FFP#7 – Ambrosia: A Very Generic Apocalypse

Before the first bomb hit, the talking heads had already predicted we’d become a nation of zombies. What they didn’t know was that you’d have a choice. We’d also end up with a scavenger race, nocturnal humans with severe anti-social behaviors, feeding on the refuse of others, leaving the zombies to prey on the young and the weak.

Quick now: Which would you rather be? A zombie or a cockroach?

In other words, would you rather eat brains or shit?

FFP#6 – Something Like Nick @ Nite

It was like that one episode of Roseanne, where Dan’s mom (played by Debbie Reynolds) shows up in the middle of the night and then tries to kill him but fails every time. It was just like that. Except first you dug the grave and then I got stuck in the closed garage with the car running. I managed to let myself out, through the unlocked side door that you forgot about and which led straight into the kitchen where you were sitting at the breakfast bar drinking coffee from my “I’m a musician and I can HANDEL it” mug and eating dry toast. You looked surprised and at first I thought it was because I was hacking up a lung, not because you were disappointed I wasn’t dead. “What’s wrong?” you asked, tracing the edge of the coffee mug with the tip of your finger. Your fingernail was framed in dirt and your upper lip twitched just enough for me to realize what you’d been up to. And then, somehow, the mug ended up shattered on the floor, the brown ooze of coffee speckling the white vinyl like decay on teeth. You tried to run, but I pinned you to the table. You shoved me back against the buffet, my elbow knocking your glass ashtray collection to the floor. “My ashtrays!” you yelled, which almost made me laugh because screaming about your ashtray collection when you don’t even smoke is probably the stupidest thing you could ever scream about. “I hate you,” you said, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” pulling me into the living room by my hair, which was in a ponytail so it didn’t hurt as much as you thought. We dragged each other over to the couch: You on top of me, me smashed beneath the weight of your body. And then — well. And then for a moment we were both silent, staring into each other’s eyes, my hand gripping your waist, your hand still wrapped up in my hair. I thought you were going to kiss me so I spit at you. Spit at your face a second time and a third until it looked like you had cried some fizzy, semi-translucent discharge. You didn’t spit back. You didn’t even try to force me to kiss you. Instead, you went fucking hysterical with laughter. I didn’t know I was so hilarious. God, I thought. She’s such a loser. Can’t even kill me. Can’t get a kiss out of me. Can’t even keep it together in the middle of a girl fight. I went back into the garage and raised open the door, then sat in my truck for a while, tired and lonely, waiting for the next attempt, hoping it would come sooner rather than later, thinking about Roseanne and Dan and how if one of them had died the other would probably end up sitting in a busted-down truck numb with devastation, not broken-hearted confusion. Not knowing what you want — that’s something like love, right?

More recommended (and free) fiction

Hospital by Edith Zimmerman

Beautiful White Bodies Part 1 and Part 2 by Alica Sola Kim

FFP#5 – Filth & Honey

The fly knew how to be alone. She wasn’t happy about it. She wasn’t sad about it. This was all she knew of life. (She had interacted once with another fly, a stranger who had silently climbed on her back and caressed her body. He disappeared soon after, but she never missed him.) The fly spent entire minutes at a time sitting on the counter top or clinging to the white walls. She meditated, she napped, she ate. She watched the man and woman of the house go about their daily routines. Try all she might, she couldn’t understand why the man and woman didn’t mind her watching them while they were making love or arguing but as soon as she decided to leave them alone, to stretch out her wings and enjoy a quick flight about the kitchen, they were after her, swatting at her with towels or newspapers or shoes.

One day, the man left and never came back. For a short while, the fly was allowed some peace while the woman kept to herself in the bedroom. But when she finally emerged from her darkened room, the woman fell into a violent rage and chased the fly throughout the house.

The fly tried to catch her breath by resting on the ceiling.

Unfortunately, the woman had purchased a newer, longer flyswatter, which she now used. She jumped up, smashing the swatter sharply against the ceiling, attempting to flatten the fly to death. The fly narrowly escaped and, in a panic, flew to a window. She had never been outside before, but she realized that this home was no longer safe. The fly banged at the glass with her small, round body. Horrified, the fly flew to another window, one which had been left open, and found a way out through a tiny hole in the screen.

Poof!

And just like that, she was outside.

The fly clung to the exterior wall of the house, wondering at this new, limitless world. The sunlight warmed her body. She felt dizzy as she stared up at the tall trees lining the front yard. She wiggled her antennae but couldn’t smell anything other than fresh air and flowers. There were no people out here to watch, no countertops dusted with crumbs. And the fly couldn’t relax or meditate because there were too many birds about. She wasn’t exactly sure what birds did, but her instincts warned her that she would be easy prey for these flying creatures. She searched for a safer place to be.

That’s when she first saw her, them, the worker bees. There were at least a dozen altogether, all hovering about a lilac bush. Deciding she needed a closer look, the fly flew toward the bees and landed on a cone-shaped mass of lilacs. She watched as they collected nectar from the white and purple flowers. Each bee had her own set of four wings, which they flapped so rapidly that they created a buzzing sound.

Unlike the humans, the bees did notice the fly watching them. First, they grouped together, discussing what they should do, asking why a fly would be staring at them in such a way.

“I don’t care for her at all,” said one of the bees.

“She’s creepy,” sniffed another.

They spoke quickly and in whispers so the fly wouldn’t hear them.

“She looks so lonely,” said the smallest bee. She had only been a worker bee for a week now, and the others had already noticed she wasn’t as disciplined as one should be.

“Leave the fly alone,” said one of the older workers. “Back to work everyone.”

So they returned to their duties. Except, of course, for the smallest bee, who left her flower and buzzed on over to the fly. She landed on a full and fragrant blossom, the lilac shaking just the tiniest bit.

“What’s that?” the fly asked, surprised that one of them had come to her.

“Hello,” the bee said. “You look lonely.”

Up close, the bee was about the same size as the fly. Her wings were at rest now, but she paced around the flowers, climbing, moving, turning around in circles. The fly studied the little bee, whose antennae were straighter than her own, and the bee returned her stare. The fly liked the way the bee looked at her, as though she were important or interesting, as though she mattered.

“Well, I have been alone for a long time,” the fly replied.

“Then you should come with us.” The little bee spun around faster now. “Please say you’ll come. It gets so dull in the hive with everyone working, doing the same thing all the time, talking about the same old things. And I bet you’ve seen much of the world. I bet you know some good stories.”

The only stories the fly knew were those which involved the humans and what she had seen them do to each other and to themselves.

“Okay, I’ll go with you.” the fly said.

The little bee laughed. “You’ll love our colony. And our mother will love you. You’ll be a gift to my mother.”

And so, it was decided that the fly would join the worker bees on their flight home.

Because the colony was such a distance from the lilac bushes and the bees weren’t confident in the fly’s endurance, the little bee carried her the entire way. This form of travel was new to the fly, but soon she grew to enjoy being held by the bee’s strong and hairy legs.

When they reached the colony, the little bee and the fly were the last to enter. The others proceeded ahead, preparing their interpretive dance of the day’s events. The fly watched them, wondering if she was part of their story. Then, as soon as the dance was finished, all the bees disappeared. Only the little bee remained.

“They won’t let you in,” she said. “My mother, the queen, has sent word that she’s seen a fly before. She said you fed on death. She said flies are disgusting.”

The fly didn’t know what to say.

“But I like you,” the little bee added. “I saw you sitting on the flower, and you weren’t disgusting at all.”

“Thank you,” the fly said. “But perhaps I am disgusting. Your mother is a queen after all. She would know.”

The fly and the little bee were silent for a moment.

“I’m getting rather hungry,” the fly finally said. “Maybe I should just leave.”

“Wait,” the bee said. “I’ll go with you.” She glanced at the entrance to the main chamber. They would notice she was gone, but they wouldn’t mind. As long as the queen, her drones and children were fed, the little bee was free.

The two insects didn’t travel too far from the colony. They stayed close to the ground and flitted from one flower to another. The little bee took tiny sips of nectar. The fly tried to do the same but she wasn’t impressed with the taste. Then she caught a whiff of something sweeter, something pungent and substantial.

“Do you smell that?” the fly asked.

The bee shook her head and followed the fly from the garden to a paved road. Surprised by what she saw there, surprised by the fly’s sudden fixation, the bee hovered in the air. She landed carefully on the side of the road, three legs touching dirt, the other three legs touching asphalt.

The fly darted into the roadway, aiming for the freshly killed squirrel in the middle of the road. She didn’t even glance back to see if the little bee had followed her. Instead, the fly landed on the animal remains and tapped her sticky legs against the deepest wounds. She paused, then vomited on the meat. Out came her long tongue as she sucked out blood from the squirrel’s mangled body.

And then the fly did what the bee considered to be the most horrible thing of all: she laid her eggs within the flesh of the decaying animal.

“I thought you were a housefly,” the bee wailed. “I thought you were domesticated. Lovely and friendly and clean. How can you bring your children into the world in such a way?”

The fly flew back to the bee. “But what’s wrong?”

“You’re disgusting,” the little bee said, beating her wings so hard that her buzz hit a new octave. “My mother was right. You’re not a housefly at all. You’re a filth fly.”

“No,” the fly said, afraid the bee would leave her. “No, I’m not that at all. Please, I’m sorry for whatever I’ve done to make you mad. I’m sorry.” She held out her legs and touched one of the bee’s wings, a gesture meant as an apology. Instead, the little bee lost her balance, but she caught herself and quickly regained her composure.

Flustered, offended, and scared, the bee didn’t know what to say. She was ready to leave, ready to return to the hive, ready to forget about the fly and the dead squirrel.

The fly would not leave her alone. “I’m sorry,” the fly repeated, trying to touch the bee again, trying to fix what she couldn’t understand.

The bee turned and brandished her stinger. “Don’t touch me,” she said.

But the fly, who loved the bee and didn’t want her to go away, touched her anyway. And, as promised, the bee responded violently, stinging the fly, piercing the hard and hairy flesh of the round insect’s thorax.

The fly batted her wings in pain.

The bee tried to withdraw her stinger, but couldn’t.

Together the fly and the bee fell to the hard, bare earth.

By the side of the road, there were no flowers, only rocks and weeds. There would be no way for the other bees to find their sister now. And as long as she was stuck to the fly, the little bee wouldn’t be able to get home and die among those she loved most in the world. She flapped her wings at a low, heartbroken buzz. “If only, if only,” she repeated to herself, a mantra of regrets that brought her no peace.

The fly, impaled and dying, felt the bee’s sadness vibrate throughout her own body.

“I’m going to die alone,” the bee said.

“I’m here,” the fly replied, her voice tinged with pain.

The bee fell silent. Her wings stopped moving and, for a moment, the fly believed her friend was dead.

But then the bee asked, in a voice both soft and hard, “Will you eat me when I’m dead?”

The fly was surprised and saddened by the question. She wondered: How was it that in only one day, she had learned about love and loss? And how was it that now, for the first time in her short life, she had never felt lonelier?

The sun began to set, the earth cooled, the trees’ shadows meshed with the approaching darkness.

Together, alone, the fly and the bee waited.

You’ve Got to Read This

Cucuy by Marcela Fuentes

Superman’s Dead by Robert Swartwood

The Girl In the Glass by Valerie O’Riordan

FFP#4 – My Dream

I am a white man.

I am a white man with a wife who is also white. A car. A house. A library card that rarely gets used. Three credit cards. A coffee card that’s been punched six times. In my closet: five suits, khakis, ironic t-shirts, five pairs of shoes. One pair of slippers. A dog that brings me my slippers. I work in an office, surrounded by cubicles, white walls that make me invisible. Invisible but not powerless.

I take ballroom dancing lessons.

I’m invincible but not immortal.

I go to church.

I don’t want to pay my taxes but I do.

I follow the law.

I vote.

I like to drink milk.

No one calls me anything but “sir.” Sometimes I get called a prick but that works too. I might be a prick but I’m not powerless.

I’m writing the Great American Novel about consumerism and middle class families and guys named Joe. About values. Mortality and morality. Freedom and fatherhood. I have two children. As long as they live under my roof they have no rights. Privacy and desire are not allowed in my house.

Desire cannot be found in my house.

Procreation is not recreation.

I keep the Bible on my nightstand. I highlight my favorite passages. The entire Old Testament is neon yellow. It helps me sleep. When I dream, I’m flying a plane. Below me the world is tiny, nondescript, green. A dream within a dream kind of world. I taste the cold air in my mouth and I feel young again. I’m wearing a neck scarf and goggles.

When I awaken, I’m in a v-neck and shorts. My neck is too thick for a scarf. My neck is as wide as my head. My chin has vanished. Reverse discrimination, I tell you. The mirror lies and the illegals are having too many babies because procreation is recreation and there are no rules under their roofs and all the poor people want my money.

When my novel becomes a bestseller, that money will go to welfare queens and food stamp jesters and opium kings. It will become a book club selection for illiterate housewives.

I’m going to shave my head. I will look like a giant baby whose only desire will be to eat and sleep and get changed and then I’ll die and there will be no desires when I’m in heaven and Jesus will know me and He will say, “Welcome home, prick,” and we’ll laugh. We’ll laugh because we won. I may be dead, but not powerless, I think to myself and then I dream that I’m a bumblebee.

The Mississippi Review Online and Library of America

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FFP#3 – Bubble Butt

Yolanda reminded us of hay, brittle and dry, fodder for the animals who roamed our school’s hallways. Twice a week, we ran laps in P.E. and Yolanda ran as stiffly as she walked. She tucked her arms tight against her sides, the heels of her shoes kicking her bottom. It spoke to us, that round rear end, silently communicating with each jiggle and bounce, “If you befriend me, I will bring you down. If you befriend me, I will turn you into me.” We kept our distance and drew an imaginary line between us.

One day, a popular senior named Rob said to Yolanda, “Cute butt,” like she was one of us. From then on she followed him everywhere, calling him, texting him, slipping carefully folded notes between the slots of his locker. Rob sent his friends to tell her to get lost. He hated her now, but she honestly believed that he liked her. Hadn’t he said her butt was cute? Rob’s buddies couldn’t explain to her that it wasn’t a compliment, that it was, in fact, just another way for Rob to prove he could say anything he wanted and get away with it.

Rob approached us while we were stretching near the track. We extended our arms, gracefully bending over to touch our toes, showing him how different we were from her, how wrong he’d been to cross that line.

“How can I get rid of her?” he asked.

“What do you mean by ‘get rid of?’” We laughed and pointed out the corner of the field where Yolanda was lacing up her sneakers. “Tell her the truth. She’ll understand.”

“I doubt it.”

“Trust us,” we said. “She’ll listen to you.”

So he walked over to Yolanda, who called out to him cheerfully, “Hi, Robby!” Even from where we stood, we could smell her vulnerability and it reeked of baby powder, dandruff shampoo, and sweat.

Rob didn’t say a word as he yanked Yolanda’s gym shorts down to her knees. Her butt cheeks, like two deflated volleyballs, hung over the elastic waistband. She didn’t cry or scream, just tugged up her shorts and ran to the locker room. We were impressed, in a way, by her calmness. Would we have played it so cool? We shook that thought out of our heads – no, what happened to her would never happen to us. We wouldn’t let something like that happen to us.

We finished stretching and jogged our remaining laps in silence.

Yolanda was absent the following day, but nobody really noticed.

A few days later, we were paying for prom tickets when Yolanda and her father stepped out of the principal’s office. Her face was brightened by streaked tears and red eyes. She almost looked pretty. Her father stood next to her, his biceps bulging against the flannel sleeves of his work shirt.

“Yolanda’s dad is hot,” one of us said.

She made a face, her eyes shrinking beneath her thin eyebrows.

“Uh oh. Here come the water works,” we whispered. Instead, Yolanda blew a tiny spit bubble which floated from her lips and hovered a few inches from her face before popping.

“What was that?” We giggled quietly as she and her father disappeared down the hallway.

At lunch, we watched Yolanda while she waited in line, tray in hand. She glanced around the cafeteria, probably figuring out where she’d sit today, wondering who’d be the first to say something kind or something cruel to her.

“We should invite her to join us.”

“It could be fun.”

We waved at her. Her mouth twitched.

Rob stopped by our table. “What’s up?” he said, and we told him how much we felt sorry for Yolanda. We said all girls are part of a sisterhood. “Why don’t you just leave her alone?” he asked.

“Like you did?”

But before he could answer, Yolanda was already sitting down with us. She didn’t say a word, just ate her fries slowly, rolling each one in a puddle of ketchup.

“Are those good?” we asked.

“I guess.”

“What are you thinking about?”

She shrugged.

“Do you want Rob to leave?”

Yolanda shrugged again.

We looked at each other and shrugged.

“I’m sorry,” Rob said to her. “That’s all.”

“Too late for apologies,” we said. “Don’t listen to that jerk, Yolanda.”

Like earlier that day, she blew a bubble. It escaped from her greasy lips and floated above Rob’s head, shimmering in the cafeteria’s fluorescent lighting before breaking. “Jerk.”

Rob scrunched up his face in disgust. “I’m outta here.”

“God, I hate him,” Yolanda said after he left. “I hate everyone.”

“Even us?”

“Everyone.”

“You used to be so sweet,” we said. “But now you’re kind of a bitch.”

She winced, her face flushing from anger or hurt or both. She blew another bubble: “Slut.”

And another: “Zit face.”

“Bean pole.”

“Dick breath.”

We were stunned for a moment by her words, by their truth. Were we that obvious? But we composed ourselves just in time to volley back with “loser” and “lard ass” and “whatever, Crack-atoa.” Just in time and just like that. Just as mean as we had to be.

And suddenly, there we were, bubbles flying at us like bullets, releasing a sulfurous odor as they burst, sending students and teachers fleeing from the cafeteria. We ducked under the table, hands protecting our faces, for once not knowing what to say or do. There were so many bubbles that Yolanda herself was covered in them.

We screamed, begging her to stop. Her saliva blistered our skin and seared our bones. We melted and Yolanda melted with us. Together, we oozed onto the floor, a thick layer of liquid fat and flesh that spread to all corners of the room, stuck there like a permanent sealant. Not even the janitor with his power tools could scrape us from the linoleum.

And here we are.

When summer arrives, when the cafeteria sits empty and still, we dream about the way life used to be. We listen to the silence, longing for the school year to begin again. We look forward to each and every school dance. So many students have come and gone, yet we never get tired of them dancing above us, glancing down at their faint reflections, wondering how they look, what will happen next, who really knows them.

FFP#2 – Who Do You Love the Most?

The father has two daughters but only one secret. He’s guilty of loving the younger child more. He can’t help it. She’s a natural born healer. Simply holding her hand relieves the sting of his sciatica.

Oh! But the older daughter has a secret of her own: with one kiss, she can kill a man.

FFP#1 – La Abuelita

See la abuelita sitting all alone on the park bench? She’s the one sucking on a tangerine. She used to bring her grandchildren with her and a packed lunch of taquitos and sliced pepinos drizzled with lemon juice and sprinkled with salt, but ever since her kitchen caught on fire no one asks her to “watch los niños, por favor.”

Today her back aches and her fingers are stiff and she thinks she’d like to see someone get hurt. Maybe see someone fall under the merry-go-round. Maybe that little girl over there, the one with the beautiful blonde hair. Yes, she’d like to watch that wild mane of curls tangle around the contraption’s base. She imagines herself screaming as the little girl’s scalp is pulled away from her head like a ripe banana peel. That would be exciting, la abuelita thinks. That would be a story my family would like me to tell them.

“Please, please, please,” she mumbles, like a prayer of petition.

She stays on that bench all day, watching and waiting, but no one gets hurt.

The afternoon fades into evening and it’s time for her to head home. She remembers when she and her husband (God rest his soul) strolled through the park together, hand-in-hand, so hopeful back then. She thinks of those days, and she knows her husband would laugh if he heard how she left a dishtowel next to a hot burner. “Un accidente!” he would say. “Just a silly accident. Could happen to anybody.”

La abuelita hurries on home. She’ll spend the rest of the night alone, watching her telenovelas, the flicker of the television light licking the empty pockets of her face.