Flash Fiction

One Last Time

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This post was originally published through Patreon on December 4, 2018.

Daniel wanders into the park he once frequented as a child. The time is exactly 5:45 p.m. He sits on the oak bench where, as a boy, he used to watch the other kids play and, huddling into himself against the cold, he stares into the sky.

Tomorrow, everything will change. Tomorrow, the life he once knew will be stripped away. It is a time of mourning, a time of sadness, a time of profound and sorrowful reflection.

By now, his fellows have positioned themselves at strategic locations around the world, and at 12:00 a.m. tomorrow, they’ll break the world and remake it in their own image. The change will not be gradual, and the people of the Earth will have no time to consider how their lives might have turned out differently. Daniel’s kind will peer into the sky—much as Daniel does now—and when the appointed time arrives, they’ll raise their hands, close their eyes, utter the sacred words, and when they open their eyes again, the world will be different.

Daniel doesn’t think the change will be for the better, but his companions have already made their decision and there’s no way he can stop them. Sometimes, he wonders how things could have played out if humanity had taken them in instead of casting them off to the outer fringes of society.

Daniel, for his part, believes that there are other solutions. But his personal convictions are futile without the agreement of his companions. So he savors the harsh chill of the evening air, basks in the explosive colors of the sunsetting sky, and treasures the old world one last time.

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Lord of Darkness

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Heart stammering, tripping over roots and shrubs, I stagger forward through the dark, fog rising up around me like gunsmoke. Beyond the fog there is nothing; I do not know which way to go.

Howls sound from all directions in supplication to the Lord of Darkness, the ancient, bloodthirsty god who seeks my ruin. The hunt is on, those canine voices say, and I know that if I wish to escape, I must be fast.

Gnarled roots push up from the ground like zombies from rotten, decrepit tombs. They grab at my legs, my ankles, my feet, and in the fog-filled darkness they attempt to pull me down.

“I won’t give up,” I shout, and for a moment those howling voices grow quiet.

I can do this. I can find a way out. I can survive.

Then a rock emerges from the earth below. Where did that come from, I think after my foot makes contact and I tumble forward into the soil. But I already know the answer.

The howling resumes, a rhythmic, ceremonial ululation that sets my teeth on edge and the hairs on my neck on end. I scramble across the forest floor, desperate to find my footing once again, but the vines have already started to close around my arms and legs, slowing me down, and when I look up, gagging in the midst of the thickening fog, there stands the Lord of Darkness himself, flanked by a pair of snarling death hounds.

He takes a step in my direction. I crane my head to meet his eyes, but those creeping vines have too tight a hold and all I can see are those fabled black leather boots, covered in mud.

“You have been a worthy opponent,” he proclaims, “but now the hunt is over and it is time for me to take what’s mine.”

“No,” I say, then cough. The fog has turned hot and humid and I find that I can hardly breathe. “No,” I say again, forcing the words out. “I will not surrender.”

“No,” the Lord of Darkness agrees, “you won’t. And that’s precisely why you were chosen.”

That background howling transforms into frantic, hooting laughter, and the hounds at the ancient god’s side inch closer, muzzles stained by blood and clay.

“I’ll fight you,” I spit out, choking on air that’s turned to poison. “With my dying breath, I’ll fight you.”

The Lord of Darkness leans close, and in a conspiratorial whisper, confides, “I’m counting on it.”

Then the hounds are upon me, and soon enough the Lord of Darkness is feasting on my manic cries.


Stephen King meets Neil Gaiman in this thrilling supernatural epic.

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The Tragic Tale of Agnes and Stephen

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“You’re not supposed to be here.”

Standing at the foot of the stairs with her hands on her hips, Agnes stared at the man she’d killed almost thirty years ago.

“My dearest Agnes, did you really expect to get rid of me so easily?”

Face pale, lips blue, Stephen descended from the second story landing donning the same faded fedora Agnes had known when she was young.

“What I expected,” she said, standing her ground, “was for you to have the decency to remain dead.”

Stephen shrugged.

“Decency is not my strong suit.”

Agnes snorted.

“It never was.”

Stephen paused on the third to the last step and Agnes’s breath caught in her throat.

“Oh, I have missed you.”

Stephen removed the hat from his head and pressed it close to his stillborn heart.

“And I you.”

“I wish— If only—” But there Agnes stopped and could go no further. The memory was too painful to articulate, so instead, she just stood there in the tomb-like silence of her ancestral house, tears brimming at the corners of her eyes.

“You did what you had to do.”

“Did I?” Agnes turned away, shaking her head.

“You did.”

“I could have found another way. I could have tried…something, anything. You shouldn’t have had to die.”

“There was nothing else you could have done.”

“But Stephen, look at you. Look what you’ve become.”

“I brought it on myself. I was arrogant to think I could claim such powers for my own. The magic twisted me from the inside out, and every day I became a little less human. If I’d completed the ritual, if I’d allowed that demon into myself…” Now it was Stephen’s turn to shake his head. “You saved what little of my soul remained.”

“But Stephen, what will become of you now?”

Agnes’s late husband approached her from behind, brushing cold fingers against her too-warm cheeks.

“I will atone for my misdeeds in life, and when my penance is complete, I’ll move on.”

Agnes closed her eyes in a futile attempt to stop free-flowing tears.

“On to where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will we meet again?”

Stephen came around to plant his lips against Agnes’s own.

“My dearest Agnes, I can assure you, our tale is far from over.”

“I love you, Stephen. I—”

But when she opened her eyes again to meet his gaze, he was gone.

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