Category Archives: Micro-Flash

A Man Called Truth, Pt. 1: The 70’s Job

Emet removed the knife from the throat of the grey-haired man on the floor. He wedged a black-booted toe beneath the man’s shoulder and nudged him over on his side. He bent down and grabbed the man’s wrist, lifting his arm. With a precise, almost surgical skill, he severed the ring finger and caught it as he let go of the wrist.

Emet took a plastic sandwich bag from the pocket of his black leather jacket and stuffed the finger—still wearing the ring—inside, proof that the job was done. He stuffed the baggie back in his pocket (along with the knife) and knelt there for a moment, muttering a few foreign words under his breath.

He stood up and walked to the door, loud music blaring from the discotheque as he exited the small back office. He worked his way through the crowded disco, fighting the swaying and grinding bodies of couples dancing to “I Wanna Kiss You All Over,” and a few whores who thought that the tall, muscular, handsome man with curly black hair might make an excellent customer for the evening. They would have been disappointed that he had neither the inclination nor the equipment needed for the enterprise. He also didn’t have much money, which would have depressed them further.

He exited the bar through the front door, taking no precautions whatsoever to conceal his identity. He didn’t need to. If all went according to plan, he would be dead by the time the police started asking questions.

He walked away from the building, the intense blue and red neon flashing “Boogie Wunderland” behind him. He found a taxi parked on the street and got into the back seat.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked. He was middle-aged, fat and balding.

Emet made no answer, but coughed loudly.

“I said, where to, buddy?” The cabbie was getting pissed. And nervous. He could smell trouble, and this big motherfucker reeked of it.

Emet’s mud-colored eyes glazed over and he started wretching violently. He bent over, gagging.

“Hey, hey!!! No pukin’ in my taxi, you son of a bitch. Get out!” The cabbie started to reach beneath his seat where he kept his peacemaker .38 Special, but saw Emet straightening up in the rear view mirror.

Emet opened his mouth and pulled out a piece of paper. The taxi-driver’s jaw dropped. The paper looked dry.

“Go here, please,” Emet said in a deep, hoarse voice. He handed the driver the small, torn sheet of a memo pad.

The driver took the paper (it was dry) and noted the address. He looked even more confused.

“Do you know who the hell lives here?” he asked, but Emet just sat there, staring straight ahead and spoke no reply.

“Do you know him?” the taxi asked.

Emet was silent.

“Aw, fuck it. It’s your dough.” He turned the key and the taxi’s engine vroomed. The driver pulled away from the curb and drove into the night with Emet sitting silently in the back seat.

Emet didn’t have much in the way of a brain, but his instinct made up for it. And his instinct told him that the taxi driver, although his name wasn’t inscribed on the list of deeds, would have to be dealt with.

“I can’t believe you fuckin’ know him!” the cabbie driver said.

As quiet as the whisper of a snake sliding up behind it’s prey, Emet reached into his pocket and fingered the handle of the knife.


Cinnamon & Spice

I see her standing by the fountain. She’s crying. She looks likes she’s lost and in a way maybe she is. She just had a fight with the ungrateful bastard of a boyfriend. He’s playing touch football, rough-housing with his friends now. They’re more important to him than she is. I ‘d like to make him pay for that. Slowly and painfully.

She reaches up and wipes tears from wide, beautiful brown eyes. Her hands are slender, the fingers long and exotic.

I want to touch her skin. It looks like cinnamon. I want to caress her soft shoulders, let my fingers linger gently over the pulse of her delicate throat. And kiss…a sweet, sensual kiss like dew on that throbbing vein.

I want to taste her. Yes! I can feel her heartbeat pumping wildly, as I taste her in my mind. She is sweet and tender in my thoughts…like honey and cream.

She would taste like spices, I can tell.

Cinnamon and spice and everything nice.

That’s what little girls are made of!

She looks positively delicious and my heart aches with the need. I lick my lips and swallow and imagine the warmth…the flood of her. She looks at me and smiles and I find myself startled like some schoolboy with an adolescent crush.

I am trembling. I’m thankful that my sunglasses hides my eyes from more than just the scorching rays of the sun. I’m sure my lust would be betrayed, if not for these dark lenses.

Her boyfriend is strolling over now, making up with her.  He is not even really trying to apologize. She forgives too easily. Is it fear, that look in her eyes?

I should kill him and take her for myself. What a prize she would be! I could drink and drink and never get my fill of her…heat flooding my mouth in its intensity. She would be mine for all eternity.

But in my heart, I know it’s not to be. I’m not really the romantic type. I only like to pretend I am. My race has been so romanticized by the current human culture, it makes one almost forlorn not to try and live up to that. But I can’t.

I’m a beast and I have a beastly desire.

I would not be sated until I’d ripped her throat from ear to ear in my wanton bloodlust, pulling the carotid into my hungry, thirsting mouth to suck on like a sweet, red licorice stick.

She is leaving now, linked hand-in-hand with the boyfriend…they cast long shadows in the fading light of dusk. She casts another glance my way and I see the hunger, the longing in her eyes…

I fall in farther behind and lose sight of them as they round a corner.

I lift my head and scent the breeze, my pulse quickening with the thrill of the hunt.

Mad Skills

Jock was cleaning the cutlery, carefully washing the butcher knives. It was not his fault. It never was.

“Cut the meat across the grain,” he’d told her. The bitch didn’t listen. He hated having to train new kitchen help. Sure, they’d all been to cooking school. Some of them had been to the best schools in the country: Johnson & Wales, or the Culinary Fucking Institute for Christ-sake!

They still didn’t know a goddamn thing about food preparation, he reflected sadly as he finished rinsing and wiping down  the bone-saw.

And did they ever listen to the top chef? Hell, no! Yet their incompetence served a purpose they would never fully appreciate.

His restaurant had a five-fucking-star rating with the local paper’s food critic for three years running. His meat slicing skills were top notch.  And his highly talented methods of preparing steak were well known far and wide, making his restaurant the most popular steak joint in the city.

He’d lost count of the number of times people complimented him on his meat dishes, which they said were so different than anything they’d ever tasted before.

Jock walked over and closed the meat locker door, smiling to himself.

As he left the restaurant, he placed the cardboard “Help Wanted” sign back in the window.

He hoped tomorrow would bring yet another prime applicant for the job.


“Drink, drink until your thirst is slaked.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Eat up!” There’s more than enough to go around.  What a quantity of food!”

“Enough for seconds…thirds….midnight snacks…”

“Such tasty temptations! Such mouth-watering morsels! Such delightful delicacies! An awesome ambrosia!”

No one could much understand all the blips and bleeps and blurps the aliens were making.

Later we translated it, but by then it was too late.

Our biggest mistake was thinking that the aliens just wanted to be friendly.

Oh, they liked us all right.  Parts of us anyway.

Except for the bits they picked out of their teeth.

(file under…”It’s a fucking cookbook, you idiots!)


Her hair was brittle.

Like straw. I rub it between my fingers. It feels like yarn.

Her fingernails were brittle. They broke into shards on my skin.

Not a word. Not a word does she say now.

No arguments now, no fucking mocking tone now.

Oh, no.

Her neck was brittle, too.