Posts Tagged ‘ Fiction XI.II ’

“How Many Four Year Olds Do You Think You Could Take In a Fight?” by Ian Couch

Aug 20th, 2014 | By

Nobody ever told me why the scientists decided to answer the question, but they must have cleared out every orphanage in the country to do it.

The first hour of the experiment was the toughest. Kids headbutted me in the crotch, and I caught enough shin kicks to limp for a week. Bite mark scars still shimmer along my fingers. I punched their child-sized temples and mule kicked their soft little sternums hard enough to make their chests pop.

“Ninja Assassin Death Robot Apocalypse,” by Miranda Ciccone

Aug 20th, 2014 | By

Unit X-397 said, “Yeah, but this doesn’t fit the standard pattern at all. I don’t even know if you can legitimately categorize it as an apocalypse.” The mid-45th-century repurposed sex-bot waved one silvered, gleaming hand vaguely at the rift, and what lay beyond.

Bobby peered through the tear in spacetime at the acres of rolling hills and the distant mountains. The sky was blue. The effect was bucolic. He felt his heart sink, if possible, lower than it already was.

“Aesop’s 11,” by Alexei Kalinchuk

Aug 20th, 2014 | By

Bears stole our garbage at the cabin that year. One bear in particular, recruited others from the wilds, from circuses and from zoos. This was the last big score, or so he promised.

“Earnest, the Chicken-Headed Penis Boy,” by Ao-Hui Lin

Aug 20th, 2014 | By

Earnest was in kindergarten when Jackie the Janitor got fired for “choking the chicken” in the girls’ bathroom. That phrase, along with his best friend Bradley Watson’s accompanying hand gestures, stuck in Earnest’s head so hard that whenever he looked at the thing between his legs, all he could see was a bald, pointed bird head, like the ones attached to the roast ducks hanging in the window of a Chinese restaurant.

He didn’t learn what “euphemism” meant until the third grade, and by then it was too late. His chicken had grown feathers and a beak. When it started to open and close its mouth, he asked his mother if he could take showers instead of baths; he didn’t want it to drown.

“The Write’s Tough,” by Michael Price

Aug 20th, 2014 | By

I’ve already been working on a one-act play: A woman comes home from work to discover her Pomeranian has been appointed U. S. Ambassador to Maldives. The very model of canine sexuality, Monsieur Barque-Barque inexplicably attempts suicide but, fortunately, his weapon is one of those ultra-realistic looking squirt rifles and he succeeds only in heinously matting his fur, making him look more than a little bit anorexic. He eventually resigns his post and runs away to join the Peace Corp, where he not only stumbles upon the irrepressible enjoyment of smoking pickled aphids in a beer bong but also the proper etiquette when passing gas through prison bars.