by Michael Seese
Looking for "an infusion of flash fiction to get my mind off next Tuesday," literary agent Janet Reid offered us an unnamed flash fiction contest. Use:
in a 100-word story.
Since my Flash Friday effort occupied Friday, I had to wait until Saturday to write this one. And somehow, time got away from me. (Like that NEVER happens.)
Then, while waiting for my wife to get her Halloween costume ready (she went as a witch) the idea struck. I wrote the first four paragraphs pretty quickly, and came up using "crockpoint" for "croc." Then we went to the party, and nothing happened for the rest of the night. Except for, you know, party stuff.
Luckily, aided by "Spring Ahead / FALL BACK," I gained an extra hour in the morning, and completed “Demons.”
The clock mocked me.
Empty prescription bottles lay scattered across the floor, dwarfed by the equally exhausted vodka bottles.
"A crockpot," they always whispered as I would wander down the street, engaged in animated arguments with ghosts.
Back, now, in my barren space, panic set in as my feet of rock began to sink in the quicksand, my descent aided by the Devil's claws dragging me under. Once the Demon has woken, no lullaby will stuff that genie back in the bottles.
Resigned, I reached for my last resort, and drew back the hammer.
I'm not sure what dark place that came from. Perhaps the same fatalism Janet was feeling.
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