1 Dozen
1 D O Z E N
Short Tales of the
Strange and Spectacular
Copyright 2014 Milo James Fowler
www.milojamesfowler.com
"A Creature Stirring" © 2011 Milo James Fowler; originally published by 10Flash Quarterly
"When Tomorrow Comes" © 2010 Milo James Fowler; originally published by 365 Tomorrows
"Breathe" © 2011 Milo James Fowler; originally published by Golden Visions Magazine
"Scuttle" © 2010 Milo James Fowler; originally published by Everyday Weirdness
"Soul Smuggler" © 2010 Milo James Fowler; originally published by Flash Me Magazine
"Grandpa's Bluetooth" © 2011 Milo James Fowler; originally published by Liquid Imagination
"Just Leave" © 2011 Milo James Fowler; originally published by Frightmares
"Stone in the Sky and Bread Below" © 2012 Milo James Fowler; originally published by Every Day Fiction
"For a Handful of Crowns" © 2011 Milo James Fowler; originally published by Linger Fiction
"Suburban Legend" © 2010 Milo James Fowler; originally published by 10Flash Quarterly
"Captain Quasar and the 'If Only' Elixir of Opsanus Tau Prime" © 2010 Milo James Fowler; originally published by Every Day Fiction
"Tomorrow's Dawn" © 2011 Milo James Fowler; originally published by Daily Science Fiction
All rights reserved.
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Dedication
For Sara, my best friend
Contents:
A Creature Stirring
When Tomorrow Comes
Breathe
Scuttle
Soul Smuggler
Grandpa's Bluetooth
Just Leave
Stone in the Sky and Bread Below
For a Handful of Crowns
Suburban Legend
Captain Quasar and the "If Only" Elixir of Opsanus Tau Prime
Tomorrow's Dawn
Author's Note
About the Author
WARNING
The stories you're about to read are short. Very short. 500 to 1,000 words short. If you're not a fan of flash fiction, turn back now while you still can.
But if you continue on…
You'll notice that prior to every story, I've provided some background information. Feel free to skip over these italicized portions if you have no desire to peek behind the curtain.
A Creature Stirring
My love/hate relationship with darkness has been a lifelong curse. So when the editors of 10Flash Quarterly offered the following prompt, "It's dark, too dark in here," I had to tackle it. The following story was the result, published in their fall issue.
"Don't leave me in here."
Alfred shut the closet door on his kid sister, blind to her trembling, deaf to her whispered pleas.
"It's too dark. Please, Alfie."
Alfred held the doorknob in place, resisting Lillie's attempts to turn it from inside.
"I won't be a pest, I promise."
"You must be quiet," he hissed, pressing his forehead against the cool semigloss. "Remember?"
"But that was just a story, Alfie. It's not real."
He closed his eyes and shook his head. "You have to trust me. I know what's best."
"What if I have to go to the bathroom?"
The flicker of a smile crossed his slack features.
"You won't be in there long."
She stopped fighting him on the doorknob. "I wish Mom and Dad were home."
"They wouldn't know what to do." He released the knob but watched it. "Only I can defeat Massacro."
"He isn't real! You made him up, Alfie—"
Glass shattered downstairs, something heavy crashing against the polished wood floor.
Lillie squeaked once and made no other sound.
"Everything will be all right," Alfred said.
He walked away from the hall closet and toward the stairs.
* * *
Lillie's hands clasped tightly to her lips for fear of another squeak.
Don't go, Alfie!
But the fear twisting her tummy wouldn't let her call out. She had to be silent. And listen.
Alfie's footsteps thumped down the stairs, but not in a hurry. Everything remained still and quiet, except for Lillie's breathing. She wondered if Massacro would hear it and come up here and find her curled in a corner of the closet too scared to move.
Alfie said Massacro was a giant zombie stitched together from six dead bodies, and he lived on the blood of children under the age of six. Lillie would be five for another two weeks. Of all the nights for Massacro to come to their house!
But Alfie also said there was a way to kill Massacro: it was a secret, and he was the only one who knew it.
Another crash exploded downstairs with a loud roar. The words were bad, Lillie knew that much right away. Massacro had a potty mouth.
It's not real. She covered her eyes in the dark, wetting the palms of her hands with tears. It can't be.
Alfie told her all kinds of stories. There were dragons and spaceships and cowboys and monsters, and always Alfie saved the day. But Lillie knew they weren't real, that he made them up himself and wrote them down, and she could read some of the words even though he was in fifth grade and she was only in kindergarten. She'd had to sound out M-a-s-s-a-c-r-o a few times before Alfie told her she got it right.
Downstairs laughter erupted, deep and loud like a monster's—a bully's laugh making fun of somebody.
Lillie heard Alfie's voice, and he sounded brave: "Leave or die! I know the secret, and I have the power!"
Just like in his story. The same words he'd read to her earlier that night after their parents had left for dinner and a grown-up movie.
More laughter, followed by more bad words. There was a boy in Lillie's class who used the same foul language when the teacher wasn't listening. He ate his own boogers too, licking his fingers like they were lollipops.
Alfie screamed. Lillie knew her brother's voice, even in pain. Another squeak escaped her lips before she remembered to cover her mouth.
Alfie screamed again, and he started crying. She could hear it even beneath the monster's laugh.
"Alfie…" she whispered, shuddering in the dark.
She knew she was no match for Massacro. She didn't know the secret. She didn't have the power. But maybe she could still help her brother—if only she had enough courage to leave the closet.
* * *
Alfred choked against the man's hold on his throat, pinned to the kitchen table. "I know what you are!" he gasped through tears.
"Yeah? And what's that, kid?" The man smelled like smoke and B.O. He wore all-black and hadn't shaved in days.
Alfred fought the strong gloved hand. "Hell spawn!"
The man laughed out loud. "You sound like my ex-wife." His grip tightened. His features hardened. "You alone here?"
Alfred clenched his teeth. "I know your true name."
The man frowned. "What?"
Alfred nodded, sucking in a breath as the man's hold on him relaxed for just a moment. "Massacro," he hissed, staring him in the eye.
The man cursed. "You're one weird kid, you know that?"
"Your end is near."
"Hey." He thumped Alfred's head back against the table—hard. "Enough with the crazy talk. I don't g
ot a lot of time, so how about you show me your rich daddy's safe?"
Alfred narrowed his gaze. "I would sooner die than aid you."
The man blinked. Then he cursed, muttering the word "delusional" between obscenities.
Soft footsteps padded down the stairs and stopped. Again the man's grip on Alfred relaxed, and he turned his head to see Lillie standing there in her pajamas, tears staining her cheeks.
"Hey there cutie," the man said with a broad grin.
Lillie didn't say anything. She just pointed to the front windows where a car had pulled into the driveway with a flashing red light. The man's face fell, and he dashed out the side door where he'd disabled the security system.
Lillie ran to the table as Alfred slid off. "Was that him?"
"I told you to stay in the closet."
She shrugged. "I had to call 9-1-1."
"Everything was under control."
Outside, the police shouted, "Get on the ground!"
She blinked. "Was it Massacro?"
He rubbed his neck where strangle marks lingered. "I don't think so," he muttered, dull gaze on the floor.
Lillie could see the disappointment on his face. "One of his minions, maybe?"
Alfred's eyes brightened at the idea. "Yeah…"
He had a new story to write.
And Lillie was going to help.
When Tomorrow Comes
Like many short story writers, I have a few novels waiting in the wings. They're written, but they need to be revised in a big way. This tale, written for 365 Tomorrows, provides a bit of backstory for one of the characters in When the Skies Fell, a post-apocalyptic fantasy currently making the rounds.
The cattle car filled to capacity rattles slowly down its elevator shaft, squealing through a black punctuated only by intermittent amber bulbs casting a wash of rust across steel bars and the small faces between them. Eyes blink, unaccustomed to the dark; tight fists rub away sleep. Full of questions, they remain silent for now, carried deep into the bowels of the earth.
Far above, the world's nuclear foreplay heaves toward an inexorable climax leaving nothing in its wake. Nation has risen up against nation, blindly arrogant and afraid—a dangerous emotional cocktail when survival instincts run high and missile launch codes are recited from memory, chanted as fervently as prayers.
"Where are we going?" the boy whispers, clasping tightly to a hand beside him.
"Be quiet." The girl squeezes his hand and presses her forehead against his temple in the dark.
Strangers, the pair of them, like all of the others crammed into this cold steel basket. In any other situation, they would have done everything in their power to avoid such close proximity. But here, in the otherworldly unknown, they have temporarily forgotten the taboos of their preteen life on the surface. They find comfort through touch, skin against skin.
"They want us to be quiet," she breathes into his ear, and only he hears it. He nods.
There are four of Them, one stationed at each corner of the mesh screen platform beneath their feet. They wear white coats and carry clipboards. They could be scientists or doctors for all he knows. They stare down at the children and don't utter a word. Government officials, someone said as the young were herded into this car. Representatives of the United World.
The shaft quakes without warning, rumbling from above. Tremors travel downward, and the car jerks side to side, screeching against concrete. The cables hold. Short cries and murmurs arise among the startled children as they regain their footing. The scientists, grasping at the steel bars, recover their composure. For a moment there, they looked unnerved as well.
The boy faces the girl in the confusion. "What's happening up there?"
"Bombs. War. Don't you watch TV?"
"I was asleep."
They all were.
"They took us in the night, in vans. And they brought us here."
"War?" he frowns. "But the world's been at peace for years and years. The United World—"
The scientists demand silence, even as another quake rumbles downward. They reassure the children and explain how safe they are here, that soon they will reach the bunker below and there will be all sorts of fun toys and games for them to play and more food and drink—candy, even—than they could ever imagine.
"Why us?" the boy asks her.
She almost smiles. "We're special. Didn't you take those tests?"
"They never told me my score."
"I think you passed."
They all did.
These are the world's best and brightest, their only hope for the future. One day, when the ash clears and the nuclear winters have finally passed, these children will rise up from the depths of the earth as adults to reclaim the sterile wasteland left by their parents. They will be fruitful and multiply—if they can.
If the new world allows them to.
"How will we live down here?" he asks.
She squeezes his hand again.
"Together," she says.
Breathe
I didn't learn how to swim until I was 16. A bad experience at the age of 5 left me terrified of not being able to touch bottom. Inspired by that fear of drowning, this story was originally published by Golden Visions Magazine with a revised ending where I described the science behind a supernatural ability. But since the fantastic can't always be explained, here's the original (and better) version of the story.
Marsha stood in the doorway, hands on her hips like Mom, exuding that older sister attitude Mark always adored.
"Chuck saw you."
He pulled a dry T-shirt from his dresser and tugged it over wet, disheveled hair. "Better beat it," he said, yanking out a pair of shorts. "Unless you like getting mooned."
She cursed and stomped away. He dropped the soggy bath towel from his waist and pulled on the shorts.
"He saw you do it." The beast had returned.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Mark snapped.
"At the lake."
He rubbed his nose, glanced down at the towel. Mom wouldn't like the carpet wet. "So I skipped school. Excuse me," he demanded, approaching the door.
She wouldn't budge. "You know what he saw."
"I've got a wet towel here."
"How long were you under?"
He frowned.
"You were down for fifteen minutes. Nobody can stay underwater that long—not even free-divers."
He stepped back. She was starting to freak him out. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Chuck was fishing across the lake—"
"Didn't he think I might've drowned or something?"
"Just because I'm his girlfriend doesn't mean he has to care about you." She entered his bedroom. "So how did you do it?"
"Beat it, Marsha."
"You know how fast I could swim if I didn't have to come up for air? I could make it to Nationals! C'mon, Mark. It'll be our little secret."
"You're crazy." He took another step back, bumping against the dresser.
"You can't keep something like this to yourself. You don't even watch the Olympics!"
"Get out." The towel twisted in his hands.
She reached out with fingernails like talons. He let the towel fly, snapping as it struck her across the waist. She shrieked, doubling over. Mark gasped. He hadn't really meant to hurt her.
She turned on him and screamed into his face—invoking her boyfriend's name.
Heavy boots had already started upstairs. If Chuck was here, that meant Mom and Dad weren't home—
Mark dashed out the door blindly, but a wall of fat and muscle blocked his escape.
"I don't think so." Chuck grabbed him by the shirtfront and pinned him against the wall. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Marsha leaned against the doorframe.
Chuck's grip tightened. "What'd you do, Twerp?"
Sour beer-breath made Mark wince. "I didn't mean to—"
Chuck laughed once. Then he plowed his fist into Mark's midsection and dropped him to t
he floor. "Neither did I."
"You didn't have to do that." Marsha scowled.
Chuck shrugged.
"Let's go." She stepped over her brother.
Chuck followed like a slobbering lapdog. "Where to?"
"The lake. Bring him." She smiled over her shoulder. "Mark's giving us swimming lessons."
* * *
Chuck drove an old, mud-splattered van. He shoved Mark headlong into the back with the fish guts and bait boxes and slammed the doors shut. Mark would've fought back, but his head still swam from that sucker punch to the solar plexus.
The van rumbled to life, swaying as it missed the end of the driveway and dropped off the curb. Mark grunted as a pile of fishing rods collapsed on him. Chuck must have failed Driver's Ed like he'd failed everything else, the dropout.
It wasn't far to the lake—maybe five minutes on foot. As the van bumped its way down to the water's edge, Mark noticed his teeth were chattering. But he wasn't cold.
The van squealed to a halt and both front doors creaked open. Footsteps crunched toward the back.
"Open ‘em," Marsha snapped.
The back doors swung wide, and Mark kicked at the first thing in sight. Chuck staggered back and howled, cradling his groin. Mark dove outside, ducked under his sister's fingernails, tried to make a run for it. But even in agony, Chuck was too fast.
"I don't think so." His meaty hand clamped Mark's arm.
"Get him into the water," Marsha said.
"C'mon, Twerp." Chuck took one step and groaned. Mark had given him all he had.
"Deal with it," Marsha snapped.
Moaning, Chuck pulled Mark down the bank and into the lake. They waded in fully dressed. Mark's teeth chattered like crazy now.