The Nether Mind:
33 Flash Fiction Stories
Copyright © 2015 by E. A. Wicklund
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, and events are either the product of the author's imagination or they are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced by any means without the expressed, written consent of the author.
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Cover Art: "The Paradise." by Salvatore Di Giovanna
Introduction
Within this book are 33 flash fiction stories to thrill and delight. These tales of Science Fiction and Speculative Fiction are suitable for that pause between commercials, that distraction during a break at work, or that little something just before bed time.
I hope you enjoy this collection. In my opinion, flash fiction should always finish with a bang, a pop, an "aha," or an "ooh." After each story I hope you laugh or smile or at least nod your head in satisfaction. For me, this is the charm of the literary form of flash fiction.
People often ask me where I get all my crazy ideas. My only answer is that they come from the nether reaches of the mind. Thus, the title of this book. The Nether Mind is that poorly defined place that rests between the conscious and the sub-conscious, that time at dusk where it is neither day nor night. It is the fuzzy border where anything can happen, and all is possible. Lean back with your tablet or Kindle and imagine yourself beneath a tree. Prepare to meet the unusual, the fantastic, and the outright silly. Steel yourself for an encounter with The Nether Mind.
The Junior Member
On a wide field in an undisclosed location, four members of SCREAM (Scientists Club for Resurgent Evil Against Mankind) stood before the club’s leader, Dr. Sin. His cybernetic leg whirred and his laser eye tracked across the contestants. “Welcome to the annual weapons trials, gentlemen,” announced Dr. Sin. “This year, the goal is to create the biggest bang from the smallest weapon. The two contestants shall…”
“Three, sir,”
“What, Lackey?”
“It’s Langley, sir,” said the mousy Langley, adjusting his misaligned, thick glasses.
“Whatever.”
“I am competing this year too.”
Dr. Sin waved dismissively, “Yes, of course. First up, Professor Malignant. Proceed.”
Malignant sat in his powered chair and grinned evilly. “Observe,” he said, and withdrew a silver pistol, aiming it at a battle tank down field. A flash of light, and the tank was cleanly cut in half.
Heroditus Cain stepped forward. Tubes emerged from his backpack and fed exotic nutrients into his limbs, making them bulge enormously. He hoisted a complex cylinder to his shoulder and fired it at the next tank, cutting a wide swath of destruction through the armored behemoth.
“Excellent!” exclaimed Dr. Sin. This competition is now over. We shall…”
“Not yet, sir,” squeaked Langley. He beamed and held up a vial of pearlescent fluid. “It’s my turn.”
Dr. Sin snatched the vial away and held it in his cybernetic right arm. “This, Lackey?”
“Langley, Sir.”
“Whatever. This is no evil weapon. This…” He crushed the vial and ooze flowed out, “…is useless! What was it supposed to be?”
“Nanites, sir,” quaked Langley. “Designed to consume metal.”
Dr. Sin gulped as a gray cloud enveloped him. The cloud blew downrange and dissolved the four remaining battle-tanks, missile launcher, and a flamingo lawn decoration. When the cloud of nanites cleared, Sin’s metal leg, arm, and laser eye had been eaten away. He sprawled on the ground in a pile of white dust. “You idiot!” He screamed.
“It was meant for the targets, sir,” stammered Langley.
“Impressive,” said Cain. “Clearly, he wins this round.”
Dr. Sin glared at Cain.
Cain shrugged. "He did destroy four tanks with impressive stealth and a very small weapon."
Grudgingly, Dr. Sin acquiesced. “Fine! Now help me up, Lackey.”
“It’s Langley, Sir.”
“Whatever.”
Crimefighter
It’s now day 357 since I got stuck. Not stuck on an island or in a crashed plane in the arctic or anything BORING like that. I’m stuck in the shape, of a werewolf.
It was fun, just being a dog for a while, and chewing the occasional tennis ball. But I was a freak. Without the ability to revert to human form, my human side could only express itself through my mind. Over time I ceased craving the hunt, and started craving a Big Mac with fries. I missed listening to Audioslave and just rocking out. Six months into being stuck, my human thought pattern had returned almost completely, although fire hydrants still make me want to pee.
I started living in an abandoned building near the edge of town. It was a convenient location. Pizza guys drove past all the time. Whenever I got hungry I just stepped into the road and terrified a delivery guy out of his pizza. You gotta love a large Meat-Lover’s, you know? It was at this time that a life-changing event happened to me.
One day, the local drug lord decided somebody encroached on his turf and he raided my pad, while I was there. I stepped in front of him and said, “Boo.” That was it. Didn’t even eat him, not a nibble. The sight of me alone is scary. I’m about eight feet tall and built like a linebacker. No hybrid face for me. I got a straight-up wolf’s head, though one fitting an animal five times heavier than a wolf. The drug lord guy emptied a clip into me. All it did was piss me off. I roared into his face. He wet himself and ran for his life. Soon, the drug trade ceased in town.
I realized I may be stuck with this inconvenient shape, but I can still make a difference. I hunt criminals now. I’m pretty much invulnerable so they haven’t got a chance. Crime has gone extinct in our little town. I’m moving to the big city soon. When I do, watch out bad guys. A big ol’ dog is movin’ in.
Code 3619
When Inspector Ward of Scotland Yard was selected for the transfer program with the L.A. Police Department, he expected odd events, but not this odd.
His partner and liaison, Officer Jones, stood before the crime scene and spoke into his mic. “Code 287.”
“What’s that mean?” Said Ward.
“It means ‘coroner requested.’ ” He addressed the mic again. “Code 941.”
“How about that?”
“Ambulance requested.”
The circus owner looked at the body of the clown, half buried into the piano. He said, “A shame. He was a lousy piano player, but not that bad!”
“Code 3619,” said Jones.
Ward rolled his eyes and wondered if Jones ever spoke English. “And that?”
Jones looked at Ward as though the Brit was stupid, "‘Lousy piano player murdered,’ of course!”
The Vacuum Energy Event
Nearly all the lights were out in the Polish hamlet of Waczny. Shadows grew long, flickering and moving across the wafts of rolling fog. Miss Goodsend felt vulnerable in the dank and foul street. Her elegant dress and expensive perfume told all that she was a Lady of means, and therefore a source of income, but she pressed on. It was essential.
She discovered him, not by sight, but by smell. Clearly he hadn’t washed in ages. Sensing him, she stopped and waited. At last he broke from the shadows and stood before her. His coat hung in tatters and his trousers were stained. His top hat, a vain effort at respectability, drooped beneath a coating of dust.
His breath smelled of whiskey and disreputable women. “Miss Holly Goodsend, I presume?”
Goodsend eyed him down her slender nose, an
d sneered, “You may presume nothing in my presence, my good…man.” She thrust her umbrella into his hands and began removing her gloves with jolting, impatient gestures.
“Jake Edmunds,” he said, attempting to placate her stern countenance with a gap-toothed smile. “I’m Dr. Zawadzki’s assistant.”
“How unfortunate for the doctor,” she said, no longer gracing him with her gaze. She threw her gloves at his chest and said, “What are you waiting for, you lout? Take me to him at once!”
The doctor was elderly, stooped, with graying, unkempt hair. The classic vision of a mad scientist, but the glee in his eyes was borne not of madness. It was elation that authorities finally recognized his work. “Ah, Miss Goodsend!” He tittered. “So good to meet you at last.”
“Yes it is,” she said, removing her hand from his clammy grip as quickly as possible. “Thank you doctor.”
The doctor gestured to Edmunds. “I trust you’ve met my invaluable assistant, Mr. Edmunds?”
“Yes. I’ve met the help,” she said, not bothering to look at the man. “The Ministry of Extraordinary Arms is anxious to verify your reports. Even the Prime Minister has taken notice.”
“Wonderful. Wonderful! Oh, would you like some tea?”
“I’m sorry doctor, I’ve little time and far less patience. I must see your creation at once!”
“Of course. Follow me.” The doctor led her, with Edmunds trailing, down to a root cellar filled with equipment and clanking steam piping. Electric lights, a rarity in Poland, brightly lit the curiously large expanse.
The old man waddled past worktables and clattering steam equipment to an open expanse surrounding a curious machine. It measured more than thirty feet long and nine high. Roughly shaped like a cigar with a blunt rear end and flat bottom, the machine, impossibly, hovered inches above the ground. “Three barbettes, armed with Lewis guns and one pilot make for a crew of four,” narrated Dr. Zawadzki. “It’s incredibly stable. Anyone familiar with a cart could safely pilot it.”
Goodsend looked on with wonder. “So it is an aeroplane, like the works of Octave Chanute?”
“It doesn’t operate under aerodynamic principles.” grinned the doctor. “As you can see, it hovers above the ground like a Zeppelin. Far easier to control.”
“What is its mode of power, doctor? Surely it is not magic which suspends it so.”
The doctor led her to the hatch, which he carefully removed. A pulsing blue light emanated from within.
“Is this a development of Madam Curie’s work?”
“The woman is a genius, but no. It’s my own creation. It is vacuum energy! In every cubic meter of the natural universe, there is unlimited energy. My system collects the power contained within the very fabric of time and space. The capture system is actually quite small. What you see glowing is the magnetic bottle that contains the captured energy. This is the difficult part as these systems require constant cooling or they will fail.”
“So the cooling problem is solved?”
“Yes, it only requires maintenance and a careful eye.”
Goodsend nodded absently. “Show me the controls.”
Goodsend insisted on sitting in the cockpit while Zawadzki explained the controls. “This throttle is for fine control. You’ll use this far more than the other. The larger throttle controls larger gradations of speed. The system is capable of astounding velocity, so this control should be used with great care.”
“Is it fully fueled up?”
“It needs no fuel, my dear lady,” puffed Dr. Zawadzki. “It is always ready to operate.”
“Excellent!” Without another word, Goodsend removed a pistol from her bodice and shot the doctor squarely in the chest.
The old man tumbled to the ground, as Edmunds screeched and raced to his side. Holding the panting doctor in his arms, he looked up at Goodsend and wailed. “Why? Why have you done this? He’s just an old man!”
“You may call me, Dominika Sokolova,” she sneered. “Agent of the Czar. Soon, this incredible machine will be in his hands and with it, the Czars shall rule the world for the next one thousand years! I and my descendants shall rest at their sides.” She laughed maniacally and aimed her gun once more.
Edmunds, though aptly described as ‘loutish,’ possessed a keen wit that helped him survive in the mean streets of London. He darted away as she fired, sobbing as he ran. He had loved the old man like the father he never knew. Dr. Zawadzki had trusted him and taken him in when Edmunds was at his lowest. The doctor had taught him his letters and gave him a title. That was why he dodged beneath the hull of the machine where Sokolova could not fire. But most importantly, he crouched beside the coolant release valve. A label he could read and understand because of the doctor. He opened it ever so slightly while the screaming witch above fired impotently. He could not save the doctor, but he would have something else.
Gun empty, Sokolova muttered, “No matter. He’s of no consequence.” She raised the machine up, her sharp mind understanding the controls at once, and piloted it expertly through the weak wooden walls above.
After raising up to high altitude at three miles, her face buried in an oxygen mask in the thin air, the ambitious woman rammed the large throttle forward. She was anxious to return home expediently and receive her ill-gotten reward. The machine jolted forward like a wounded horse fleeing the very devil himself.
In an age before powered-flight, the concept of Mach (speed of sound) was still quite unknown. Sokolova could not know that she had jolted the machine into the incredible speed of Mach 7 (5,323 miles per hour). After struggling through immense gee forces she didn’t understand, the pressure faded as acceleration stabilized yet velocity was maintained.
Without understanding the incredible speed at which the machine carried her, she possessed no understanding of where she flew. After a time she thought she might be at the Polish border. She actually had already passed Moscow long ago and flew over the Siberian province of Tanguska.
It was here that the cooling system, sabotaged by Edmunds, finally failed and the magnetic bottle restraining its immense energy, collapsed. Eighty million trees within 2,150 square kilometres were obliterated, along with the dreams of a madwoman.
Edmunds had his revenge.
Just Friends
“So you and Natalie finally hit it off,” said Gregg, looking up towards Tim's apartment on the second floor.
“Naw. We’re just friends,” said Tim, looking away.
“She stayed the night at your place.”
Tim shrugged. “She was buzzed. She crashed on my couch.”
“She didn’t have a change of clothes, right?”
“I don’t think so.”
“And she looked great in that pink dress.”
Smile. “Yeah, but we’re just friends, really.”
“She slept in that dress, right?”
“Right.”
Greg pointed up. “You mean that pink dress hanging from your balcony?”
“Oh.” Tim grinned and kicked at a stone. “Well, you could say she enjoyed her birthday.”
“In her ‘birthday suit?’ ”
Big grin. “Okay, more than friends, now.”
Something More
The memory of Alion’s papa played over and over in his head. The old man stared intently and said, “Do something more than I did, boy. Do this for me.”
Hiding in the interior of the ancient, dead tank, Alion felt worthless. Outside, soldiers rounded up his fellow villagers, questioning them about the resistance. Many would die today, yet Alion was safe, and useless. So he found a hidden entry between the legs of the tank, and it wasn’t so dead as supposed. What good was that? Probably still broken anyway.
One pulsing light illuminated the interior. He sat in the narrow chair inside and stared at the technology. “Can this thing still work?” He wondered. On impulse he touched the blinking light. It stopped and he wondered if he’d broken it.
Suddenly readouts turned on eve
rywhere inside. A voice announced, “Bio-Signature accepted. Upload tactical status.”
Alion’s heart leaped. “How?”
“Verbal is acceptable.”
“We’re under attack. Do something!”
“Confirmed. Enemy Mecha sighted. However, I cannot engage without proper military authority.”
“There isn’t any,” pleaded Alion. “They were wiped out ages ago.”
The voice was silent. Alion’s hopes were dashed. “Great. Almost there. Almost worth something.”
The voice returned abruptly. “Confirmed. Will you accept military leadership?”
“Me? I’m no soldier!”
“I have limited autonomy. I cannot operate without human direction.” The forward screen lit up and showed the village square. Two Mecha stood guard. Grinning enemy soldiers began executing the villagers. One by one, they fell.
Alion could take no more. “Yes! I’ll do it. Fire on the mechs!
The tank moved quick as a snake. Its main guns fired, sounding like the screams of demons. The two Mecha erupted in flames, their hulls gutted. Smaller hypersonic weapons began chattering and the enemy soldiers exploded in clouds of red. In mere seconds the enemy force was wiped out.
“Village secured,” said the tank. “What are your orders?”
Alion thought of their neighboring, equally oppressed villages. Hope filled his eyes. “Time to do something more.”