Please Vote For One Story

The Incredible Bike-chasing Dog
11 (61.1%)
The Good Doctor Smitty
2 (11.1%)
A New Life
1 (5.6%)
High School Story
1 (5.6%)
3 (16.7%)

Total Members Voted: 16

Voting closed: June 14, 2015, 01:32:12 AM

Author Topic: Please Vote: Flash Fiction Challenge #104 (adult language warning)  (Read 1166 times)

Offline voiceoreason82

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The theme of this challenge was "Unintended Consequences."  The point was to have the MC encounter a surprising twist due to their actions.  Voting closes Saturday night.  Without further ado...

The Incredible Bike-chasing Dog

Dogs that chase bikes come in three varieties. There are those who are basically playing with you. Hey, I’ll race you to the corner! they seem to be saying through their tongue-flopping grin. Then there are the ones who are simply doing their job – protecting the homestead. They are serious about the chase, and if grazing an ankle is what it takes to make you realize they mean business, they will oblige. These constitute the majority of yard dogs I encounter on my rides.

And the third type of bike-chasing dogs? Killers.

I’ve only encountered one of these type dogs since I have been riding rural roads the last couple of years. I was pedaling on the shoulder of a new, divided four-lane when I heard the woof, woof of an obviously large dog at a distance. (Most dogs will warn you they are coming, which is quite generous of them.) A dog is taking issue with me and my bike … big deal, I unconsciously think, because I am nowhere near any houses or property that might need protecting.

Then I see It.

A 120-pound German Shepard is tearing across a field … across two northbound lanes of traffic … the grass median … the two southbound lanes … holy fucking cow! I am trying to shift my new $3k carbon-fiber Trek into its lowest/fastest gear, slip with the fingers and – oh shit! – the chain pops off! My legs spin uselessly as the dog lurches into my shadow.

I feel the force of paws and claws against my lower back and brace for the inevitable pang of teeth in flesh, hoping a passing car will stop and come to my aid before I am mauled to death. Instead of a bite, the force of the dog’s weight on me pushes me off balance and I tumble hard onto the asphalt – those clip-in pedals are a bitch in this regard, no bracing yourself with a flung out foot. I feel the sting of rocks and gravel on knees, elbows, shoulder as I tumble, incurring some serious road rash; but that’s not my concern at the moment. This monster could kill me with a single well-placed set of incisors and canines.

When I dare to look up at my oncoming fate, I am completely confounded. The beast has stopped, he’s sniffing my bike, got his teeth on the chain. What in the hell? He gets the chain back in place, pulls the bike upright and hops on. He’s a circus dog and he’s riding off with my bike!

“Hey you! Get back here with my new bike!” This damn dog just stole my bike. I stand up, indignant and oblivious to the blood oozing out of numerous scrapes and gouges. I look for the non-existent passing car. Now I have to walk home. Well, I’ll have plenty of time to make up a story for the police report, ‘cause they’ll never believe this shit.

The Good Doctor Smitty

I mean, it’s not like I hadn’t been stabbed before, but Christ, it still fucking hurt.  As I stood slumped against the door, watching my blood ruin my favorite shirt (from the 1997 Metaldeath tour), most of my thoughts centered on just how unnecessary all this was.  We’d made a deal, a good deal.  A fair fucking deal.

We’d “secured” a shipment of painkillers from a disgruntled pharmacy employee and arranged a pretty standard sale to an outfit that trades in that sort of thing.  I had what I thought was a good working relationship with them.  Smitty drove me down to our standard meeting spot, a shitty little bar on the west side, and I knocked on the backdoor like I always do, ready to exchange my bag for theirs.  Like normal.

I should’ve known something was up when a guy I’d never seen opened the door and went to grab my bag without saying anything.  I told him I’d need to see the money and he said he needed to verify the merch first.  I told him it didn’t work that way and he paused for a minute before motioning me inside.  I shot a glance over my shoulder to Smitty who was sitting in the car.  I was hoping my glance conveyed something like, “Give me two minutes in there before you come after me,” but Smitty was fucking with the radio and didn’t see shit.  

The room was small and poorly lit.  There was another guy I didn’t recognize there, sitting behind a card table.  Both were young guys; didn’t look too bright.  I could tell these guys weren’t real experienced either since they hadn’t patted me down and I still had my .38.  The door guy reached for my bag again and I let him take it.  

The guy at the table looked me up and down before saying, “Metaldeath, huh?”

I couldn’t tell if he was taking a shot at Metaldeath, the preeminent heavy metal band of my generation, or what.  “Yeah fucking Metaldeath,” I replied, trying to give him an out.  “You a fan?”

The young guy scoffed and replied, “Nah, man.  A little before my time.”  I probably should’ve shot him for that, but I decided that he was young and thus allowed to make a mistake here and there.  The door guy looked up from the bag and the two of them met eyes in a way that was less than comforting to me.

Before I could say anything the door guy lunged at me, delivering the aforementioned t-shirt-ruining jab with a switchblade he’d apparently been holding under the bag.  I was able to use his momentum to shove him in front of me and dropped him with two quick pops from the .38.  My next shot caught the Metaldeath blasphemer in the shoulder, spinning him down behind the table.  I lurched back to the door, knowing that the good Doctor Smitty was going to have to take it from here.

A New Life

Ethan and Victoria stared at the stick.  Two lines, no doubt.  No matter how long they looked it, it wasn’t going to change.  

“I took the test this morning,” Victoria said, her voice drowned out by the whooshing in Ethan’s ears.  “I had no idea.”

“How did this happen?”  Ethan’s vision darkened.  He took a step back and dropped down onto the edge of the tub.

“I think you know how it happened.”

“But you said you took precautions.  You were on the pill.”  He buried his head in his hands, sweat coating his forehead.

“I am,” she said, sitting next to him, and put her trembling hand on his shoulder.  “I know this isn’t ideal, but this is a good thing.”

“A good thing?” He snorted.  “You have no idea.  No clue what this means.”

Her hand slid off.  “Ethan, I know it’s a lot to absorb.”

He jumped up and walked over to the sink, bile rising in his throat.  He turned on the cold water and splashed his face before turning back to Victoria.  “I thought we said we’d keep it fun.  Light.”

“We are.  We will.  This doesn’t change anything between us.  It only makes it better.”

“Are you fucking retarded?  This changes everything.”  Ethan started to pace the narrow bathroom.  “What are you going to do about it?”

“What do you mean?”  Tears started forming in Victoria’s eyes, her voice cracking.  “We’re going to have a baby.”

“We aren’t doing anything.  It’s your fucking baby.”

The tears flowed down her cheeks.  “What are you doing?  Why are you saying this?”

He bent down and grabbed her shoulders, his thumbs pressed into her clavicles.  “Who did you tell?”
“No one.  Just you,” she said through the sobbing.

“Good.  Today you’ll go and take care of it.”  Her crying annoyed him.  She needed to focus, not break down.  “No one will ever know.”

“No.  I’m keeping her.”

Ethan’s mind emptied as he raised his hand and slapped her.  “Like hell you are.  What if he finds out?”

Her eyes were wide but she didn’t drop.  A girl who’s been hit before.  “He won’t.  He doesn’t care.”

“You’re husband doesn’t care?  Jack the Bull doesn’t care?  I’ve killed men for him for less.”

“We can run away together.  Go to the islands.”  A trickle of blood ran from her mouth, her cheek turning yellow.

“Get it through your fucking head.  You either get rid of this baby today or by the end of the week we’re dead.”  Ethan started pacing again and grabbed his overnight bag from the counter.

“Don’t leave yet.  We’ll work this out.”

“Tell me right now,” he said, dropping to his knee in front of her, the bag beside his hand.  “What are you going to do?”

“I’m keeping this baby,” she said, her face buried in her hands.  She never looked up as Ethan took the Glock-17 from his bag, held it to her temple, and squeezed the trigger.

High School Story

“All right, Freshie,” said the editor, “don’t come back until you have a story.”

I joined the journalism club so I could learn how to write, not so I could experience deadlines. I don’t need this. I’ve got enough stress every day popping pimples.

Anyway, I rush through the halls looking for something to write about when Smash! A stabbing pain sears through my shoulder as my books clatter to the floor. I look back to see a behemoth, otherwise known as a football player, high five the football coach. Welcome to high school—now cease to exist.

I stoop to pick up my things when this tall skinny kid scoots them closer. I look at his face to see a mouthful of braces, you know, the old metal kind, glinting back at me. He extends a hand that resembles a dead fish. “My name’s Bryce.”

I shake it. “Randy.”

“You got two choices, Randy: let him terrorize you for the next year until he leaves this school, or you can get even.” He gives another flash of that brilliant smile.

It’s only my first day and already I’ve got an impossible assignment beyond my abilities, a guy who wants to use my head as a speed ball, and another guy recruiting me for counter-terrorism. What’s for tomorrow, combat an alien? Against my better judgment I accept his offer and we meet later in the cafeteria.

We sit at a table at the far end from the food line with all the other misfits. Bryce outlines a precision timed plan involving placing a banana peel in the path of Behemoth such that he slips into the trash can. It sounds a little hokey to me, but he assures me it will work, and to prove it, I get to place the banana peel.

When Behemoth  stands up with his girlfriend, I rush to get in front of him with my tray, which has ‘the secret weapon’  next to my hand for quick dispersal. I am ready to discharge when a giant hand swallows my shoulder. Unbeknownst to me, Behemoth never takes his tray to the trash can, but instead selects some hapless Freshie to take it for him. Since I was the closest, I received the honor of taking his and his girlfriend’s trays.

I fume not only at losing my opportunity, but also at my further humiliation. The trays clear, I skulk back, but as I pass the sauce counter, my hand accidentally nudges a pad of butter onto the floor.

In that moment, Coach careens across the cafeteria towards Behemoth, steps right on the butter pad. His footing slips, he reaches his hand out, and it lands on the lip of a porcelain bowl of sauce, shooting it across the hall, and landing right on Behemoth’s head, and then proceeding to drip down his face. His girlfriend backs away from him, and stumbles such that her boobs land directly on my hands.

I’m looking forward to tomorrow already.


"The night you came home late, said you'd grabbed some overtime and joked it would pay for the flowers I wanted on the tables?"

He sighed. "Yes. That night."

"Are you getting back together?"

" How can you ask that?"

"Am I a moron for asking?"

He blinked. "No...but would I have had sex with you if that were the case?"

"I should ask the questions."
He picked up his wineglass, didn't take a sip. "You're right. I'll answer whatever you ask me."
"Get out."
He just sat there.

I grabbed his glass, smashed it on the tile surrounding the tub, picked up a shard, thrust it in front of me. "Get out right this fucking minute..."
There was satisfaction in seeing him scramble out and grope for a towel. "We have to talk about this."
"No." I waved the piece of glass. "Close the door. And I'd be gone when I'm done if I were you."
I ran more hot water, finished the bottle of merlot.  My stomach reminded me about the striped bass we'd bought that afternoon at the wharf. I headed for the kitchen, put a cd in the player. I opened the riesling we'd been saving. This qualified as a special occasion.
I minced garlic, threw it into a teakwood salad bowl, added bleu cheese crumbles, onion, salt, pepper and olive oil.
I'd just finished fileting - the fish with the knife and Daniel in my mind - and was spraying down the sink. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. I looked up. The window reflected a large man creeping toward me. I couldn't see his face because he held up something large with which to club me. I gasped and whirled as he advanced.
We both looked down. Blood seeped copiously from his slashed shirt. He looked at me, puzzled. "Suze...?"
"Oh my God." I ran for the phone. It took me three tries to dial. I rushed back to Daniel as I spoke with the operator.
He'd dropped the bouquet and both hands now pressed at his midsection. I looked at his feet, then back to his face when all the blood on his pants and the floor around him seemed to scream at me, what did you DO??
His knees tremored. I dropped the phone to catch him. He slid down my body and onto the floor. I grabbed the phone and ran for a pillow while I continued talking with the dispatcher.
I put the phone on speaker, set it on the floor, got down, put his head on the pillow, in my lap.
"I'm sorry..." he whispered.
"Sshh. It's okay. They're coming."
"He closed his eyes," I said.
"They're four minutes out."
"Now he's asking for water."
"No water. It's important to keep his stomach as empty as possible, for surgery."
"Okay," I whispered as I strained to hear a siren over Alanis Morissettes' loud and insistent wails for revenge.
« Last Edit: September 06, 2015, 06:39:01 PM by Alice, a Country Gal »
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