Friday, March 13, 2015

Flash Fiction that Might Not Be as Flash as All That

Happy Friday the 13th!!

Our words:


There was another rule. Something about 149 words. I got those. Twice. Plus maybe a few extras. Brevity and wit apparently aren't my things.


"Didja ever figure out what they are? Zombies?"

"Nah. They're alive. Indigenous life form. Carbon based, polysaccharides and a whole bunch more we don't know yet. Can't get samples easily. No one expected gelatinous oozes on a space rock. Now. Shut up. Bait doesn't talk."

The spacesuit encased man, lashed to a cluster of O2 tanks uttered a pained laugh. "Gelatinous ooze. I see the resemblance. I played that game in junior high."

"Didn't we all."

"You and the team didn't expect these things to eat through the expedition's stores, either?"

"Who'd have thought they'd have a taste for earth based food?"

With the piercing squeal of metal on metal, translucent blobs inched around the iron and nickel rich rocks.

"It's not just food, they have a taste for. Is it?"


"So you're just going to let them rip me apart?"

"Nothing like that. I mean to take the bastards out. You're my bait. And my bomb. Do you know how
hard it is to achieve combustion without oxygen?"

"You can't afford to blow these auxiliary tanks! Stop this!"

"Eh. The mining team found a frozen supply. We're good on that front. Just food, you thief."

"Look, Lieutenant, all I did . . ."

"Was steal supplies. We know."

"Dammit. I thought you said these things wouldn't come near while I was talking!"

"I said 'bait doesn't talk' to get you yakking. Turns out, they're attracted to noise."

"Lieutenant, this won't help! Killing me solves nothing! Why are you . . ."

"Because I'm a psychopathic bitch, Roberts."

"I didn't mean that."

"Sure you did, but I don't hold a grudge. Your problem is that I made a bet." She pressed a button. Before her shuttle view port, the twitching, struggling space suit, already engulfed in blue-gray ooze, vanished in a brilliant flash of orange fire. The short-lived fire ball burned off. Telltale, blackened carbon smeared the nearby surfaces. A charred space suit lay crumpled before a trio of oxygen tanks that had blown out like flowers blooming.

"Heh. Gotcha, you bastards. That'll teach you to steal our food. Sorry, Roberts. Plenz bet that you'll taste like bacon. Me? I'm going with revenge being delicious."