Category: flash fiction

When the Bells Sing – Very Short Story

Once in a small village far to the north, there were three young men walking across a path from their home to the forest. They had axes resting on their shoulders and they were in a good mood because the sun warmed their faces and spring was finally hitting off. Johan was the fairest of the three and the youngest; baby face, they called him. But despite his childish appearance, he took the lead. Behind him were Jospeh and Hans who were older but also eager to get back to work. “Right where we left off,” Joseph said and gestured at a half cut tree. 

“Thank god,” said Hans. “I couldn’t stand another week cooped up in the cottage.”

Johan nodded in agreement but remained silent. The other two noticed this and wondered what was on his mind. “Ah, it’s nothing,” Johan said.

But the two friends insisted and Johan said. “I don’t like the new priest, is all. Why can we only ring the church bell on Sundays?”

“I know what you mean, my misses is scared to death about trolls, but come to think of it, I’ve never seen any,” Hans said. 

“That doesn’t mean they don’t exist! Besides, I don’t like the feel of the woods lately,” Johan looked around again.

“I’m sure you’re overthinking it. He’s from the city, after all, taught at University abroad! I’m sure he knows best,” Joseph said.

“Maybe, or maybe city folk don’t have to worry about elves and trolls and god knows what else.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about elves. We give them porridge ever so often, like any sensible person should.”

“But haven’t you heard? Father Magnus isn’t even doing that! I worry for the church…”

Hans and Jospeh gasped. “Well, maybe the church is different, protected, you know?” Hans said.

“Maybe, but I sure don’t like it.” 

They started cutting the logs. After finishing off last seasons work, they started cutting down new trees. “Do you remember, Agnar?” Johan said.

“Your crazy grandpa? Sure.”

“Well, when he was young, he used to go to all sorts of places. Once, he climbed the mountain over there,” Johan said and pointed at the highlands in the distance. “He said that he saw nothing but wilderness as far as the eye could see.”

“Yeah, so?” 

“The next village is far off and the city is even further. It’s a different world out there, but Agnar wasn’t discouraged by the distance and he walked for a whole week without seeing anybody. With immense luck he reached the city unmolested, all the way to the coast. He saw many different kinds of people. He was excited at first but after spending a month he found that the city wasn’t interesting. It was all about money and nobody cared about the creatures and peoples living in the forest, though he saw people place coins on the keel of their ship to the boat elf.”

“Boat elf? Never heard about that,” Hans said.

“If there are house elves…,” Joseph said.

“Right, anyway, Agnar went back home and never saw any reason to leave his home again. Point is, we are very different from the city folk, I don’t see how father Magnus knows what’s best for us.” 

The two friends sat silently for a moment to let the story sink in, then, Hans said. “How do you he wasn’t making things up?”

Johan dug into his pocket and showed them a smoking pipe that was decorated with thin strings of gold and silver that looked like waves. The two friends gawked at it. “Do you think anyone around here could make such a thing? He spent all his money on it and I inherited it. I don’t smoke it though, it’s a memento of him, after all.”

All three went quiet again just looking at the pretty thing, but soon they got back to work. They worked until dusk and they felt good, they were looking forward to coming home and relaxing after a hard days work. On the way home, they heard some women giggling somewhere in the woods. They looked at each other and the curiosity got the better of them and they followed the noise deeper into the forest until they hit the meadow. To their astonishment, they saw three lovely maidens dancing naked in the grass. Joseph gasped, suddenly, and stopped the others from going closer. 

“What’s the matter?” Hans said.

“It’s Lisa! We can’t look.”

Hans and Johan smiled and crept closer, to the edge of the undergrowth and watched the lovely girls dance, the dusk hitting their pale skin. Joseph refused to look, however and looked the other way. 

As they gawked, The bushes suddenly rustled beside them. “Change your mind, eh?” Johan said, thinking it was his friend, instead, it was a large creature with leathery skin and a big fat nose looking stupidly at the ladies with them. The two friends froze, scared stiff. The creature had long braided hair that dragged on the ground and a thick tail with a puff of hair at the end like a broom. They were too scared to enjoy the ladies and kept glancing at the troll when they saw he was upset about something.

From the bushes, across to them, the priest emerged. The girls shrieked and quickly covered while the priest scolded them. The troll growled and with two flicks of his fingers, the priest turned into a rat and the girls ran away in fear. The two friends ran too and they grabbed Joseph, who wasn’t aware of any of this, back to the village without looking back.

They never saw the priest again, although there was a rat that skittered near the church. They didn’t dare kill it but they made it a point to keep ringing that bell everyday no matter who came and told them otherwise.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

Irish Town – Very Short Story

In my small town I got nothing to worry about, except get up in the morning, head to work, and go to the pub after. I go to the pub every day to see my friends and nothing really happens beyond that. There’s some small drama, sometime, a fight, a squabble. Nothing serious, not like in other towns. The town has a beautiful beach that nobody uses. We aren’t too keen on sunbathing but we do take a dip or two when the weather permits. The town is sandwiched between two castle ruins that overlook the ocean. The town is old and important back in the day. Some say king arthur had his court here at one point but I don’t believe it, I don’t wanna believe because I want to keep things as they are, quiet and unassuming. Of course, because of the rumour, we get a visitor or two.

We don’t mind strangers as long as they leave eventually. We might not be the most friendly folk but we don’t chase people out as some people say. We give them a curious glance and that’s it. Maybe that makes people uncomfortable, all the better! It just means less people are coming. We are fiercely suspicious, however, it comes with the territory.  

I find they look very strange, the visitors. I don’t fancy their clothes or their speech, it’s… odd, unfitting, somehow. Once a while some of them stick around for longer, despite the looks we give them. The castles might be a bit mysterious but the town is in all regards quite boring. It shouldn’t suit their tastes at all! But eventually they all leave.

We had one stranger who didn’t talk to anybody, didn’t even try to be friendly. He was like a ghost, ignoring and being ignored. That got a few of the boys quite miffed because usually they are the ones doing the ignoring, me included. But what pissed us off even more was that he spent is time at the pub everyday! So it was impossible to ignore him! His face was buried in his books and he was writing something too, which is alright with me. He wrote feverishly for a couple seconds, pause, then then write some more. Some days he didn’t even touch a pen.

It got to a point that he became the town gossip and we were worried that he tried to settle in. Honestly he’d been staying so long that many people didn’t see anything wrong with it. He minded his own business which was how we liked it. One day, he suddenly started singing. Now, his singing wasn’t good, not like ours. His notes were inharmonious and disjointed but I had never heard anything like it before. It had a quality I couldn’t describe and I knew the boys felt the same way but were too afraid to say anything.

He hummed softly, then he became loud before lowering his voice again and then he was back on the pencil. We were all down right dumbfounded and we didn’t know wether to grab his wrists and throw him out or let him be or join in. The stranger kept singing and writing until his glass was empty. He only had the one beer, then left. That particular night, (I don’t know why I felt it, I had no reason the believe) but I felt like this would the last time I ever saw him so I stopped him at the door and said. “Friend, where did you learn such a beautiful song?”

His face suddenly turned scarlet as if he’d been caught by his pants down and he said in the most broken English. “I was singing?!”

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

The people who don’t die – Very Short Story

Not long ago I planned to travel the world, now I’m dying. My name is Brynn and this is my story:

I come from a beautiful country where death is rare and also cherished because it signifies a time of change for my people. I was born 998 years ago which makes me a child in the eyes of society but I never saw myself that way. There’s a great party when we turn a thousand and on our birthday we go into the forest and make a marking on our birthstone. We keep track of our age more easily that way. At a thousand marks we have our second birthstone and we celebrate yet again (we find many excuse to have a party) but alas, we are not immortal so getting old enough to have a third or a fourth stone is a real honor.  

I remember when my brother turned a thousand, he received lots of gifts, gifts that I was jealous of. Oh how I wish I could’ve received such an honor! Just two years away… If only I’d waited. Now I’ll die in disgrace without having accomplished a thing. The humans have always fascinated me and I don’t blame them for my death. Their lives are so short yet they accomplish so much. They destroy and create life like it has no meaning. It’s as if time moves faster for them which makes them unable to see the small things and appreciate moments of peace.

I meet my grandparents regularly. They are as old as some of the trees and their bodies are almost as rigid. They decided a while ago that they’ve lived long enough and stopped moving. You can’t kill yourself, that’s forbidden, so they let themselves waste away. I’m not sure if they still hear me but they’re breathing and it’s encouraging just to look at their peaceful expressions.

I am not afraid of death. My contact with the humans taught me a great deal about life and I think I’ve done and seen more than most people my age. I went and saw the great lakes, for instance, and the busted wall that once held millions of gallons of water in place. I could only imagine how grand it must’ve been back then, the lakes are still called Great and are still quite big. The wall kept the sea monsters at bay and they flooded into the ocean when the wall broke and from then they grew even larger. Smaller ones still swim in the lakes. I planned on traversing the ocean, going recklessly like humans do and sail on a boat made of wood… I wonder what my grandparents would’ve said about that.

Well, those are dreams that I won’t see to fruition. I believe being with humans I caught their vulnerability. I can see now why they rely so much on the gods and they pray for fortune so they might not die. Had I known this I’d prayed to the gods too, but now it’s too late. My death is certain. Yet I don’t regret it. Because of my disgrace I’ll live once more, reborn perhaps to the same parents? It’s not unheard of.

War is a big part of the human world, more than in ours, I think the last one ended a millenia ago and I’ve seen how the humans fight! They are merciless and brutal to their opponents because the enemy is in the way of their fortune. It was jarring. They are so sure they won’t die, that they will be the lucky ones. They are reckless and fascinating. It’s their fate to be at the whims of the gods, my kind has a different relationship with the gods. They say we were their first creation but they became bored with us and created humans; other’s say we were gods ourselves in the past but were cursed somehow, tricked into mortality. It makes us special. I don’t see it that way, we still die in the flesh like humans do. We don’t create or destroy, no more than humans are capable of. We simply don’t do it and in death we just disappear like a breath in the wind. Forgotten. We leave the world neither better nor worse.

In our country we have what we need and doesn’t seek more. The opposite is true for humans, they start with nothing and can’t have enough of anything. I’m not sure which fate is worse. My kind have all the time in the world but does nothing with it while the humans time is limited but they want so much. I thought I was special and could do great things for a long time. Perhaps next time, if the world will have me.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

The Faceless – Very Short Story

Sometime in the night, I heard a distant yowl. It sounded like a woman. I could’ve pretended that I didn’t hear it, pretend that it was something else, but I went out anyway. I’m sure a lot of other people heard it too, it’s not like I live in a small neighbourhood, but they don’t care.

Why did I care?

The night was dark and damp and wet even though it wasn’t raining. My clothes were plastered onto my skin, completely drenched, after just a few minutes. It usually didn’t get this wet in the city. The air somehow got dry because of the cars and factories and electronics and everything else that made the air slightly warmer than in the country, but not today. The stone walls were practically oozing with algae and it was slimy to the touch. I changed my mind about checking the noise and wanted to go back but I continued on anyway for stupid reasons. Bad things happen for stupid reasons, sometimes good things happen too but today they were bad.

There was the sound again, closer. This time it sounded like cawing rather than a woman. I don’t know how I thought it was a woman in the first place, maybe I wished it would be? Or maybe it was a different noise. I looked around the corner, nothing. “Is anyone there?” I called out. Nothing. Every ounce of my body wanted me to go back but I’ve come this far… I was starting to get cold and all I could think about was that whoever made the sound needed my help. She must also be cold… I’m a nice guy like that. Perhaps she’ll let me strip her…

That thought kept me searching. I really wished I had a flashlight. I do, but I didn’t have sense enough to bring it. The street lights get busted quickly around here and the city doesn’t care to fix them anymore unless it’s within a five miles radius of the Town Hall. I went deeper down the alley, too far, I figured, as I didn’t hear the sound again. I kicked the garbage by my feet. I hope I didn’t destroy a hobo’s shelter or woke up a cat by doing so. I guess I would’ve noticed if I did… By this point I was looking for a body. She must’ve passed out, the poor thing…

After an hour, I thought, ‘god, did I really just spend an hour in the dark just for the possibility of some poontang?’ I’m going out of my mind and I started heading back. Then I heard the sound again, not the cawing, but the one that was like a woman, soft and shrill at the same time. The sound didn’t have an urgency to it, it was more like a wail or ‘woe is me’ kind of sound and she wanted everyone to know that she wasn’t particularly happy. Maybe I can make her happy?

I heard her clearly now, somewhere in the dark. I didn’t see anything but I could feel she was there. “Hey, baby?” I said. “I hear you, it’s pretty miserable out here, why don’t you come with me? This is not a nice place to be. My place is warm and I got beer, and a couple cigarette. I can share you one. What do you say?”

She didn’t say a thing but I heard her breathing. Maybe she passed out? It worked for me. I wasn’t going to rape her or anything, I just don’t mind carrying an unconscious woman, is all.

I went closer. The moon suddenly had the decency to show through the smog and mist and everything else that made the weather shitty today. I was knee deep in garbage, but that’s all right, I lost my sense of smell a long time ago because of this shitty town.

While searching in the dark, I felt the smoothness of her skin and I think it was her arm. What kind of a lunatic walks around without a shirt in this weather? Maybe she got raped. That would make it more difficult to take her into my apartment willingly, I would imagine… Some people are real shitty and they only think about themselves, not about poor sods like me.

If only I knew how deep in the shit I was.

Suddenly she stood, three feet tall, her pale skin almost glowing in the moonlight, her black her covered her face. I slowly backed away. Backing up on the garbage bags I stumbled and fell. The contents of one of the bags poured out and the smell washed up my nose. It was the first time I’ve smelt anything in five years. I couldn’t describe the smell except maybe that it was rotten and gooey to the touch.

She looked down at me, at least her head was tilted in a way that indicated she was staring. I crawled over the garbage bags and broke a few more. Strangely, she wasn’t chasing me, she just slunk back into her pile of whatever and left me with my pants full of shit. Good god, I could feel it in my shoe!

I made it back all right, I was just lucky she wasn’t hungry. I guess she was bored, because I heard her snigger for several nights after that. I didn’t play the hero again ever… well, at least not for a long time.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

The Eternal Battle – Very Short Story

Kane knew that he fucked when he entered the kitchen that morning. The room was hot and his innards were boiling on his way down the stairs – his stomach was telling him to stay in bed. Kane didn’t listen when his stomach told him stuff like that and most people don’t. His wife had a cold expression as she glanced over her shoulder, not mad but plenty miffed. He felt a growing nausea as he stepped beside her and poured hot tea into his cup. “Morning,” he said, trying to sound as casual as he could.

He didn’t add ‘sweetie’ or a ‘honey’ to that sentence like he usually did. It was dangerous; though, since when did he start listening to his stomach? It must be really bad, his survival instincts were kicking in.

She didn’t answer him and kept looking into the pot of porridge she was stirring with a wooden spoon. “Are you ready for today?” he said, sounding slightly more nervous than before. The tea in his hands trembled and he sat down at the kitchen table and put the cup away. Vapour came out from the cup and she finally turned and looked at him. She brandished a really creepy smile but he couldn’t put his finger on what made it creepy. Perhaps it was her eyes. They didn’t fit. “It’s going to be fun,” she said and sat down. She didn’t look up from her porridge.

He smiled back and took a sip. The tea was heated perfectly. He decided to take it as a good sign. They had breakfast in quiet and they got ready and stepped into the car without a fuss. “Got everything?” he asked.

“Sure did,” she said, almost cheerfully. She was clutching her bag that was resting on her lap.

“Alright then,” he started the car and drove away. They hit the highway but they weren’t going very far. It wasn’t really a big deal and he didn’t know why his wife made it out to be. They had argued a lot last night; he remembered that he’d been shouting a lot while his wife was mostly quietly pointing out the flaws of his plan. Sometimes he wished she would scream at him, become a little more passionate! The way she looked at him and shook her head, it made him feel like a child – your mother is always right, kind of thing, which pissed him off, but not today. He would get his way this time. She always got her way, otherwise. It would be good for her, he thought, and tried to bury the worry deep into his stomach but it kept bubbling up again. He wasn’t always sure what he stomach was telling him…

The building came into view and they parked the car and stepped inside. “The doctor will see you shortly,” a nurse said and they sat down and waited in the waiting room. The TV was on playing a movie silently. There were three other men waiting, both of them looking rather nervous. After an extended period of silence, he looked at his wife. “Look, honey–,” her neck snapped round and she stared back at him like a cat that regarded a black spot on the ceiling and is trying to figure out if it’s blotch or a prey worth pursuing.

His mistake was calling her ‘honey.’ “Th– this will be good for us,” he stammered.

She regarded him for a second, expressionlessly, then she smiled. “You’re right, honey, you deserve this.” He didn’t like how she put emphasis on the ‘honey,’ part.

“Mr. Johnsson,” he heard and stood. “This way please,” the nurse said. He followed her into the hallway. He didn’t have the courage to look back back at his wife. They went into a very white room. “The doctor will be here shortly,” the nurse said and left him. He sat down on a hospital bed and swung his legs like a kid. He felt good, now that it was just him and the room. He never could’ve imagined life would be this difficult, all these little concessions to other people… no wonder he couldn’t read his stomach, it was long time he listened to it!

No matter, things would be different from now on, he’d taken a stand and won, at least he felt like he was winning. The doctor came in. He was wearing the usual white coat but he wore jeans and sneakers underneath. The doctor offered his hand. “Mr. Johnsson, you want to fix your lazy eye, is that correct?”

“That’s right, doctor.”

“And why do you want to do that?”

Kane paused. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business… Is it dangerous?”

“Oh no, it’s as simple as can be.”

“Then I’d like to get on with the procedure right away.”

“Of course,” the doctor hesitated.

Kane looked visibly annoyed. “What is it?”

“It’s just that, we don’t usually do those kinds of procedures here.”

What do you mean?”

“Well, you see, your wife–.”

As soon as the doctor mentioned his wife he stood and rushed back to the waiting room. She wasn’t there. “Where’s my wife?” Kane asked the doctor.

“She’s in room 27A– sir! You can’t go in there.”

“Bite me!” Kane hurried to the door. It was locked. “I demand you open it.”

“Fine,” the doctor said. “It’s too late anyway, she’s ascending.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

The doctor grinned. “She’s becoming a new type a woman, a modern woman that can do anything.”

Kane looked at him in disbelief. They stared at each other, then the doctor laughed. “HAHAHAHA, sorry, sorry, I was just being silly,” he sniggered.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing, nothing,” the doctor said and wrapped his arm around Kane’s neck. “Enjoy your wife’s new tits!” He laughed and left. Kane Decided not to step into the room.

She came out after the procedure and they didn’t talk until he started the car and hit the road. His eyes kept slipping away from the road and down at his wife’s new chest. They were sticking out like two footballs, perhaps slightly smaller… She was grinning from ear to ear. “Are you happy?” she said.

“I can’t believe you did that behind my back!”

“Come on,” she said dismissively. “Is it any worse than what you did? Looks good, by the way.”

He looked at himself in the side view mirror. I do look good, he thought. Still, it was still a loss for him. She got what she wanted but he got what he wanted too. He suppose that’s what marriage is, a bunch of little concessions…

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

The Dust People – Very Short Story

At the first day of spring, three strangers wandered up the mountain from the dust filled plains of the east and came down into the valley. They Valley people welcomed them with open arms, gave them food and a place to stay; this is what they have always done. The Dust people are a shy breed and they hide their faces behind masks and cloaks and only dark slits for their eyes could be seen. Many of the Valley people wondered what they looked like but they were too polite to ask. Some speculated that the Dust people didn’t even have eyes but that was too disturbing to talk about.

The dust people usually stayed for a couple of days before moving on deeper into the valley and over to the neighbouring town at the river. The people there welcomed them as well because having the dust people around made life easier, somehow, things didn’t seem as hard and life became a little silly and people laughed and were merry.

The Dust people wandered from village to village until everybody had had a taste, then the dust people headed back after sampling the Valley Peoples hospitality at the end of spring. Nobody knew why they did this. The Valley People were famed for their good food and suppose the Dust People didn’t have very good food where they came from. But it was strange that they came in spring, everybody knows the best food was in autumn during the harvest, it was so much richer and tastier then. They argued that the Dust People didn’t know about farming or the seasons, but still, it was strange.

None of the Valley People had gone over the mountain to look what’s on the other side, not since Geremy and his brother never came back. I always thought it was unfair that we remember the name of the one brother but not the other. Once in a while, dust storms carried sand across the mountain and rained down on the valley, turning the landscape pale until it was washed away by the rains. This was a happy occasion because the next harvest would be great, the greens grew larger and tasted sweeter, even the milk the cows produced was sweet. Everything that came from the desert was good as far as the valley people were concerned.

But still, people wondered, how could such a dead place bring life and how could such shady characters as the Dust People bring joy? They were questions the people were afraid to get answers to for they feared it must be sinister and would rather not know. As such, they kept wondering, never straying far from their valley, never learning about the world around them as everything was good in their little paradise and they were happy to share it with the strangers as long as they weren’t too many and as long as they left at the end of spring.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

When people don’t ride bicycles no-more – Very Short Story

The sky was red and bright. The paint had come off on all of the buildings and the city was brown and grey. The trees were just sticks but a few leaves still clung at the tips as if struggling but the trees were definitely dead, or so they said. Perhaps they’re just waiting for better times?

Long ago Jom remembered when there was a lot of green and the rivers were full and a lot of birds back then. The only bird he saw these days was his mother’s parrot and it wasn’t even green. All and all, he didn’t mind the change. He liked the red sky, the wind of course made his lips dry up, but other than that, not so bad. You could still breathe the air but you get quickly winded so everyone carries around Breathers, just in case, and goggles in case of a dust storm. Goggles were very popular, fashion-wise and there were many different colors, even green.

He looked at his belt and the number on the Breather was flashing purple and he started walking towards one of the many air stations. There was a line but he wasn’t worried, purple just meant he had an hour left, not that he’d suffocate if it turned red. The line got shorter as the others filled up their tanks. There was a bicycle leaning against the building, it was rusty without a chain or wheels. Long ago they filled tires with air to get where they wanted which sounded fantastical to him even though he could recall using one, once. Nowadays the wheels doesn’t touch the ground.

As he stepped out of the way for the next one, someone cut in line. The woman’s eyes were wide and it looked like she was in a lot of pain. People stepped away and let her fill her tank. She slowly calmed down and got color on his cheeks. Some people use their Breather too much and now she could not live without it. Jom shook his head and put on his goggles, his were green. Some people sure are irresponsible even in this day and age when nothing was wasted and everything was valued.

It was so much better this new way, he thought, breathing was just one more thing to think about.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

The Perfect Painting – Very Short Story

He didn’t like the paintings that they put out in the gallery but the critics loved them so he supposed it was all right with him. It entitled him to be smug, even though he kept chasing that perfect painting. Of course, the pursuit is the only thing that mattered; it kept him up at night. ‘Why are you so stupid? Just make me already!’ The painting would say.

It was probably for the best that the gallery had his paintings because he tended to burn them when they took up too much room in his small apartment. The past doesn’t matter. Only the next painting is. So all in all, he didn’t really have a reason to be as upset with the woman:

“This painting is awful,” she said. “It’s decadent.”  

“What is decadent is your tits!” the painter cried out.

The woman put her hand over her chest.

“Put on something decent or I’ll coat that painting with your makeup.”

The woman and her husband took flight and the painter glared after them. The proprietor of the gallery shook his head. “That was unnecessary.”

“People are unnecessary,” the painter growled.

He had another glass of wine then left. He lived in a free country, supposedly, but it was borderline fascist to him. “Their morals make me puke,” he muttered. He went home and bolted the door behind him and stared at a white canvas, trying to picture the perfect painting, at least the beginning of it.

The gallery kept asking for his paintings and he kept sending them, going to their events less and less. The only thing that drew him was the free drinks and the opportunity to yell at his fans. Other than that, he could do without it. A few more outbursts like that and they might stop asking for his paintings altogether, he thought.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers