

by: Ira Rat

I wonder if there will be enough air in here to last the next few hours. The guys who built this fucking thing said so, but how would they know? It’s not like they would ever come down here and test it, bet their lives their calculations were anywhere near reasonable. I couldn’t imagine any of those geeks closing the lid on themselves and being lowered six feet into the ground.

It’s not like they even strapped down a monkey in this metal tube just to see if the damn thing came out the other end alive.

What about the meth-toothed freaks who helped seal this thing, should I trust them to ever have done a carnie-level job with this? It’s not like they went around burying people in tubes full of oxygen tanks every day.

What if this thing isn’t properly sealed? How would I know? The air could just be seeping into the ground around me as I lay her in this metal coffin with just enough air to get me through this alive. Or at least that was the plan. What if just enough seeped out so I run out of air minutes before they dig up this fucking thing ?

My last few minutes of air going out to the worms. Do worms have lungs?

I know I shouldn’t have trusted that fucking cocksucker Gary. He’s probably arranged it so I will die down here. Can you imagine the money he’d make selling the story?

The Great Pizzali dies during magic “stunt.” Great fucking stunt, the door didn’t even open.

The tabloids would buy that shit in a heartbeat. You know how those vultures are. My dead fucking body will make the cover of those four-color horror rags.

I’ve seen the way he looks at Sarah. He’s probably planning on fucking her on top of this casket when they pull me out dead. Motherfucker. Never trust someone with your life when there’s more money to be made from your death.

Damned if I’m not too late to realize this little scheme of his. Jesus, here I come. Could you give Gary cock-cancer for me over this? I know he’s trying to off me. Why else would he have suggested this stunt? It’s not even like it’s a big draw these days, ever since that masked dick-bag ruined it for the rest of us.

What kind of world do we live in, that a bastard like that can spoil our craft on network TV, while yours truly down here is stupid enough to risk his life doing a blown gag for a hundred-odd slack-jawed pudding heads?

Fuck you, Gary.

Fuck you very much.

Where’s the air going? I wonder if it’s getting pushed down by all this carbon dioxide that I’m spewing? What if I hold my breath?

Fuck… didn’t work, smells like a Frito died and evacuated its bowls in here.

How much longer do I have, anyway? Maybe I should have bought a digital watch before all this. The second hand on this thing seems to be going at one-third speed. Enough time to play with my prick? I wonder if anyone would notice the jizz-stain on my tux if I cracked one out right now?

TAH-DAH! “Look at the magnificence! The splendor!” If only the trap door would have let me out of here by now, I could be back at the hotel three-fingers deep into that blonde with meth teeth that was giving me the eye.

Now that would go down in the history books right next to Houdini’s exploding stomach.

What a dick that guy must have been. Before he turned up, this was a pretty chill job. Find a card, pull a rabbit out of a hat. I wouldn’t have to be six feet under just to prove that I could pull off a grade-school stunt. Meanwhile, I’m down here and I think my watch has stopped.

I hope some Halloween he’ll make contact from beyond and say that he is sodomized by a train of demons on a daily basis. That would show that Hungarian pole-smoker.

I think I can hear digging, but it sounds too far away to get to get six feet in the next few minutes.

Was Houdini Hungarian? I can’t remember. I should look that up, if I survive. Gary better have finalized those contracts. If I’m doing this for nothing, I’m going to fuck him on top of this casket so horribly that he’ll wish it was a train of demons.

I was supposed to be out of here ten minutes ago, at least that’s what it said before my watch started acting up. They were supposed to digging if I wasn’t out twice that long ago. I see dirt starting to sift through the cracks. Maybe that is digging I hear, but it sounds more like laughing.

________

Ira Rat is an artist, musician, and writer from Ames, Iowa. A member of Neon Lushell, Tape Ends, and Vicar Elm, his first collection of visual art “i’m sorry mom” is now available. His debut novella, Sliced, is soon to follow. You can check out his art and music at www.irarat.com or follow him on Facebook.

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Send your weird little stories to flashfictionfridaysubmissions@gmail.com.

The Beginner’s Guide to Bizarro Fiction

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Like zines? Then you need to get The Beginner’s Guide To Bizarro Fiction, a new zine by Ben Fitts profiling great writers in the bizarro scene. Email doomgoat666@gmail.com if you are interested in receiving a copy.

New Release: Triple Axe

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Jesse Jinx is a porn star. She has dreams of starting her own adult film production company where she and the other actors will be treated more fairly. But there won’t be a production company if she can’t come up with the money—or if there aren’t any porn stars left. A deranged killer is on the loose, targeting adult entertainers, and choking them to death with a weapon that leaves no trace of itself. When the authorities refuse to help Jesse and her two closest friends, the three women decide to take matters into their own hands . . . with axes. As their colleagues fall one by one, they have a plan to stay alive—and they’re ready to hatchet!

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New Release: All Hail The House Gods

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“A joy-ride of a read, Stone has created a compelling morality tale that’s moral lies somewhere in tomorrow’s déjà vu. Funny, sad, stunning in its imaginative realization, Andrew J. Stone’s new novel is as topical, timely, and telling as a Freudian slip.” —Laura Lee Bahr, author of Haunt and Angel Meat
“Andrew Stone writes like a laser beam shot out of a unicorn horn. His books will alter your brain in the best possible way. If an LSD Bible had babies with a hand grenade poetry collection, you’d get what Stone can do. He’s dazzling.” —Brian Allen Carr, author of Sip and Motherfucking Sharks
Long live the House Gods! Author Andrew J. Stone (The Mortuary Monster) envisions a unique dystopia where harmony and happiness means feeding our children to sentient, human-eating houses. Can the House Gods be defeated? One family is about to find out . . .

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New Release: Scummer

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A filthy barfly haunts the bar down the road. He lives off the leftover dregs of the patrons’ beers and spent cigarettes he finds on the ground. He may be living in the trunk of someone’s car. His name is Scummer. He’s mysterious and elusive. He’s unbound by inhibitions and you want to be just like him.

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