Archive for the ‘Flash fiction’ Category

Kenny Beechmount, Apartment 3047991

Senior Citizen City, Northwest Territories, Canada G2H 6T6

  Dear Kenny.helix-lrgb3-t1.jpg

 I feel completely crazy writing to myself 17 years into  the past and I’m sure you must feel shocked to bits  and pieces receiving this letter from yourself at the age  of 80, when in your time, you are only 63.  Well, let me explain what happened.  You have no doubt heard of worm holes and time warps, so much talked about back around year 2000.  Well, you better be sitting down before you read any more.

 In 2018, a famous scientist from Egypt came across some ancient Babylonian clay tablets with a heretofore unknown form of writing.  Using the most up-to-date computers, he was able to decipher them and the results were simply sensational.   It was a mathematical formula for locating space worm holes and an explanation on how to time travel within them.  The scientist made it quite clear that the information had come from an extra-terrestrial race of beings who had visited earth several times during the last million years.

 These worm holes work a bit like a tunnel.  If you travel one way in it, you go back in time and travelling in the opposite direction, you go forward in time.

 I can just see you sitting there hopping with excitement, wanting to know if I travelled in to the future.  Well, you can relax, young fellow, I did, all of 17 years into the future.  Some of my friends also took journeys.  Jack took a trip 20 years into the past and he returned with mad cow disease.  Boy, you should have seen him.  He was jerking around like he was trying to do a 1940 jitterbug.  As you will remember, he was born in England and must have returned there at some point during his trip.  God knows why!  I can tell you that England went bankrupt after Scotland declared independence in 2015 and took over the oil reserves in the North Sea, which all lay within the new Scottish continental shelf.

You remember John Snodgrass.  His grandfather came from England back in 1902.  Well, he had just retired and thought he could safely take a journey 30 years into the future.  Even I was shocked to pieces when he came back.  At first, no one recognized him, but he kept insisting he was Snodgrass.  He said he had been given a head transplant in 2027, after his own had been damaged beyond repair in an accident.  Jeepers’ creepers, he sure did look funny with that small monkey head on his huge shoulders and his constant talk about the poor quality of bananas just about drove everyone nuts.  He said something about there not being any other heads available for seniors.

 Those who ventured more than 35 years into the future never came back.  Rumours have it that they somehow became incorporated into a new form of humanoid robots, but my curiosity is not strong enough to want to find out.  Since you are having such a hard time trying to learn creative writing in your time, I have no desire to return there.  Neither will I tell you if you will ever become a famous author.  My letter here must suffice.  By the way, don’t buy that life insurance policy.  The company went broke in 2014 and you will only recover 3 cents on the dollar.

 Greetings from yourself in the future.

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Cat and mouse

“What a wonderful place I found here, said the mouse to himself, all while making a cosy home for the winter in the huge pile of leaves the Gartner had raked together by the fence, next to the compost pile.  I’ll be nice and warm here when the snow covers the ground and it gets real cold.”

The mouse went outside to get some dried grass straws to line his little home in the leaves with, nipping on some of the grass seeds that still clung to the dry stalks.

I won’t want for food this winter, thought the mouse.  There is so much food in the compost pile, much more than I can eat alone.  It would be nice to get a wife and have some little ones to share it all with.

On his way back with a mouthful of grass straws, he was startled by a large shadow.  Turning around, he froze in his track.

“Why are you starring at me like that?” said the mouse.

The cat caught the mouse with his claws, and began to eat it.

Kenny Beechmount

Flash fiction

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The King

His voice charged through the room like a drawn sword, slashing here, stabbing there, inflicting as much verbal damage on his opponent’s outrageous opinion as possible.

 “Gentlemen and I say that with considerable reservation; you are suggesting that the king no longer matters, that his powers have been reduced to that of a mere mayor of a town, that he has no say in the daily running of the government, that his services can be dispensed with as one would dispense with the services of a local dog catcher.”

 “Who amongst you would dare to presume that you could replace more than a thousand years of history with an elected body of ordinary people that have no sense of the traditions that made this country what it is?”

 “How would you project the power and democratic traditions this country has with your limited perceptions of what it means to rule a country with regal traditions and power?  What do you have that you think is superior to the rule of a king?”

 A person stood up and began to speak.

 “Sir,” he said, “who are you to intervene in these proceedings?”

 “I’m your King, you ignorant fool.”

Kenny Beechmount

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The phone rang.  It was eleven at night and I wondered who would call me this late.  I answered the phone and instantly  recognized the voice saying ‘hello’.

“Hello John” I said, “Man, it sure has been a long time since I talked to you; well, let’s see, I think it was last November.”

John’s voice sounded kind of faint.  “Yes, old friend, it’s been a while and I’m calling to unburden my mind, so to speak.  My doctor told me I only have weeks to live and there are some things I want to put straight before my time is up.”

“But John, I don’t understand. Last time we talked, you were just fine.  What’s the matter with you?”

“I felt OK last we talked, but sometime after that I began feeling a bit of a pain in my stomach.  I passed it off as nothing to worry about, but it kind of persisted and after a few months I went to see my doctor. He sent me for some tests and the results were bad news.  I have advanced pancreatic cancer with no hope of a cure.”

“My God, John, this is hard to believe.  Have you had a second opinion?”

“Yes and the result was the same.”

“How long have you known, John?”

“I got the bad news 5 days ago and I”ve been drunk for three of them, trying to come to terms with the situation; but look,  I’m calling you, not to get your sympathy, for you know all too well I don’t go for that sort of thing,–no, I’m calling to make a confession.”

“What do you mean ‘confession’?”

“Well, it goes back a couple of years, when we were working in Central America.  You remember we couldn’t reconcile the gold bullion production with mill head assays.  We concluded that someone was stealing some gold and both of us figured it had to be the mine manager and the mill superintendent in collusion and that there wasn’t much we could do about it, unless we could find out just how they did it and then nail them.”

“Yes, how well I remember.  We never did find out just how they managed to do it and the theft kept going on.  I figured the loss was about 100 ounces a month or more.”

“Well, the reason you never found out is simple.  I was in on it right from the very start. The three of us each got about 30 to 40 ounces every month and it went on right to the end, when the mine closed. I took home a total of 2800 ounces, which I hid in my house here in Colorado.  I sold some every now and then on the black market, which, given the high gold price, provided me with a very good living.”

“John, I find it incredible you would stoop to that.  Why, John?  You had a good salary and everything you wanted.”

“That’s true, all but for one thing.  I would never get a pension, given that I worked overseas for most of my life and rarely paid any taxes here in the US, and all three of us were in the same predicament. That’s when we decided to create our ‘own’ pension fund. You were the one that suspected something wasn’t right and I went along with you, just so we could keep you from discovering the truth.”

“But why are you telling me now, John?  There is no reason for me to know, especially since the mine closed and the company went out of business.”

“Well, old friend, there is a very good reason for me telling you now.  In a few days, you will receive several parcels containing small bars of gold.  They are shipped and declared as ‘brass metal bars’.  I know what you are thinking right now,- it’s stolen goods, but what the hell, I can’t return them and I won’t need them where I’m going, so take them and enjoy life on the sunny side of the street.  Buy yourself a nice villa on an island somewhere in the Caribbean and watch the tropic sundown with a bottle of rum and some Latin music. It’s my gift to you for being my best friend for so many years.”

“I don’t know what to say John.”

“Don’t say anything.  Thanks for all the good times and don’t call me back.  I intend to speed up the arrival of the grim reaper with my colt 45.”

“John, no John!”

The phone went dead.

NOTE: Written in memory of my good friend John Ross, who passed away some time ago.  The story is mostly fictional, but John’s life was filled with adventure and I had the privilege of sharing some of it with him.

Creative Commons Licence
This work by K. Larsen is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

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The eyes slithered across her body like someone probing her sexuality; probing for some weakness or something to criticise, some vulnerability to exploit.  For a fleeting moment, they looked into her brown eyes, as if trying to gauge her mood, but moved on down to her breasts, then her abdomen and her hips. They stopped there, starring, with disapproval that clearly showed in the narrowed eyelids and crow’s- feet spreading from the corner of her eyelids.  They measured her from top to toe, judging, critiquing, approving, disapproving, with a penetrating stare that send shivers through her once youthful body.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?”  She said and walked away.

K. Beechmount>Creative Commons Licence
This work by K. Larsen is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

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