Tag: flash fiction

The Pit – Very Short Story

Sometimes we die, we do that quite often in fact. Some people believe life and death is just a cycle, that death isn’t really the end, but I’m getting ahead of myself:

Let me introduce you to the Melburns. They are a wealthy family, not only in money but in children as well. They have seventeen of them – eight Mrs Melburn doesn’t even know about. The thing about Mr Melburn is that he isn’t a good person, not in most circles, but at least he takes care of his family. He feeds them, clothes them, and that’s about it. There’s only one he pays any attention to and that’s his eldest daughter.

She died, recently, at the tender age of twelve of mysterious reasons. She was found with a mouth full of sweets and several of them were lodged in her throat. Mr Melburn always said gluttony is a problem, I guess she disagreed. As you can see, being wealthy doesn’t protect you from death, not entirely anyway. Life cannot be bought or exchanged, but that didn’t stop Mr Melburn from trying.

He contacted the local Necromancer – every small and big town has one. Necromancy is the cure against dying, according to their words, and they have many theories on how to bring back the dead; the most common one involves an exchange. The Melburns weren’t willing to give up one of their own children so they went and looked for another. A local eleven year old boy disappeared soon after. The whole incident was hushed up later when the right amount of money appeared in the right people’s pockets. It was a freak accident how the child gut himself before walking across the country and breaking into a total stranger’s basement.

I’m not saying necromancy is complete bogus, but it’s a lost art. I find it ironic how the people who are afraid to die are the most avid practitioners these days. With the Melburn’s left with no other option they decided to buy her a fancy new home to sleep her eternal rest in. It’s common in most places to have a fancy little crypt for their loved ones; to tell the world that somebody important was buried here. You better pay attention to her. If the Melburns are lucky, their dear daughter will be happy with her new accommodation and stay quiet for all eternity.

Now, let me turn your attention to the Shillies. They are not a wealthy family. Indeed, they’re so poor that the father often doesn’t eat, like, at all. He’s the definition of a saint. He also died recently and his death was not a mystery. Mrs Shillies would like nothing more than to give him a nice home to rest in, but they cannot afford to, and most likely, Mr Shillie won’t expect one either. He’ll sleep quietly in whatever grave they end up burying him in.

But, the funny thing about dying is that it’s a lot like living. People change. If Mr Shillie had any unfulfilled hopes and dreams that we didn’t know about, he might wake up and try and fulfill them. His chances are pretty good too without those pesky responsibilities of being alive or morals that comes with it. In fact, there’s a saying that most kings never lived. But one thing’s for sure, Mr Shillies won’t be able to rest easy knowing his family will most likely die of starvation without him. The city knows this, that’s why he’s going into the pit.

The pit is not just a hole in the ground, it’s deeper than anyone knows. Some say it’s bottomless, while some scholars claim it’s exactly 3000 kms deep. Nobody is sure how they came to this conclusion, most people don’t understand what those weird scientists are saying, anyway. But it doesn’t really matter in the end, because anything that is thrown in doesn’t come up!

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

Remembrance – Very Short Story

Forewords:

There’s a war going on in my mind, in everyone’s minds, really. It’s a war between yourself and the outside world. If we entertain the idea that you have never been exposed to the world (meaning others opinions) how different would your own thoughts be? That is not to say hearing about others thoughts are bad, I think it’s more about society at large that decides what is good or bad. Again, that’s not always a bad thing, and really, it’s an unavoidable battle unless you are literally Buddha and have reach a state of utter detachment from everything wordly… What was my point again?

I guess the war in our minds, at least for creatives, is what to create: should the story be (1) what I want it to be or (2) what it should be, or already is? Because I believe stories exist independent from us and that they are there to be found rather than created. Sometimes a story isn’t what others would like them to be, and you have to change it, but that demands so much of you that sometimes you don’t want to. You have found this story (wherever stories are found) and you cannot toss it away, and at the same time, it cannot be made into something that it’s not, at least I can’t. Perhaps I can make still, even if it’s bad? Just to get it out of my mind…

“Honey, are you sure this is the right way?”

“Yes, yes, it should be right around the corner.”

“But, look, the road has stopped. You are driving on dirt!”

“We are supposed to… It’s a short cut, alright!”

She looked over at her boyfriend who kept his eyes on the road while glancing on a map that rested over the steering-wheel. The car swayed back and forth like a ship on the uneven ground; and the further they went, the more the forest enclosed them and the road disappeared in the undergrowth.

“Honey, please…”

“Okay, maybe we are lost, but I can’t turn around now. There must be a roundabout somewhere…”

She did not argue at that. The branches scraped against the car as they drove on. The man winced every time the branches dug into the coloring, creating white streaks of blemishes on his fancy red car. But there was nothing he could do and backing up would almost be worse at this point. Finally, the trees opened up and a big dirt field, half covered in patches of grass, spread out before them. There were half collapsed fences that enclosed it and it looked to them as an old abandoned parking lot. They stopped on the cleanest patch of dirt and the man threw himself out of the car. He whimpered pathetically as he inspected the damage.

“Fucking hell,” he said. “We just had to go out and see nature, didn’t we?

“Oh please, don’t pin this on me. It’s not my fault you can’t read the map.”

The man grumbled, knowing by experience arguing never lead him anywhere. Even if he won, she would find a way to sour his victory, not that the damage on the car would go away anyhow, or payed for… “Where are we, anyway?”

She looked around and saw benches dotted around, all small and half crumbled. There was some sort of platform in the distance, but it was hard to see what it was exactly. As she looked, she saw somebody wave in the distance. “There’s somebody over there,” she said. “A couple?”

“I think there is. They seem to wave us over… should we?”

The woman shrugged and gathered their picnic basket and headed to them. They were very old. They had their own picnic spread out on the table they sat on and they smiled at the young couple as they approached.

“Well, isn’t that nice,” the old woman said. “I thought this place had all but been forgotten.”

“Well, we found it by accident… I’m James, btw. This is Lillie.”

They shook hands. “I’m Kay and this is my husband Gore,” the old woman said. Gore didn’t move. His body seemed stiff as a board but his eyes were clear and aware. He made a dry exhale as if in greeting.

“Would you like to sit down?” The old lady said.

The young couple looked at each other and decided to share their meal with them.

“There must have been a lot of people here at one point,” Lillie said.

“Oh yes. At one point there were hundreds. Last year we were three couples but now it’s only us that ever comes.”

James and Lillie looked at each other.

“Oh, nothing special happened here,” she said airily. “People used to come and dance, that’s all. We actually met here, Gore and I. Remember how you danced to impress me, dear?”

A smile crept up on the old man and exhaled like a broken vacuum cleaner on it’s last breath.

“Yes, you bumped half the people off stage until you had it all for yourself, hee hee. You were quite bad at it too, I’d never laughed so hard in my life”

Again, the old man exhaled with a smile.

“Yes, I knew that I loved you too then… But oh, listen to us ramble on. What about you? Are u married?

“N… No, we didn’t see the point,” Lillie said.

The old woman smiled sadly. “That’s a shame… It’s a beautiful thing, making the promise. It might be unfashionable these days, but I think there’s nothing more important in life than find a life partner.”

They were silent for a while soaking in the sun. “Well, we should be going,” the old woman said. “I’m glad we met you. I was very sad before you came, you know. That this place would be forgotten. But now I can be rest assured that at least two people in this world will know of this place, for a little bit.”

They watched the old couple go. When they were gone, James turned to his girlfriend. “You don’t want to get married, do you?”

“Hmph, not with you,” she said and munched on a sandwich and let the quiet sink in, the leaves rustling in the wind above, never gracing them. “We should come back here next year,” she said.

“Yes… Yes we should,” James agreed.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

The Destroyers

“You can destroy our society, kill a great many of us, even most of us. But when most of us are gone,and only a few are alive, we will rise, because humanity never gives up. Survival is in our blood; desire is our moto. There will be no hiding once we rise and take revenge on those that destroyed us.”

by Stamphers

50 Flash Fictions… Now What?

For four years I have been working towards becoming an author. They say that it takes 5 years before you become one, before you settle into your craft; well, at least somebody said so, I don’t remember who… In one year I’ll have reached that milestone. Whether everything will fall into place or not, only time will tell. Nevertheless, it will be something to celebrate. If nothing else, it means there’s dedication and anyone that is successful today have worked hard, but not everyone that work hard is successful. It’s the sad truth but still comforting in a way. It means there’s just one thing expected of you and everything else is up to luck, or God, if you believe that sort of thing.

When I started, my ambition was even greater than my naivety, which resulted in my first work being a fantasy trilogy. I ended up with a 400 page draft but I knew even then the amount of work that needed to be done. I could not finish such a project while trying to learn the craft. This is where Flash Fiction came in. It was a prefect format to experiment and polish your craft, and most of all, it allows you to finish something.

50 stories I have written. It took a lot longer than I expected but it was a goal of mine and I have reached it. The plan was to publish them in a collection but the quality vary so much I think I’ll not… You cannot find all 50 of my stories on my site as I removed a few particularly embarrassing ones, but that doesn’t matter. There are 50 made and it will be my last – unless the urge itches me again. The format has served its purpose and it is time to do more. From Flash Fiction to Short Stories; a format that’s a bit longer but not as daunting as a novel.

I’m hoping the longer format will force me to think more about plot, to plan ahead where I otherwise would’ve just written from my gut. If I could, it would streamline my work, just a bit, to make sure I can finish as many of my ideas as possible before I die.

Here you can find what I’ve written so far: Flash Fiction

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

Always Night – Very Short Story

I come from a prosperous family. This allows me to travel a lot. I’ve traveled along the great rivers and seen vastly different cultures with strange customs. But one thing they have in common, (as with my own) is they all worship the sun. Indeed, there’s never a time when the sun does not shine. It gives life and I could never imagine a land where it did not exist, unless it was dead and void. When I was around 30, I learned of a place such as this, only, it was not dead… In the farthest reaches of the north, there’s a land where people live and thrive, without the blessings of the sun… At this point in time, I had seen much of the world and I was ready to explore something truly alien.

I made my preparations and headed north. Settlements became fewer the further from home I went. Daylight became dimmer and days became colder. It was uncomfortable, but I was determined to see this strange land and headed on. Light became a slither on the horizon and soon there was only darkness. My eyes could no longer see the people but I sometimes heard them in their low voices. These people don’t like to be seen and is hard to approach. They are weary of strangers and they are oh so few.

Contrary to popular belief, they are indeed humans, not nightly creatures of the unknown for they still worship the light. What drove them here to begin with? I cannot say, for they won’t tell me, or perhaps they simply don’t understand me? In either case, there isn’t all complete darkness as there are many singular lights in the sky. When I first saw the night, I was amazed! I could see now what drew them here, somewhat. Was it worth abandoning the sun for the majesty of the night sky?

I stayed with them for many weeks, and already, I began to feel sluggish. I became melancholic and moved slowly and spoke lowly, as the locals. I wondered if this was how I was gonna die because though I longed for home, I dreaded the long journey back. Then, one night, the people urged me through the dark, with a solitary light in their hands they lead me to a large group of people. I was amazed as I didn’t realise they were so many. Despite their numbers, it was all quiet and soon it was entirely dark as they put out their precious light. I felt my mind was going insane in just those few moments when I saw and heard nothing. Thankfully, I felt their breaths and their shoulders rubbing against mine. After sometime, I was begging for light, when, one peculiar star seemed to grow on the nightly canvas. It grew to engulf my entire vision and was indeed as large and bright as the sun itself, if not more so. I closed my eyes and felt it’s warmth and rejuvenating rays on my body. It only lasted for a couple of moments before the sky was mostly black again, but instead of solemn silence, as I was used to, people talked and cheered. They moved energetically to wherever they belonged. I felt a rush too, from complete exhaustion to reinvigoration, I had never felt happier as I was then.

I understood then that this was a way of living. They endured the suffering to be blessed with the gift of light. I never found out how often this occurred, for though I stayed for many months, I never got to know any of them. They accepted my presence, but that was all. It’s the allure of their kind, the mysteriousness, their reclusive happiness that only they could understand.

With my strength regained, I took the opportunity to head home and I don’t think anyone ever believed what I told. Regardless, I saw what I saw and felt what I felt. It is up to others to experience the same thing I did, to visit the north and experience what true happiness surely is like.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

Where am I? – Very Short Story

One day, I just sat by my typewriter wrote what I saw… Here’s the result.

I am here, in this room, a kitchen of a small apartment in suburbia, Sweden. There’s a small kitchen table in the middle of the room. Before me is a window. On the windshield there’s a toaster, a cacti, a lamp, and a mixer. The blinds are pulled halfway and the window is slightly dirty. They will never be cleaned, has never been cleaned, as far as I know. Outside people pass. To where? I haven’t a clue. It is Sunday morning. Where do people go on Sunday mornings?

A man stops and looks my way. The drapes cover his face so I can’t be sure if it is me he’s eyeing. He has not moved for quite some time now. I wonder what he’s thinking about… He’s gone now, save for an empty cigarette pack on the ground.

The grass is green and there’s a dog poop on the sidewalk. I stepped on one once, trying to save a few seconds cutting over the grass. There’s stuff on the counter; a dirty frying pan from yesterday and a pot I used to boil potatoes, also not cleaned. There’s dirty dishes in the tray and clean ones in the holder, waiting to be put in their place. I hate doing the dishes. I also hate how dirty it gets… Is it worth cleaning everyday to to keep it neat? I don’t think so. We all have different priorities. I wish it could be avoided altogether…

There are papers (…) Had to rewind the ink roles on my typewriter (…)

There are papers scattered over the kitchen table, both for drawing and writing. One has become easier and the other more important…

Idea lurk at my periphery. If I look directly at them, they disappear. I’m certain there are people living in the cacti. I see them when I write, climbing the stalk, but disappear when I go nearer to have a closer look. I wonder where they come from…

If I sit long enough, and do nothing, I feel tugging at the sleeves of my pants. Creatures under the table hurrying me on. They are bigger than the cacti people, more bothersome. I don’t see how if I’m writing or not is anyone’s business but my own. Yet they urge me to continue to work, to write them. Why should I write about such ugly creature, I say to them? They don’t have an answer to that… I should stop typing for now. I’ve bother the neighbours for long enough…

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

The Truth Sayer – Very Short Story

They talked. The strangest group there ever was of four creatures of childlike stature. Their eyes wide on the man that sat across to them. Well, in reality, it was he who talked and they listened. He were their patron, showering them with words of value, of truth, which is valuable. He said many things, spellbinding things, things only he would say.  They were also words of truth for if there was one thing all four of them had learned is that he always spoke the truth. He was also the handsome sort, with a fair complexion; straight nosed, tall, and well built. The opposite of them. He was a rare breed, in these parts. Yet, with all his fairness, he hid his face under a hood. His visage always partly shaded wherever he sat or stood. One would never see his true countenance, not at once. But they, who had listened to his words of truth on many occasions were not concerned with his appearance but what he said, what he could do!

There’s a reason they believed his words and it was because he never said what he couldn’t do or show. There’s profit to be made from his words that danced from ear to ear, their grotesque deformed ears… The room was dimly lit by the hearth of the fire place and murk from pipe smoke that surrounded them in a mist. It was starting to get cold, or maybe it was his words that made them shiver, for this day he spoke of terrible things, things gruesome and void. And what we have already established, he only spoke the truth, which made it all the more terrible, terribly real!

There was a peculiar quirk about his words and that was they could never be recounted. They were words one felt. You didn’t hear them, not a singular word but the whole tale at once. It lingered and only they knew what was said. The stranger left that night, like he always did at the first howl of the night, and left the four ugly creatures to lament. They looked at each other. They knew what the other thought for they had heard the same thing, and they were friends, at least as friendly as creatures, such as them, could be. On the left end of the table, smoke rose and evaporated from the lips of one of them, the one quickest to words, and he said. “He must die.”

The others knew this as well, and nodded slowly in agreement. But the question was how and when? Next time, they agreed. The next time he came to speak, and they to listen, the stranger would die. Then how was he to die? With the means that they were able, for they were all able. Even creatures as small has them had their own ways to make problems go away…

The night came and they acted well enough, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. It was not a difficult feat for whenever they gathered they simply listened, and they listened, like always. And it was in that moment they realised: the ‘when’ and ‘how’ had been determined, but ‘why?’ Why had he to die? Like the strangers tales, it was felt, not understood, and now when they heard his words once more speak of pleasant things, their determination wavered. Why must he die? A man who made their hearts stir so? The only thing they knew was that he must. And so, as they were creatures of emotions, they struck the moment the wolf howled, breaking them from the strangers spell.

The one nearest stabbed the stranger on the side with a long nail hidden in his coat. The one on the left, furthest away, threw acid on him and the one to the right simply stayed his hand, for he was last and he saw that there was no one there. And more horrifyingly, it was not air that they smote, but themselves. Dumbfounded they looked, blood trickling from their sides, their ugly faces melting away until they were no more but one, one remaining horrified and frozen. For a full day, he waited, until there was night again, and the stranger emerged from the shadows. The stranger spoke as nothing had happened, and the creature listened and was lost in the magic that was his words. 

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

A Tall Tale – Very Short Story

The man in front of him was the nervous sort. The sort of man that had seen things – still saw them. Someone who didn’t want to believe what they saw, for nobody else did. It wasn’t the first time Arnte had interviewed such people, in fact, he’d built a reputation on them. He didn’t really care if they told the truth because they always had good stories for him to use. He eyed the young man who looked like any other peasant boy; strong built with a bowl cut, only, his mannerism didn’t match his appearance. The young man looked nervously from side to side, his shoulders timidly raised over his ears and sipping sparsely on his beer, even though it was provided for him. Arnte licked his lips and brought out his notebook and said. “So, Herr Frans. I’m ready when you are.”

Frans gave him a quick glance then jerked his head to the right, then to the left. Arnte noticed that Frans body was never fully still, as if he was constantly shuddering. Arnte was getting impatient and he cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d like to remind you that you requested this interview. You’re wasting both our time.”

Frans suddenly heaved the contents of his drink in one great gulp and placed the mug back on the table. Arnte noticed that Frans stopped shuddering. Arnte sighed and gesture the waiter for another beer. If I’d help him talk… He thought.

Frans touched the mug and drew his finger around the edges and then lick his finger, as if to test if it was poisoned. Then said. “They are in the walls, you know, under the floorboard and even in our pockets if they want to.”

Arnte noted it down. “Who are they, exactly?”

Frans snorted. “I envy your ignorance. They might have left the consciousness for most of you, but they are still around, even if you don’t see them.”

Arnte raised an eyebrow. He was well spoken despite looking like a peasant. He noted that down too. “Can you tell me what they look like?”

Frans took another greedy gulp of the beer and his shoulders slowly slumped back below his ears. “Unfortunately, it would be pointless to describe them since they have no form. They appear differently from person to person, they change shape, and even then, they don’t like to be seen.”

“Have you ever seen one?”

Frans glowered at him. “I see one right now. In the crack on the wall there. Ah! too late, it’s gone.”

Arnte crinkled his lips. This was a mistake, he thought, and reached for the tab when Frans stopped him. “Look, you can’t see them unless they allow themselves to be seen.”

Arnte leaned back against his chair. “What makes you so special, then?”

Frans eyed his empty glass and Arnte called for the waiter, reluctantly.   

Frans licked his lips. “Special is not the word that I would use. They keep me reminded that they are always watching… Where I come from, they are normal. It’s a place where few outsiders visit, or leave for that matter… You remember the tales of elves and trolls from your childhood, surely your parents must have told them to you?”

Arnte nodded.

“Well, my village, is where it all began, the origin of these creatures in our world. It is where they like to be, nowadays, now that men are everywhere. Even on the tallest mountains and the deepest forests they cannot be alone, which is what they want in the end… Alone I mean.”

Arnte wasn’t sure what to make of all of this but was intrigued. “Then why did you leave?”

“Look, there are some nice creatures, I’ll admit. And I suppose I could’ve gotten used to the terrors at night once in a while; things disappearing and having to be extra polite to a certain stub near my house; however, I could never get used to the whispers. That was the worst of it. I never understood how the others managed. Perhaps I was just weak like that, perhaps their zealously towards her shields them somehow. Yet, I cannot put my faith in her. I know what she is. How the others didn’t run away with me is a mystery.”

“Where is this place, exactly? What is it called?”

Frans eyes grew wider. “What would you do if I told you?”

“To verify your story, of course.”

Frans started laughing and rose from his seat. “How can you do that if you haven’t even listened to a single word I’ve said?” He finished his beer. “Thanks for the drinks,” he said and walked away.

Arnte scratched his nose and looked as he walked away. He read his notes again and crossed them over with his pen. A bust then… he thought. He paid for the drinks and was about to leave when he turned and peered at the crack in the wall which Frans had alluded before. There was nothing in it and he sighed and looked down at his notes again. His eyes flashed as images popped into his mind and he began to furiously write down his thoughts. It was almost morning before he finally put down his pen. 

They had appeared to him.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

Liquid Soul – Very Short Story

A boy wandered upon an empty road in the middle of the night. The air was cool and fresh and the leaves were turning yellow. After a couple of miles, he turned left into the thicket and went along an old path that had almost disappeared in the undergrowth. After some minutes, he came upon an open field. It was hilly and difficult to grow anything, thus it was abandoned for other, more dreary, purposes. He glanced by his feet and looked with a blank expression upon a wooden cross impaled in the ground. It was half decayed and tilting, yet he could still read the markings on the wood. “Gyordic was favoured by the gods and his life was a happy one.”

The boy smiled ruefully and continued on his path up one of the hills that overlooked the small valley. There were thousands of such crosses scattered across the field. And there were even more of them over the hills which he could not see. He sat on a rock, made himself comfortable, and stared blearily out on the view. His mind was empty, his life void of any great dramas or concerns. His life was simple and he took joy from simple things. He considered himself blessed to be able to take these strolls, while so many others could not. No, they were in no position to move at all.

The wind that had coursed through the leaves had become still and everything was quiet. He heard two dogs bark in the distance, but their howls soon died and the night was still once more.

A yawn escaped him.

Then, suddenly, there was a flash between the trees. It grew slowly, steadily becoming brighter until it shot into the air, almost as if a drop of water falling in reverse. The soul was much like water, he thought, and the light in his eyes became more lively, more awake. He now looked attentively across the sea of graves, hoping to spot another soul being released onto the heavens.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

The Darkness that Remain – Very Short Story

Deep in the dark there lay a man. This man has no name, indeed, no memory of his past. He simply is, peering and listening to whatever catches him, for the darkness is always there, like a weight that keeps him from moving. Many years ago, this his man came upon his resting spot, silent and confused. Sometimes he makes noises, sometimes he gets replies, but the voices are low, and broken, but they are words nonetheless.

Different voices comes and goes. Once, he spoke for a very long time to a man, or a woman, he couldn’t tell. The person said that they wanted to be touched, to feel the warmth of skin. He, who did not otherwise move, lifted his arm to reach around them, but there was nothing to feel, not even cold.

The voice disappeared like all the others, eventually, leaving him to be the only constant in this strange world of voices. One day, when he cast his voice out into the dark for anyone to hear, a woman’s voice responded. He knew it was a woman’s voice because it was even lower than the rest, barely a whisper. The voice said that all she wanted was to be heard, and he listened, very well so, for her voice was soothing. Suddenly, things seemed almost well in the land of the voices and his heart began to stir, a single beat of blood coursed through him and when the voice stopped, she was gone.

But she had left something with him, for he now felt cold, in place of nothing. He felt he could move a little, but not by much. Even so, when the next voice came and disappeared, he could move a little more, and even more still, and when he finally stood, he too was gone.

And there was nothing that indicated that he had ever been anything but the darkness that remains.

© Christopher Stamfors

Art by ChrisCold

by Stamphers