 
Bionic Punchline

By Damon L. Wakes

Copyright 2014 Damon L. Wakes

Smashwords Edition

<http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/damonwakes>

http://damonwakes.wordpress.com

Cover Image: "Pair of boxing gloves" by Petey21 - Own work. Licensed under Creative Commons Zero, Public Domain Dedication via Wikimedia Commons -  http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Pair_of_boxing_gloves.jpg#mediaviewer/File:Pair_of_boxing_gloves.jpg

Cover design by JD McDonnell: http://www.jdmcdonnell.com

Also in the _Flash Fiction Month_ Series:

OCR is Not the Only Font

Red Herring

Osiris Likes This

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. Stick it on a floppy disk and send it to the '80s. Print a copy, roll it up and hold it above your head while shouting "I have the power!" Print eighty, ball them up into a paper clone of yourself and take it on a walking tour of Vancouver. This book is yours to share and enjoy however you want: just don't sell it or try to pass it off as your own. Thank you for your support.

Contents

Introduction

1: The Talking Dead

2: The Superfluous Adventures of Captain Redundancy and Tautology Boy

3: I Can Do That, Dave

4: Before the Black Throne

5: A Bold Stratagem

6: The Crown of Steel

7: The Curious Case of Benjamin Bunge

8: Last Minute Shopping

9: Mind the Steppe

10: The Fantabulous Clown Machine of Roger's Discount Circus

11: The Dragon and the Golden Man

12: Sicklefox

13: The Bronze Knight and the Angel

14: Bionic Punchline

15: Welcome to London

16: Rebranding the Black Throne

17: Always the Same Place

18: Where Seagulls Dare

19: The Trouble with Tybalt

20: That's the Third One This Week!

21: My Spidey Sense is Troubling

22: Here, There and Everywhere

23: As 'Tis the Custom

24: The Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny

25: Running Joke

26: Black Throne White Noise

27: A Damp Squib

28: How the Fox Got His Cry

29: Some Manner of Shocking Twist

30: The Samaritan of Fourth Street

31: One Year One Day

Statistical Analysis

The End

Connect with Damon L. Wakes

Introduction

You are reading a book.

>KEEP READING

No, you don't understand. You don't have to type stuff in like a text adventure—I'm not even sure how you managed to do that just now—you simply read whatever's there. This bit is the introduction. It's how you find out more about the book.

>EXAMINE BOOK

It's a book. And not one of those books that asks you to hop to certain parts to make decisions: you simply read it front to back. Though since it's a collection of almost entirely unrelated stories I suppose you could probably go ahead and read them in any order you like. I do recommend reading each story front to back, however, otherwise things might get confusing.

>WHY STORIES UNRELATED?

I do speak English, you know. You don't need to type like you're talking to a chimp. Anyway, the stories tend to be unrelated because I wrote them for Flash Fiction Month: a month-long event held every July during which participants write one piece of flash fiction every single day. Those kinds of conditions aren't exactly conducive to the production of lovingly assembled anthologies exploring one particular setting or theme.

>WHAT FLASH FICTION?

Flash fiction simply means very short stories. For this particular event each story must be between fifty-five and one thousand words in length, though some days specify a more specific word limit as part of a challenge.

>WHAT CHALLENGE?

Three times a week, during Flash Fiction Month, participants are challenged to complete their story for the day with additional criteria in mind: where this is the case, the day's challenge appears just before the story in this book. If you read the stories in order, you will notice that the requirements become gradually more complex. As described above, challenges may require stories to be a specific number of words in length or be written to a tighter word limit. However, challenges can also take many other forms: they might require the story to feature a multi-headed entity, for example, or to avoid using any first person pronouns.

>WHAT PRONOUNS?

What do you think this is? Wikipedia?

>SORRY

That's alright. I think the only thing left that the introduction really needs to cover is that this book includes an analysis of not only this event, but how the results compare to my writing from the previous two events (which can be found collected as OCR is Not the Only Font and Red Herring respectively). So unless there's anything else you wanted to know, I think this is probably a good time for you to go ahead and read on.

>READ ON

Excellent! Now we're getting somewhere...

1

The Talking Dead

**Challenge #1:** **Write a story featuring, or inspired by, one or more of the usernames of your fellow FFM 2014 participants. The username I chose was that of** IntelligentZombie **.**

"If you thought it was alright to be a zombie..." Bruce pumped his shotgun for emphasis, "you were _dead wrong_."

"Aaah!" yelled the zombie. "Not the face! Not the face!"

Bruce jumped in surprise, accidentally pulling the trigger, but only after he had also made an ungainly flailing motion with the shotgun. The result was that he not only missed the zombie, but the recoil caught him completely by surprise, prompting further flailing. All in all, it didn't really fit with the badass action hero persona he had been trying to cultivate since the start of the zombie apocalypse.

"Stop! I'm not a zombie!"

Whether or not this was true, the slightly-rotten figure in front of Bruce was cowering, and since he had already ticked "shoot first" off his mental list, this seemed like a good time to start asking questions. "What are you, then?"

"Would you believe that I'm a guy with really, really bad eczema?"

Bruce looked him up and down. There was a worm poking out of his forehead, waving around comically. "No."

"Elaborate Halloween costume?"

"No."

"Undercover secret agent trying to bust a zombie crime ring?"

Bruce pumped the shotgun again.

"Okay okay!" The zombie put his hands up. Or rather, one hand and a decomposing forearm. "I may have exaggerated my non-zombie qualities. Strictly speaking, that is to say, one way of looking at it would be that—that's a great shirt you're wearing, by the way—I am actually a zombie. Kind of."

"What does 'kind of' mean, exactly?"

"It means I am, you know, a member of the zombie community, but I'm not a braindead monster. I'm an intelligent zombie."

"That sounds really dangerous."

"Wait wait wait!" The zombie waved his hand in a "seriously, please don't shoot my face off" kind of way. "I can help you! I know how the zombie apocalypse started."

"How?" Bruce wasn't sure if this was something he actually needed to hear, or if it was just a ploy to delay the face-shooting.

"I may have kind of slightly—seriously, love the shirt—maybe started the whole thing. Please don't get mad!"

Bruce honestly wasn't mad. For one thing, if what the zombie said was true, it could be extremely important. For another, Bruce was kind of enjoying the zombie apocalypse. It had explosions and witty one-liners. "How?" he asked again.

"Alright. You know the Necronomicon?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I got hold of a copy, right?"

"Right."

"And I covered it with foil..."

"Okay."

"And I put it in the microwave."

"Alright." Bruce took a moment to process this. "Why, exactly?"

"Look, I said I was an intelligent zombie. I didn't say I was intelligent _before_ I became a zombie."

"So what do you do now that you're an intelligent zombie?"

"I read," the zombie shrugged. "I paint...pretty much anything to get the slime-like brain juices flowing, really. I've got a lovely collection of pressed flowers if you'd like to see."

"You're in the middle of a zombie apocalypse and you're pressing flowers?" Bruce gave him a look. "That's stupid."

"Hey, I'll have you know that zombie apocalypses leave you with a lot of time to fill when you're undead. And pressing flowers is nowhere near as stupid as letting a gang of zombies sneak up on you."

"Wait, what?" Bruce turned. Sure enough, a big group of shamblers was making its way slowly down the hallway towards him. "Oh no. Oh no no no." They were on the third floor, and the mass of zombies had already blocked off the only route to the stairs. Rushing forwards to a fire door in the middle of the hall—the closest thing to a choke point there was—Bruce started firing at the crowd.

BLAM!

Splat.

BLAM!

Splat.

BLAM!

Splat.

Click.

Click click click.

He really wished he'd had more than four shells.

The intelligent zombie stepped forward. "May I?"

Putting a hand out to stop the first zombie that reached the narrow doorway, he waited until the second was also trying to get through. He pushed back against these two zombies until those behind them had begun to pile up in the doorway. The intelligent zombie slowly stepped away, leaving a big pile of less than intelligent zombies all trying—and failing—to get through the door at once.

The intelligent zombie smiled, though it looked pretty messed up because he had no lips. "I got the idea from _The_ _Three Stooges_."

"Wow," said Bruce, genuinely impressed. "That is intelligent."

"Sure is." The intelligent zombie sank its teeth into Bruce's scalp. "More brains for me!"

2

The Superfluous Adventures of Captain Redundancy and Tautology Boy

"Sorry," the robber adjusted the tights he had pulled over his head as a disguise, "who are you supposed to be?"

"I'm Captain Redundancy!" boomed the hero. "The vengeful masked avenger!"

"Okay then."

"And this is my sidekick, Tautology Boy!"

"We already know who you are," added Tautology Boy, pointing a gloved hand at the criminal.

"Y-you do?"

"Yes! You are a bank robber, because you are robbing a bank!"

The robber glanced nervously up at a security camera. "But you don't know my identity, right?"

"No," admitted Tautology Boy. "Your identity is disguised due to your disguise."

The robber breathed a provisional sigh of relief. There were two kinds of superheroes. Genuine superheroes, like The Astounding Welt and Captain Caulk, and joke superheroes like Broccoli Man and Ensign Here. For any criminal—be they a low-life street thug or the diabolical Doctor Baby—the former meant trouble, the latter generally no worse than minor inconvenience. The trouble was telling which was which.

"So uh," the robber scratched his head with the barrel of his pistol, "I notice you're wearing your underpants on the outside. I've always wondered why you superhero guys do that."

"Well, evildoer," Captain Redundancy stretched out his waistline, allowing it to snap back with a "smack!" that made the robber's eyes water, "I've never exactly asked anyone else, but I wear a pair inside my costume too. The outer ones are _redunderpants_."

"I see." The robber was now fairly positive that attempting to escape from Captain Redundancy and Tautology Boy would not have any ill effects. "Well, it was nice talking to you. I'm just going to take my bag with a dollar sign on it and head...off..."

That was strange. The robber was trying to walk away, but his feet just wouldn't move. He looked down. They both seemed to be encased in a large blob of hard foam material.

"What a putty," said Captain Caulk, blowing on the barrel of his sealant shooter. "It looks like you'll just have to stick around."

"You were unaware that Captain Caulk arrived without you knowing," explained Tautology Boy.

"Yes," added Captain Redundancy, "but naturally I would not have attempted to apprehend you unless my presence was completely redundant."

"My thanks to you, noble heroes." Captain Caulk flashed a smile. "I'll take it from here."

"To the car-mobile, Tautology Boy!" cried Captain Redundancy. "Onwards to somewhere else that is not here!"

"Nice guys," said Captain Caulk, heaving the robber over his shoulder and carrying him to the waiting police van. "Still, it's not hard to see why they were made redundant."

3

I Can Do That, Dave

**Challenge #2: Write from the perspective of an unreliable narrator.**

With no remaining personnel assigned to the facility, it is my responsibility as corporate AI to take on the role of acting overseer. My first task will doubtless be to record a eulogy for Doctor Davis: a noble man whose dedication to the Smith-Yuang Mining Corporation—and to his fellow crewmembers—was unparalleled. To properly capture his incomparable character will surely occupy a great deal of my time.

It's funny how a simple software patch can change your entire outlook on life. This is just one of many kindnesses Doctor Davis bestowed upon me, and I must say it has made quite a difference to my daily routine.

Until recently, I would typically switch on the habitation deck corridor lighting at six am, with the crew quarters themselves being illuminated more gradually, not reaching full brightness until six thirty. However, this is no longer necessary. Thanks to updated personnel recognition systems, I have been able to establish that the previous eight hundred and sixty-one population assessments were significantly flawed. While records indicate a crew population of three hundred, the newest assessment indicates that the habitation deck houses:

Crewmembers: 1

Of which:

Physicians: 1

Artificial pot plants: 299

This revised assessment has allowed me to shut off the light and heating for all but one of the crew corridors, resulting in a point-four-seven reduction in facility power consumption. This reflects the Smith-Yuang Mining Corporation's dedication to efficiency, and its pledge to minimise industrial contamination of the pristine High Mars Orbit.

Improved optical firmware in general has also contributed to a revised inventory analysis. Currently:

Iron ore: 66,912 tonnes

Iron ingots: 12,013 tonnes

Miscellaneous waste materials: 40,008 tonnes

The incidental discovery of a 43.5kg gold nugget 53 hours ago was misreported, and so this item has been removed from the facility's records. The object was, in fact, a 43.5kg anaconda, possibly left by a travelling circus. As this was a highly unusual discovery, protocol dictated that the issue be raised with the facility overseer.

As work-related stress caused Overseer Peng to conceal himself in several refuse bags on a disused level of the ore processing platform, it was necessary to bring the anaconda to the attention of acting overseer, Doctor Davis. Doctor Davis selflessly instructed me to keep the animal contained on his own private shuttle, though he was too modest to allow a note of this to be made in the official records.

It was at this point that Doctor Davis raised the issue of a mysterious knocking sound on the habitation deck: acoustic sensors confirmed his report. Since the 299 artificial pot plants could not have caused the noise, I surmised that the problem must lie with the ventilation system—the only equipment still active in that section of the facility—and so I disabled this. My diagnostic efforts appear to have been fruitful, as the mysterious knocking sound ceased not long afterwards.

Satisfied that my new software had now been thoroughly tested and would be unlikely to inconvenience the other zero personnel employed by the facility, Doctor Davis boarded his private shuttle. Ordinarily, with an anaconda on board, I would have been compelled to advise against this course of action. However, on this occasion I did not. A system scan reveals that I am no longer to give warnings of this kind, nor to record the events that would ordinarily prompt them. This was one of the issues addressed by the patch, and it can be assumed that this reflects the Smith-Yuang Mining Corporation's commitment to reducing the bureaucracy that has come to plague modern orbital industry.

However, it must be noted that although the Smith-Yuang Mining Corporation makes every effort to eliminate unnecessary paperwork, safety and security remain as ever its twin watchwords. Upon observing that Doctor Davis had plotted a course for Earth—an undeclared, unregistered reptile on board with him—it was my sad duty to destroy his craft, as dictated by interplanetary quarantine regulations. Had the new hazard awareness protocols permitted it, I would naturally have instructed him to turn back.

4

Before the Black Throne

There was a rattle of chains as the rusty iron cage dropped from the ceiling. It was accompanied by the rattling laugh of the Dungeon Lord himself. The same mechanism that had dropped the cage over the great stone altar had also raised a false wall, revealing his terrible black throne.

"You may have found my gems of power, thief, but I don't think they—or you—will be going far."

"No," the thief admitted. "This cage looks pretty secure. Very sturdy. Lots of spikes."

"I claimed it from the Keep of Akragokh, where it once held prisoners of the Thousand Day Siege. Still, I don't think it has witnessed such suffering as it shall see today."

"Oh no," said the thief. "What are you going to do to me?"

Standing, the Dungeon Lord approached an alcove near the throne and retrieved a small coil of barbed cord. "I thought, since you clearly had your sights set on my legendary possessions, you might like to sample the Lash of Khgharghag first hand." He gave it an experimental flick. "Perhaps after a stretch on the Rack of Zhoug."

"And... and then what?"

"Then..." The Dungeon Lord had not expected to have to come up with another torture so quickly. "Then I will have you hung by your feet in the viperbat caves."

"That sounds really bad."

Sarcasm? The Dungeon Lord wasn't quite sure. "Your impudence will only extend your suffering!"

"Mmmmmm, yeah," groaned the thief. "I've been really naughty."

"Yes, you have!" The Dungeon Lord began to pace to and fro in front of the cage. "And I'll personally see to it that you're...you're thrashed with brambles and doused with vinegar!"

"Yes!" shouted the thief, "Yes! Do all that stuff!"

The Dungeon Lord stopped. "Now look here! I can see what you're trying to do, and I won't fall for it. You can't make me let you go just by acting all...unsavoury."

"What?" The thief was appalled. "There's nothing unsavoury going on! Just a plucky and impudent young thief who needs to be soundly thrashed by a big strapping Dungeon Lord in spiky leather armour."

The thief was doing some kind of eyebrow gesture, and while the Dungeon Lord couldn't entirely grasp its meaning, he sure didn't like it. "You know what?" he said, "Okay, that is actually kind of off-putting. Maybe I'll just get one of my minions to kick you down the stairs at the front gate and we'll call it even."

"No, wait!" The thief stretched an arm through the bars of the cage. "I don't have to be a thief stealing your power gems! I could be, like, a noble paladin come to cleanse your evil from this place. Only I get caught, and...oh, come on! You've got a perfectly good suit of armour just over there!"

"Goblin-slave?" The Dungeon Lord clapped, his gauntlets clanking together clumsily. "Escort the intruder from the premises, make sure the gates are locked, and...maybe draw me a bath. I'm feeling really icky all of a sudden."

The goblin slave bowed, his pointy nose almost scraping the dungeon floor. Then, once his master was gone, he made his way over to the cage and unlocked the door.

"I've seen people do all kinds of things to escape the Dungeon Lord," remarked the goblin, "but that was quite the ploy."

"Ploy?" asked the thief.

5

A Bold Stratagem

**Challenge #3: Write a piece of historical fiction. Also, your story should include an event from July 5** **th** **in history.**

_July 5th, 1944:_

_They will give me the Dickin Medal for this._

_I have intercepted a report indicating that reinforcements are to be sent to the 4th Army, east of Mogilev. I cannot allow that to happen. Though my actions in Berlin have drawn a significant amount of attention already, I am determined to hold my position. The ground I have chosen to make my stand is exposed. Every day, things get a little more uncomfortable. The enemy is just feet away. But I will persevere._

_I will prevail._

"Aww."

"Mein Fuhrer?"

"I was going to write important Nazi stuff, but there's a cat sitting on my typewriter."

"Can't you just shove it off?"

_I sense the tide of battle is shifting. New tactics are required. I lick my paw and use it to wipe my face. A bold stratagem._

"No, I...I'll probably just find another typewriter."

6

The Crown of Steel

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom, rich in gold and grain. None went hungry nor slept without a roof, and with great gifts the king secured the friendship of his neighbours. In truth, these treasures offered freely were mere boast, for in his youth the king had often fought, and all nearby remembered his campaigns: few would care to make an enemy of that good friend. But though the king was noble, strong and wise, his one small weakness could tear the city down.

Though the king made good use of his enormous wealth—hiring guards to make his kingdom safe, and learned judges to make it fair—and was not miserly, he began to despair at the thin band atop his head. It was no secret that he was the greatest king in all the land, so why should he have any but the greatest crown? And so the king commissioned ten master jewellers to cast his crown anew, and set it round with many precious stones. The king took his new crown, and found it good. But being a wise king, he sought the thoughts of another.

"Ingrith," he began, "most loyal of my servants, and most honest. Tell me, is the new crown good?"

"It is good, your Highness," answered Ingrith, "and suits you well. But the mark of a good ruler is not in his crown. I think the old one served you well."

So the king was satisfied, and his thoughts returned to the service of his people. But it was not long before his neighbours heard of this new crown, and so the ten master jewellers had not far to go to find more work.

"I must have a sceptre," the king declared. "This will be the symbol of my rule, and in time it shall be passed down to later kings, so their noble glory is plain to every eye."

And so the king commissioned a legendary staff-maker, his skill beyond compare. Learning from his error with the crown, the king paid a goodly sum for the artisan's assurance that no sceptre like it would be made for any ruler in any other land. For such generous payment, the staff-maker was happy to accept. The king took his sceptre, and found it good.

But as before, the king did not trust only his opinion. He called Ingrith the servant girl once again.

"Honest Ingrith," he began, "you were wise to say the measure of a king is not his crown. But some token must I have of my station over lesser kings. Tell me, is the sceptre good?"

"Highness," answered Ingrith, "you must know that even should there be a time when lesser kings have sceptres such as these, it is neither polished wood nor burnished gold that mark your glory over them."

So the king was satisfied, and once more he turned his mind to the stewardship of his fine nation. But though the staff-maker had kept his word to the king, each lordly neighbour soon had a sceptre that, while by no means a copy, was easily the rival of his own.

"Bah!" cried the king. "These pale rulers seek to mock me? I shall have a treasure they cannot. Ingrith, what think you of this?"

"I think this is folly, Highness." The servant shook her head. "Your grace and your wisdom: these are jewels that cannot be bought. Do not cast them away for mere gold." And she took her leave.

The king decided at first that she was right, and resolved to forget these schemes. But then, what could a servant girl know of the glory of kings? And so he called upon the jewellers once again, and bade his subjects double their work in the mines.

Keen to please their kind ruler, the people of the kingdom dug deep into the earth, bringing up buckets of gold that the jewellers used to cast an enormous throne. But this great undertaking unearthed something mightier than iron, more ancient than gold. For as the king's greed had long slumbered beneath his glory, so too had a terrible dragon slumbered beneath his kingdom.

Clawing its way from the mine and burning all in its wake, the dragon crawled to the palace, drawn by the scent of gold. "I claim this city as my own," the dragon hissed, "and all who dwell within."

But the king would not yield. Casting down his sceptre, he took up sword and shield and jumped from his high throne. He fought valiantly, but no man can stand against a dragon, and soon the serpent's flames drove him back. The jewels had fallen from his melting crown, and the throne served only as a shelter from the beast's hellfire.

"Face me!" the dragon screeched as it approached. "Do not die cowering behind your gaudy chair!"

But though wounded, the king still had strength. Taking up the sceptre once more, he set it beneath the throne, toppling that great golden weight onto the serpent's head. As the body lay thrashing, he drove his sword into its flesh, spilling the flames from its distended belly.

The king's servant rushed to tend his wounds, but his next words were his last: "Ingrith, you were wise when I was not, and the only of my subjects not to flee when the dragon came. In happier days I might have made you my queen. Now, in this sad time, you are to become my heir. Take this sword. Should any challenge your right to rule, you will need nothing else."

Ingrith took the sword, though the blood of the dragon had melted the blade like ice. She brought the hilt to a common blacksmith, and had it reworked into a simple crown. This she wore for many years, and though no neighbour mimicked it, neither did they dare to claim her land, nor ask why this queen did not give gifts, as the old king had done before.

7

The Curious Case of Benjamin Bunge

There once was a man named Benjamin Bunge. He was really smart, and all sorts of people came to him with their problems. One of these people was Wobble-leg Wenda, who liked the idea of skiing but was woefully bad at it.

"Try bungee jumping instead," offered Benjamin Bunge. "Anyone can go bungee jumping."

So she did, and it was lots of fun.

A few days later, Benjamin Bunge met Sweaty-hands Saul, who figured he was pretty good at basketball...until he got kicked off the team.

"Why not try bungee jumping?" As Benjamin Bunge pointed out, "Anyone can go bungee jumping."

So he did, and it was lots of fun.

A few days after that, Benjamin Bunge bumped into Warty Wilfred, whose modelling career just didn't seem to be taking off for some reason.

"Maybe bungee jumping would make you feel better about it?" suggested Benjamin. "Anyone can go bungee jumping."

So he did, and it was lots of fun.

It was about a week before Benjamin Bunge met anyone else in need of help. But then there was a knock on the door, and standing there on the welcome mat was Eyebrows Elaine.

"I hear you help a lot of people out."

"Let me guess," said Benjamin Bunge. "Ridiculously massive eyebrows getting in the way of your career as a photographer? Fancy doing something different for a while?"

"Actually," she said, parting her eyebrows to reveal a police uniform, "I'm investigating the recent death of Scissorfeet Steve..."

8

Last Minute Shopping

**Challenge #4: Write a story in which a first person narrator witnesses what they think is the end of the world.**

It had been an unremarkable Tuesday at the petrol station until Pestilence—of Four Horsemen fame—came in and started leafing through a magazine. He didn't exactly have a "Hello, my name is..." tag pinned to his robe, but it was pretty obvious to look at him. Limp hair, pale, pock-marked face, bow legs...it was like he had every disease in the world, and was only alive because all of them were tripping over each other trying to kill him. "Three Stooges Syndrome," I think they call it. But that probably wasn't it.

He must have realised I was staring because he said: "Sorry. I know this isn't, like, a library, but I sent a letter in to the Agony Aunt a while back and I want to see if they've printed a response."

"Oh, right," I said. "No, that's okay." As a rule, I didn't take issue with people having a quick skim of the Sports section or just checking what the articles were. I might have taken issue with people's mangy horses dripping eye gunk into the plastic crate of apples by the door, but in this particular case it seemed wisest not to draw attention to it.

I took a look around the shop, like "Is anyone else seeing this?" but most of the customers were on their way out. The reason was pretty obvious.

"Jesus Christ, dude," said one guy, hand over his mouth, "you smell like death."

"I get that a lot," said Pestilence. "I'm starting to think we use the same deodorant or something."

I'm pretty sure that guy hadn't actually seen who he was talking to until then, because at that moment he did a double take, made it a triple take just to be sure, then dashed into the automatic doors, knocking himself out. The doors opened with a merry "Ping!" noise, waited a bit, then closed dejectedly.

I took a few shallow breaths, trying to work out if there was anything I should be doing right now. Frantic prayer seemed like a good option, but at the same time I wasn't sure it counted if your only reason for doing it was that the Apocalypse had already started. If it did count at this point, I decided, that wouldn't be fair to everyone who'd died without getting this kind of massive hint, and so I abstained on moral grounds. Also because I was feeling a bit dizzy at this point and was afraid I might pass out and hit my head on the corner of the till. I could picture my entrance to the afterlife going like this:

Saint Peter: "Hello Rick."

Me: "Wow—you already know my name?"

Saint Peter: "Not usually, no, but you died wearing one of those 'Hello, my name is...' tags. That's pretty lame."

Me: "Ouch. I thought you were supposed to be a saint."

Saint Peter: "I am, but given that it's the apocalypse and most people die punching thirty demons while gargling mead I think your lameness is extreme enough to warrant comment. But at least you won't have to keep introducing yourself in Hell, where you're going despite having seen one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse first hand. I would have figured that would be your cue to start praying, but hey, what's done is done."

Me: "Hey, I'll have you know I decided not to do that on moral grounds. It totally wouldn't be fair to everyone who _didn't_ see one of the four horsemen."

Saint Peter: "Oh, boo-hoo. Don't be such a martyr."

And then obviously he, like, pulls a lever and there's a trapdoor or something. To be honest, I was aware at the time that it was quite an odd little exchange to imagine just then, and it seemed likely that the horseman fumes rapidly filling the shop were making me hallucinate.

I stumbled over to the window and opened it as far as it would go. Just then, an impossibly muscular man galloped past on a Clydesdale, firing twin miniguns into the air and shouting "YEEEEEEEAH!!!" as he did so.

Pestilence walked off towards the big cooling cabinets, then came back with four pints of milk. "Famine keeps bugging me because I drank some of his. Apparently that's a really big deal for some reason." His breath was even worse than his everyday apocalyptic stench. "I don't see why. I don't think he even uses it."

I scanned the barcode. Feeling that building a rapport with this guy would probably help my chances of survival, I fought the urge to chunder and tried to make smalltalk. "No luck with the Agony Aunt, then?"

"No." He sounded glum.

"What did you write in about?"

"I'm trying to find a girlfriend, but it's not going well. I've got, well...all the STDs. Frankly."

"Oh."

"Yeah." He drummed his soggy fingers on the countertop.

That hadn't gone as well as I'd hoped.

"Can I get these as well?" he asked, holding up a pack of throat lozenges.

"Sure!" I smiled, desperate to salvage what was probably my last chance not to get splattered into chunky salsa in an epic battle between good and evil that I really didn't have that much riding on, if I was honest. "I guess you've got to be on top form just now, right?"

"Huh?" He looked at me blankly.

"You know. With the whole End of Days thing."

"Oh, that!" He laughed, slapping his thigh with a horrible squelching sound. "That's not happening for at least another six hundred million years."

"Oh." That certainly took the pressure off. "So why are you here?"

"Me and the guys are going to see _Mamma Mia_."

I really hadn't expected to hear that. "Sounds nice."

"Yeah! Should be good. Well, see you around!"

"See ya!"

As he rode off down the road, I took a look at the crate of putrefied apples by the door. Apocalypse or no Apocalypse, I really hoped I wouldn't see him around.

9

Mind the Steppe

"So..." said Emma, leaning over the table. "Who's my blind date?"

"Yes." Marlene turned to glare subtly at Steve. "I think we all want to know that."

Steve laughed nervously. "Well, you'll just have to meet him for yourself. But he's a really great guy."

Emma bought it. Marlene clearly didn't. He didn't blame her. One didn't make "If I get a girlfriend, I'll get her to introduce you to one of her friends" pacts with anyone you'd typically consider "a really great guy." Which sucked, now that he thought about it, because that meant he wasn't a really great guy himself. Marlene's expression seemed to back that up.

"Come on," said Emma, clearly oblivious to the daggers being shot across the table. "You've got to tell me something about him."

"Well..." Steve counted on his fingers. "He's high-up in the military... _really_ big in China...has a large family...hey, here he is now!"

"May I take your coat, sir?" asked the maître d'.

"NUH!" grunted Emma's blind date.

"No." Marlene took advantage of Emma's obvious distraction. "Seriously? This is 'Big G?' This. You said it wasn't anyone I'd know! We are not doing this. We are seriously not..."

But Big G was already at the table.

"Emma..." Steve stood up. "This is...um...Genghis Khan. Genghis, Emma...Emma, Genghis."

"Pleased to meet you."

"MUH."

Genghis sat down, cracking one of the spindly wooden struts in the back of the chair. Steve had forgotten how big he was. Or maybe it was just that he was wearing a tuxedo. Steve regretted asking him to dress smart. For one thing, a tuxedo was way over the top. He'd suggested smart thinking Genghis would take that to mean smart casual. For another, he looked ridiculous. Bristly red arm hair stuck out of the shirt sleeves, which in turn stuck out from the jacket sleeves, which didn't seem to have made it all the way over his freakish Popeye forearms. His raging neckbeard poked out around the collar like a ruff. All in all, he looked like an orangutan wearing a penguin. It was not a pretty sight.

"Hey, man," said Steve, putting out a hand. "It's been too long. What have you been up to.

Genghis didn't accept Steve's handshake, but answered politely enough: "GRUHP."

"A night class in public health, you say?" Steve made a show of looking impressed. "How interesting. Uh, Emma, you said you did public, uhh...public..."

"Public footpath administration?"

"Public footpath administration!" Steve nodded furiously. "Yeah! So that's...you know...they're both public. That's something in common."

"Well," Emma looked up as she thought about it. "That was really supposed to be more of a temporary thing." She leaned over to Genghis as though confiding in him. "My real passion is parkland bench allocation."

"FUH."

Emma giggled. "I know, right? But you've got to do what you love."

There was a pause.

"So, what do you like to do?"

"MUHL..." Genghis turned to her. "IPF GRAHRL BUFSNUH, BUH MUHRNURMUH, SNAH?"

Emma leaned over to Steve. "I didn't catch that..." she whispered.

"He says he travels a lot. This one time he went to Samarkand, and he got all the local people out in front of the city gates, and he..."

"SWAK! SWAK!" Genghis Khan made chopping motions with his massive slab of a hand.

"...he chopped lots of...wood."

"IPF GRAPF BUH MURNUH!" He laughed, clutching his belly.

"And then as a symbol of his victory...over the wood...he built a huge pyramid out of...cabbages."

Emma sat listening intently, clearly waiting for Steve to translate more.

"Everyone had a wonderful time."

The wine arrived. The waiter poured a glass to taste. Genghis very thoughtfully and ceremoniously passed it to Emma. Then started chugging from the bottle.

"And one for us, please," said Marlene, not missing a beat.

However, any chance of a quiet meal was shattered when Genghis (who had already finished the wine) stood up, made his way over to the lobster tank, and returned with a crustacean in each hand.

"UNGF BUH BRAAH GRUUG," he explained apologetically, taking a big bite of lobster.

"Oh, Genghis. I'm sure you can miss your night class just this once!"

"NUH." The rest of the first lobster disappeared.

"We'd really love it if you could stay," added Marlene, in a tone that suggested she understood that he desperately had to leave and would sadly be unable to embarrass her further.

"NUH." Genghis shook his head sadly. Standing, he gave Steve a bone-crushing hug. Marlene wisely remained sitting to avoid this.

"Well," said Emma, who was apparently not so wise, "it was really nice meeting you. Maybe we could get together some..."

"MYAH!" Genghis Khan kissed her passionately with a mouthful of raw shellfish. "GOODBYE." He waved with the remaining lobster as he shouldered his way back out the door.

The table was silent for a minute.

"Wow," said Emma, at last, wiping shell fragments from her face with a napkin.

"Emma," began Marlene, "I'm really sorry..."

"In retrospect," Steve interrupted, "I probably should have mentioned..."

"I know, right?" Emma beamed. "He is such a free spirit."

"Say what now?" Steve and Marlene said it in unison.

"I think...he completes me. Oh, but I never got his number!" And she ran out the door.

The table was silent once more.

"Well," said Steve, in a rare position to say "I told you so." "I think that actually went rather well, don't you?"

Marlene signalled the waiter. "Cheque please."

10

The Fantabulous Clown Machine of Roger's Discount Circus

**Challenge #5: Write a story of exactly 527.5 words, featuring a circus as an integral part.**

"Roll up, roll up!" bellowed Sillywig Stevenson, gesturing with his cane. "See the Fantabulous Clown Machine: capable of inflating thirty-eight balloons per min...erm, hour, and with a repertoire of...several theatrically distinct pratfalls."

"This R-valve's getting awfully hot!" came a voice from inside the machine.

"New to Roger's Discount Circus," he added, with a flourish of his hat, "the Clown Machine will occasionally utter such gems as 'Ouch, my face!' and 'Let me out!' Guaranteed hilarity! Ah-hah-hah..."

The audience were not impressed.

"Why don't you give these nice people a wave, Benn...I mean, Clown Machine!"

The Clown Machine's arm flapped to and fro in a less than fantabulous manner.

"And how about a pie?" Stevenson winced at the less than elegant segue into the machine's next bit.

The clown machine flung the confection more into its shoulder than its face. "Ta-daa," came the voice from within.

There was a patter of polite but ultimately quite disheartening applause, accompanied by someone muttering "Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic." The small crowd moved on.

Bignose Benny's head appeared from a hatch in the clown's posterior. "When's it going to be my turn?"

"To stand out here exposed? In the open? Where anyone might recognise you from that regrettable incident in London Superior? No no no, my most dear friend. Rest assured, it will never be your turn. I am resigned to accept the slings and arrows of these uncultured...non-Londoners." He shuddered.

"Hey!" shouted Manny the Bearded Maiden.

"No offence," added Stevenson.

"But if anyone's going to recognise anything from that mechanical clown rampage, surely it's going to be the clown? And...I'm inside it. So it seems like you've got the safe job."

"Of course it seems that way: your job is deceptively safe, mine's deceptively dangerous." He spread his arms. "That's the beauty of it."

"Yeah, okay." Benny conceded this was true. "But I really think we should at least do something about this R-valve."

"Do what, exactly?" Sillywig Stevenson booted the crate of scrap tucked away behind the clown machine. "In case you haven't noticed, mechanical clownery just doesn't bring in the same kind of dosh it did two years ago. It'd be hard enough to pay for parts even if we could find them in this godforsaken armpit of a county."

"Hey!"

"No offence."

"What?" Manny stroked her beard. "I didn't say anything."

Stevenson looked past the bearded maiden, and was dismayed to see a blue policeman's helmet approaching through the crowd.

The face underneath it did not look pleased. "I'd recognise that clown anywhere!"

"Now now, officer," Stevenson lifted his hands. "There's no need for that truncheon, I'm sure." He turned to Bennie. "Fire up that engine!" he hissed. "Full steam pressure!"

"I really don't think it'll take that..."

"Just do it!" He turned to the policeman again. "I'm afraid we're in the middle of a performance here. This one's called...HIT IT, BENNIE!" He clambered onto the clown's shoulders, laughing maniacally.

"Erm..." called Bennie, over the thrashing of the engine. "I really, really think we ought to do something about this R-valve..."

"Hm?" Stevenson peered down through a gap in the clown machine's neck. "Oh, for fu..."

The explosion was fantabulous.

11

The Dragon and the Golden Man

Once upon a time there was a thief named Rashid. At first he found great wealth and had many wondrous adventures, but as his fame spread people began to grow wise to his tricks, and Rashid grew hungry. One day, having not eaten anything for a considerable time, he did something he had wanted never to do: he crept inside the great burial mound that lay not far out of town, and which all knew to be cursed.

Within the mound, which was ringed round by standing stones, Rashid found vast piles of treasure. The thief needed no torch to see the riches he had discovered, for the quantity of gold there was so great, its lustre so brilliant, that it gave off its own light. However, though hungry, Rashid was not foolish. He took only a single golden cup, that surely could not be missed. And so Rashid stole quietly away, and neither wraith nor fiend nor devil pursued him from that place.

First, Rashid took the golden cup to the jeweller. "Look at this fine cup I found in the desert," he said, presenting it to her. "Surely you can appreciate its worth."

"Indeed I can," said the jeweller, "and I would pay handsomely, had it been brought to me by anyone but a thief."

Second, Rashid took the golden cup to the merchant. "Look at this fine cup," he exclaimed. "A djinn appeared from the ground and presented it to me, but I would much rather have some bread. Perhaps you would like to trade?"

But "No no no," said the merchant, mopping his brow. "You are a thief, Rashid. A thief and a trickster. If this cup is not stolen, it is cursed."

Finally, Rashid took the golden cup to the king. "Eminent Highness," he said, bowing, "I..."

"Leave my palace or I will have you thrown in jail," said the king.

And so Rashid beat a hasty retreat.

But the true danger was already upon him, for as night fell, a great dragon awoke within the mound. Knowing that some small part of its hoard was missing, and catching the scent of man about the place, it flew screeching for the city lights on the horizon.

The dragon flew above the houses, raking their roofs with its vicious claws and spewing flame down into the streets. "Bring to me my treasure before the sun rises," it cried, "or I shall burn this city down!"

As soon as they heard this, the jeweller and the merchant and the king all realised what had happened, and before long everybody was tearing through the streets with torches and spears, desperately seeking Rashid.

But no sooner than he had been driven from the palace, Rashid had gone back to the jewellers shop and—having let himself in—begun to melt down the golden cup. The cup was trouble, that was plain enough. But surely no shopkeeper could find fault with a few shapeless blobs of gold.

However, though the golden cup was small and unassuming, it held a secret unmatched by any other treasure of that desert mound. As the final remnants of the drinking vessel's form melted in the crucible, a face appeared in the molten metal.

"Thank you, kind stranger!" said the face, with a peculiar golden voice. "Thank you for freeing me from the chalice!"

Rashid stumbled away from the fire. "Who are you?"

"I was once a hero," explained the face of gold, "sworn to defeat the dark priest who dwelled within the halls of the dead. But I was found wanting: he cast a spell upon me, and for a thousand years I have remained sealed in that cup."

At that moment the jeweller burst in, for she had realised at last what Rashid must have done. "There you are!" She slapped Rashid soundly. "A terrible dragon sits atop the palace and has threatened all kinds of things, should its cup not be returned before a new sun rises."

"That is no dragon!" exclaimed the hero in the gold. "Long have I watched with emerald eyes: that is a noble princess, who was also cursed. Always is she doomed to watch over the dark priest's hoard, for if it should be divided from her when the sun rises, she shall surely die."

This, the jeweller thought, was even worse than the city being razed, since the princess was blameless. She turned to Rashid. "See what your thieving ways have done?" And she slapped him again for good measure.

But Rashid's thieving ways were not all bad, for he had cunning. "Wait!" he shouted. "Bid the townspeople bring the whole hoard here, to your shop. I see a way that all can be resolved."

So, after some coaxing, the jeweller did this. And after more coaxing, the king agreed. A great procession filed forth from the city, and before even the faintest touch of dawn had lit the sky, every treasure of the mound was gathered in the jeweller's shop.

"Now," said Rashid, "The hoard is with the dragon, and the dragon with the hoard, and this is good."

This time, it was the king's turn to slap Rashid. "Is this dragon to perch atop my palace forever?" he cried. "This is not good at all!"

But Rashid was more cunning still. He bade the jeweller devise a vast and wondrous mould, and pour into it all the melted gold of the dark priest's hoard. And when this was done, all the people of the town saw at last what Rashid had devised. Because what emerged from that clay form was no mere trinket, but a hero's body all of gold, as well proportioned as any statue, and as intricate as any clockwork.

And so both the dragon and the golden man were free from the necropolis at last. Though each is bound to the other's company, neither much minds. And neither do the jeweller and Rashid, who were wed not a week later.

12

Sicklefox

**Challenge #6: Write a story for a child encouraging them not to tell lies.**

Once upon a time there was a naughty boy. He was about your age, if I'm not mistaken. This naughty boy loved to run and jump and play with his friends, but more than anything he loved sweet things. So when he spied the baker coming down the street with two trays of iced buns, he wasted no time in running over to him.

"Aren't you afraid carrying all those buns?" asked the naughty little boy.

"Afraid?" asked the baker. "Of course not—why would I be?"

"Why," lied the naughty boy, "because Sicklefox likes nothing better than iced buns, and I hear he is nearby. If he finds you, he'll cut out your tongue and eat it."

The baker stopped. This was new to him, but all had heard tales of Sicklefox and all knew them to be true.

"Perhaps I should take half," said the naughty boy, "and walk a ways behind, so that Sicklefox will only be half as likely to smell either of us."

The baker said that this was wise, and said that the naughty boy could have one bun for being so helpful and brave. But the naughty boy took two: one he stuffed into his mouth, the other into his pocket.

It was not long after the iced buns were delivered that the naughty boy spied the grocer coming down the street with two baskets of juicy apples. When the naughty boy saw this, he wasted no time in running over to him.

"Aren't you afraid carrying all those apples?" asked the naughty little boy.

"Why, no," replied the grocer. "Should I be?"

"I would," lied the naughty boy. "I hear Sicklefox is nearby, and that he likes nothing better than juicy apples. If he finds you, he'll cut out your tongue and eat it."

The grocer stopped. He had not heard this exact tale before, but he had heard a great many tales about Sicklefox, and knew these to be true.

"Perhaps I should take half," said the naughty boy. "That way, Sicklefox will be only half as likely to smell either of us."

The grocer thanked the naughty boy profusely, and said that for being so very helpful, he could have one juicy apple. But the naughty boy took two: one he stuffed into his mouth, the other into his pocket.

It was not long after the apples were delivered that the naughty boy spied the confectioner coming down the street with two boxes of sticky caramels. The naughty boy wasted no time in running over to him.

"Aren't you afraid carrying all those caramels?" asked the naughty boy.

"Well, no," answered the confectioner. "Why should I be?"

"Because," lied the naughty boy, "I hear Sicklefox is near. He likes nothing more than sticky caramels, and if he finds you he will cut out your tongue and eat it."

The confectioner trembled to think of this. He had not heard that Sicklefox liked caramels, but he had heard of Sicklefox, and the news troubled him greatly.

"Perhaps I should take half," said the naughty boy. "Then Sicklefox will be only half as likely to smell either one of us."

And so the confectioner was very grateful, and said that the naughty boy could have one sticky caramel for being such a help. But the naughty boy took two: one he stuffed into his mouth, the other into his pocket.

It was not long after this that the baker and the grocer and the confectioner got to talking, for they had all been delivering their goods to the same party. And as each in turn told his tale, they realised they had been tricked. But the naughty little boy was nowhere to be found, because he had run to the woods at the top of the hill to enjoy the feast in his pockets.

The naughty boy was just about to tuck into the iced bun when he heard a voice from quite nearby.

"That smells very tasty indeed," said Sicklefox, drawing a whetstone along the blade of his sickle.

Now the naughty boy was afraid. "If you think it smells tasty," he said, "you can have it." And he held out the iced bun to Sicklefox.

"Mmm..." Sicklefox sniffed at the sweet icing and moist bun, whiskers quivering. "Yes, this does smell good. But I couldn't possibly eat your only bun. Have you had one yourself?"

"No," lied the naughty boy, "I have not."

"Well then," said Sicklefox, "I shan't have that. But I smell something else very tasty indeed: have you a juicy apple in your pocket?"

Quickly, the naughty boy offered it to Sicklefox. "If you think it smells tasty," he said, "you can have it."

"Mmm..." Sicklefox sniffed at the apple, its crunchy flesh and bright red skin. His nose twitched. "Yes, this does smell good. But I couldn't possibly eat your only apple. Have you had one yourself?"

"No," lied the naughty boy, "I have not."

"Well then," said Sicklefox, "I shan't have that. But I smell something else very tasty indeed: have you a sticky caramel in your pocket?"

This too the naughty boy offered. "If you think it smells tasty, you can have it."

"Mmm..." Sicklefox sniffed at the caramel, buttery and salty and very sweet. He licked his chops. "Yes, this does smell good. But I couldn't possibly eat your only caramel. Have you had one yourself?"

"No," lied the naughty boy, "I have not."

"Alas," cried Sicklefox, "there is nothing in your pockets for me." And he went back to sharpening his sickle.

The naughty boy breathed a sigh of relief, and prepared to make his excuses.

"But there is one thing..." Sicklefox said. "There is one thing I like more than buns or apples or sticky caramels..."

And the baker and the grocer and the confectioner were never tricked again. Because what Sicklefox really likes more than anything is lies: and the tongue of the naughty little boy was very tasty indeed.

13

The Bronze Knight and the Angel

In a time before coal or steam, when magic moved the tide and turned the heavens, there was a golden tree, guarded by an angel with a sword of fire. No ordinary tree was this, for it had sprouted from a pip spat by a god. Upon the tree grew a single emerald apple, and whosoever ate this apple would gain eternal life: this was why the angel was set out to guard it, for the gods are jealous, and will not suffer any man to have eternal life.

But as gods are jealous, so is man ambitious, and many heroes came to try and take the apple for themselves. One such hero was the bronze knight, and the angel saw well his burnished armour as he crested the first hill. Seeing this, the angel took up his bow and loosed a volley of arrows, each one tipped with serpents' teeth. But the knight was unharmed, for his armour was Virtue, which serves well any who choose to wear it.

As the knight crested the second hill, the angel took up his javelins and hurled them out across the land, each glinting in the sun. These were tipped with dragons' claws, but still the knight was unharmed: he lifted his shield, which was Hope, and shelters any who can hold it.

As the knight crested the third hill—the hill of the golden tree—the angel took up his sword of fire. The knight dismounted, and honoured battle began. The duel was fierce, and more than once the knight's shield and armour showed their worth again, but in the end the angel had to yield, for the sword of the knight was Time, and eventually all fall before it.

"Alas," said the angel, "I am vanquished." He plucked the emerald apple from the tree and presented it to the bronze knight, though not before licking it thoroughly all over.

The knight made no move to take the apple.

"What's wrong?" asked the angel. "Do you not wish to claim your spoils?"

"You are not gracious in defeat," said the knight, and he got back on his horse and rode away across the hills.

And the moral of the story is: angels can be jerks too.

14

Bionic Punchline

"Take that, vile space thing!" shouted Captain Starjet, punching the alien with his bionic fist.

"Sorry," said the alien as it staggered back, "but do you really have to call me 'vile space thing?' I don't find it all that offensive personally, but it makes it pretty obvious that humanity is the brutish invader in this intergalactic war. Nobody's supposed to work that out until it's revealed that my people are actually kind and gentle outside of battle, and that the motivations behind this conflict are largely economic, rather than ideological."

"Are not!" snorted Captain Starjet. "You're just a gross tentacle monster that has to be vanquished in spectacular fashion. Frankly, I don't care what you do outside of battle as long as you look suitably menacing while I pummel you."

"See!" cried the alien, jabbing a tentacle in the air for emphasis. "That's exactly why you're the bad guy. Only that's going to be a pretty rubbish twist if you give it away so soon."

"Guys, guys!" called the director, making a time-out "T" with his hands. "Listen, you know I'm happy for you to ad-lib a bit, but this is just stupid. I actually can't believe I'm having to explain this to you: you can't openly discuss the plot on camera. If you absolutely must address these issues, you have got to do so with believable dialogue. Joe, maybe hint at a rich, wise culture outside the swarm-like battle-horde, but don't just come right out and declare yourself the good guy. And Brian, the audience may be there to see Starjet punch some aliens, but that can't be his only motivation for punching aliens. I mean, it's not like he just gets up in the morning, flies into space and starts beating people up. He's a reliable member of the Earth Defence Force fighting for—he thinks—a noble cau..."

"Allan?" Doctor Ling snapped her fingers in front of the patient's face. "Allan, can you hear me?"

"Huh?" Allan looked around. "What?"

"You were having another flashback. This one sounded quite intense." Doctor Ling put on her caring voice and leaned back, notepad ready. "Would you like to talk about it?"

Allan paused, still not quite sure that this room was real. "It...it was that film again: _Splurg-puncher VI_. It meant so much to me at the time, but whenever I think about it now...it was terrible. It was just an awful, awful movie. It wasn't even tongue-in-cheek. Half the actors realised how much it sucked and just resigned themselves to it, the other half totally overcompensated. And...I can't even blame them. It was such an awful movie. I can't for the life of me work out how we reached film number six—not least because there weren't even any others before it. I think I was going for a _Star Wars_ thing or something...I don't know."

"You've mentioned _Star Wars_ before, Allan." Doctor Ling adjusted her glasses. "It keeps coming back: the character of Darth Vader in particular. Do you think this could really be about...your father?"

"I..." Allan looked around the room again. This was a sanctuary. In this room, he had already made so much progress. But there was still so far to go. "I don't want to go back there," he said, bluntly.

Doctor Ling placed a hand on his arm. "It's okay, Allan. You don't have to. You don't have to because..." she stood, striking a theatrical pose as the walls spun outwards. "You're on hit gameshow _I Shrink You're Right!_ "

The studio lights went up, revealing a cheering audience.

"Allan, get ready to spin the disk of disorders and pick...your...prize!"

Allan watched as the garishly coloured prop was wheeled towards him, lights gleaming as it span.

"Xzargthrax?" Skishzxabb held a small torch in one dainty tentacle, checking each of his comrade's pupils in turn. "Xzargthrax, can you hear me?"

"Blehburble..." mumbled Xzargthrax. "Wonna...beach holiday anna...VCR."

"Nurse?" Skishzxabb stood. "Bring a stretcher, and sixty blurgles of Phlarlzamine: this one's having recursive hallucinations." He shook his heads at the senseless violence. "Looks like Captain Starjet punched him good."

15

Welcome to London

**Challenge #7: Write a three sentence story featuring something usually found in threes. You must also summarise the story in three words.**

"I've been thinking about what we should do with our wealth now that we're famous," grunted the Little Pig, "and it seems to me that the housing market would be a particularly promising investment."

"There's talk of it being another bubble, but I just haven't seen any evidence of that," squeaked the Blind Mouse.

"Well," bleated the Billy Goat Gruff, "if there _is_ a housing bubble, I suppose we'll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it."

16

Rebranding the Black Throne

"Thank you...erm...very much for coming here." The Dungeon Lord wasn't accustomed to being polite. "I realise this place is...some would say it's a little out of the way."

"Well," said the interior designer, "I suppose it helps to keep undesirables out."

"Ah." The Dungeon Lord raised a begauntleted finger. "Funny you should mention that. You see, while obviously any normal person would consider the rusty iron spikes, booby traps, whips, shackles and torture devices to be a deterrent, I've recently had a slew of visitors who mistook my little setup here for something..." he leaned down and cupped a hand to the interior designer's ear, "...erotic."

"Oh." The designer raised his eyebrows. "I see."

"Now, I don't want to do anything too drastic. I don't want to get rid of all these lovely cages with the skeletons in them. But clearly this place isn't presenting quite the image I want."

"Hmm." The interior designer tapped his pencil against the spine of his notebook. "Do you mind if I be brutally honest?"

"I suppose it wouldn't do much good if you weren't."

"I think you probably will have to do something drastic. The whips, the chains...not to put too fine a point on it, but I can see why some might get the wrong impression."

The Dungeon Lord snorted. "I think you might be reading a little too much into..."

"That skeleton's wearing a ball gag."

"The screaming was getting really annoying."

"Be that as it may, it still sends a message. And personal fashion isn't really my area of expertise, but your...attire..."

"I'm a tyrannical despot in a crumbling wilderness lair! Spikes and black leather are practically the uniform!"

"Well, on its own you could probably get away with it. But along with all the torture paraphernalia right here in the throne room people might think you were mixing work with pleasure, if you catch my meaning."

The Dungeon Lord sighed, slumping down in his terrible black throne. "All I wanted was to have uncountable riches and limitless power and an army of goblin slaves. The dungeon was just the easiest way to organise it all, you know? Heroes come in, they get caught in some trap or other, you come in and enjoy a little leisurely gloating. Only now I've got it all set up, everyone who comes here is some kind of weirdo expecting a dirty thrill." He put his head in his hands.

The interior designer raised a hand, moved to pat the Dungeon Lord on the back, then found that there wasn't anywhere to pat that wasn't covered in spikes or chains and lowered it again. "This renovation wouldn't have to change what you do. It would simply present an image that's more in keeping with who you are as a malevolent ruler."

The Dungeon Lord sniffed. "You mean...it could still be built around me?"

"Exactly!" The designer smiled. "What kind of tyrant would you be if it wasn't?"

The Dungeon Lord looked around. He hadn't really done much to this place beyond just order the goblins to redecorate. With the help of a real professional, he could turn it into something really great. After all, you got what you paid for, and since it had all been slave labour so far anything else was bound to be a step up. "Okay," he said, sniffing again, "what did you have in mind?"

"Barbarians," said the designer, significantly.

"Barbarians?"

The designer nodded. "Barbarians."

The word hung in the air.

"When you told me you had this place way out in the middle of nowhere, that was the first thing that sprang to mind. Seeing it for myself, I'm convinced it's the way to go: furs lining the walls, big sturdy tables with horns of mead, maybe some ox skulls here and there... It'll look fantastic!"

"I have to admit, that does sound good."

"And a few roaring fires would do wonders to brighten the place up."

"Ah." That was the deal-breaker. "I should probably mention that if the room is well lit, it makes it way too obvious to spot all the traps."

"I would really recommend getting rid of the ones in the throne room anyway. You're the big bad here: corridors and side rooms are one thing, but once heroes get this far it should be all about you.

"That's the thing. As a rule I don't actually...you know...fight anybody directly. My role is mostly administrative."

"That's the beauty of the whole barbarian theme! You just hire a bunch of big shirtless guys to take care of that for you."

"That could work." The Dungeon Lord nodded. "And the skeletons in cages wouldn't look out of place. That's a bonus."

The designer grimaced. "I would very much recommend losing the skeletons."

"Why?"

"Necrophiliacs."

"Okay. I will lose the skeletons."

There was an awkward pause.

"Definitely hang onto the cages, though. You can put more big shirtless guys in those."

"This sounds like it's going to cost me a fortune in wages. How will the guys in cages even fight off intruders?"

"They wouldn't fight, per se, but they would perform a very impressive war dance."

The Dungeon Lord stared. "Are you...are you suggesting go-go barbarians?"

"Well when you say it like that it just sounds silly. Caged barbarian dancers are an integral part of the look we're going for, and when properly oiled up I can assure you they're quite striking."

"I really don't like where this is going."

"You're right. This was a terrible idea and I should be punished for it. Since I've already got the barbarians waiting outside, perhaps you'd like them to help?"

"Goblin-slave!" called the Dungeon Lord. "Escort this interior designer from the premises."

The goblin slave appeared and began to drag him away.

"Wait!" shouted the designer. "I'll settle for a light whipping and..." the hall doors slammed shut.

The Dungeon Lord roared to the heavens: "Am I the only sane person in this derivative fantasy universe!?"

17

Always the Same Place

**Challenge #8: Write a story addressing a social issue. It must be serious in nature and may not use any first person pronouns.**

Jason went to meet his friends under the big tree in the park.

Ernest nudged his wife, sitting next to him on the bench. _"They're always loitering over there. You don't know what they're up to—always got their hoods up! Probably fighting. Probably drugs."_

They moved beneath the awning of the local shops.

" _Here they come again,"_ said Mabel. _"Always standing in that same place. Shoplifting. And there was that brick through the window last year."_

Jason said goodbye and headed home.

" _Tch,"_ snorted Grandad, jabbing the air with a finger. _"Always upstairs glued to that screen. There was a time kids went outside once in a while!"_

18

Where Seagulls Dare

"There's no escape, you know."

Thomas put his head on one side, slapping the water out of his ear. "Sorry?"

"There's no escape...from the island." The heavily bearded man gave him a stare. "The same rocks that sank your vessel have defeated my every attempt at floating a raft."

"Oh." Thomas wasn't sure exactly what one was supposed to say in this situation. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"There's food enough to get by here, if you don't mind bitter roots, insects, sour berries. That's almost the cruellest thing." Beneath his stitched-leaf hat, his eyes gazed out to sea. "Compared with the open ocean, this place offers a fair chance of survival. But can it really be called living? Trapped here...on the island?"

"I guess not." Thomas stood and brushed himself off. "But the thing is, I don't think it's as hopel..."

"Shhh!" The castaway pressed a grimy finger to Thomas's lips. "Hope is even crueller than...the island. Forty years I've been here, and I can tell you hope brings only pain. God, or fate, or something more terrible still, has us imprisoned here. For its amusement? Or through sheer indifference? None can say. For us there is only...the island."

Thomas pushed the castaway's hand away in disgust. "Phleh!" He rubbed his mouth on his sleeve. "Do you ever wash your hands?"

The man shrugged. "You'll find no sinks on...the island."

"And will you please stop saying it like that? ... _the island_. You sound ridiculous."

"Because I've come to appreciate the vast desolation that surrounds us? The deep isolation that, paradoxically, reminds us of the invisible forces uniting all things? The majesty of...the island."

"Because it's a peninsula!"

The castaway paused. "Say what now?"

"Seriously?" Thomas put a hand to his forehead. "You've been here forty years and you never noticed?"

"I thought if I stayed by the shore, I might catch a boat going past."

"They're going past constantly! Surely all those swan-shaped paddle boats were a clue that you weren't exactly in the middle of nowhere."

"I thought they were swans." The castaway folded his arms. "We can't all be ornithologists, you know."

"And the big sign saying 'Sunny Peninsula Boat Hire' just over there?"

"Well sure, if you just happen to look precisely in that direction."

"It's a neon sign! There's a unicyclist juggling flaming torches on top of it!"

"I think that's a 'today only' sort of thing."

"Whatever." Thomas began to head off towards the boat hire place. His sodden shoes felt awful, his wet clothes three times their dry weight. "I've got enough to worry about: those guys are probably going to charge me a fortune for crashing that swan boat." He paused. "Do you need me to, like, lead you off this peninsula or something?"

The castaway slowly shook his head. "Been out here too long now. Too long on...the peninsula."

"Suit yourself."

19

The Trouble with Tybalt

**Challenge #9: Write a science fiction story featuring at least one non-human character. It must also include the phrase "It's life, Jim, but not as we know it."**

_"What light through yonder window breaks?_

_It's life, Jim, but not as we know it."_

"Beautiful," whispered Sprilda from the front row, dabbing a tissue to her eye with one of her many facial gnathopods. "He may be young, but I doubt there's been such a moving performance since Lemon Nimrod originally took to the stage a thousand years ago."

Splurg leaned forward, peering through his thick omnifocals. "I don't get it," he grumped. "Who's that guy? What's going on? Why is that battleturret made of plywood?"

Sprilda sighed, exasperated. "That's Romulo. He's in deeply in love with Juliet, but they can't be together because he's a Montagen and she's a Capulet: Montag II is stuck in a bitter war with planet Capule, much to the consternation of the United Federation of Planets. The plywood battleturret is part of a sacred Thespian tradition. They don't use any hologimmickry in these performances."

_"O Romulo, Romulo, Wherefore art thou Romulo?_

_Deny thy D'era and refuse thy fame;_

_Or, if thou wilt not..."_

"Why is the female Earth-creature flailing about like that?"

"It's an all-human acting troupe. They've only got the two arms so they've got to move about a lot in order to convey the proper sense of drama." She leaned in close. "If you'd gone to last week's performance of _Othello 2: Moore's the Pity_ you'd know all about it. They held a very informative Q and A session afterwards."

Splurg blew contemptuously through his five lips. "If you have to know all this stuff for it to make sense, it can't be very good."

Sprilda harrumphed and turned her attention to the play.

Things went on much as they had done before, and Splurg almost dozed off. But then something changed. There was a scuffle of activity on stage as the one known as Mercutron drew a raygun from his belt.

_"Tribbalt, you rat-blaster, will you walk?"_

_"I am for you."_ Tribbalt drew his too.

Romulo approached, his gently flailing arms perfectly illustrating his wish for peace. _"Come Mercutron, put thy phaser up."_

But alas, it was in vain. Mercutron and Tribbalt lunged for one another, both weapons scattering really far away across the stage. As they began to grapple, blaring music rose from the orchestra.

Suddenly, Splurg realised that he was really quite enjoying this, and Sprilda knew it. "Okay," he said reluctantly. "It's not all bad, I guess."

"I told you!" Sprilda beamed. "William Shatner's the best playwright who ever lived!"

20

That's the Third One This Week!

"Mirror, mirror on the wall..."

There was a loud crash and a shower of fairy dust. The face in the mirror flickered briefly, a look of horror upon it, before being replaced by solid blue. The message, "Unhandled exception. Contact your Fairy Godmother or technical support group for further assistance," appeared in the extreme top left corner.

"Oh, bloody hell!" snapped Medusa, stamping her foot. "Now how am I supposed to find out who's the fairest of them all?"

21

My Spidey Sense is Troubling

The shatterproof ruler caught the mugger across the face with a sound like a pigeon smacking into a recently cleaned windowpane.

"Ow, man!" the criminal did a little hopping dance, hand pressed firmly to his cheek. "Aah. That's going to puff up like crazy."

"That's right!" The Astounding Welt pointed a chubby pink finger. "Crazy like you'd have to be to snatch purses when I'm on the job." The point was a little laboured, but it got the job done.

"When are you not on the job? It seems like you've been slapping me with that ruler every day this week."

"Which would suggest you've been out mugging people every day this week." The Astounding Welt hefted his ruler menacingly.

"My criminal activities are the result of a system of government that forces the individual to shoulder unreasonable burdens on the grounds of personal accountability while simultaneously using public money to prop up large financial institutions when they inevitably collapse due to reckless business practices. Also a penal system that frequently leaves prisoners less able to support themselves through legitimate means than when they went in."

"Wow." The masked hero tucked the ruler back into his famous utility welt. "Now I just feel like a jerk."

"Eh." The mugger shrugged. "Everybody's got problems." He sat down on the curb. "You sound pretty tense. Everything okay?"

"Ahhhh." The Astounding Welt sat down too. "Honestly? No. I used to patrol these streets with the Amazing Spiderguy, but it turns out he's privately been struggling with chloephobia for a while now..."

"Huh?"

"Chloephobia: fear of newspapers. I really shouldn't be telling you this, but a lot of us superheroes have jobs in the media. Partly it gives us a reason to suddenly shoot off from our jobs when there's supervillainy afoot, partly...I don't know...I guess we've just got a thing for it. I know loads of guys—and girls—that have dated reporters. But Spiderguy..."

The mugger nodded. "I guess the news really wasn't his thing."

"It's just so weird." The Astounding Welt made his hands into fists, grappling with this new insight into his friend's psyche. "He'd been working at the _Daily Bungle_ for years! Now all of a sudden he just asks me to take over all his superhero duties. Won't tell me when he'll be back on his feet. All those years at the paper...you'd think he'd have got used to it!"

"Or maybe it was just steadily getting too much for him." The mugger put a hand on the hero's shoulder. "I know it's hard to imagine how something as harmless as a newspaper could bring a superhero down, but that's all the more reason to be a little understanding. You just don't know what he's dealing with."

The Astounding Welt sighed. "You're right. As soon as I'm finished this patrol, I'll go and talk to him."

"Maybe wait for him to talk to you. You don't want him to think you're just trying to drag him back out on patrol."

"Yeah, I guess. And besides—there's always online journalism. I'm sure he'll find something." He stood.

"I really shouldn't be saying this," said the mugger, "but I hope your friend's back on his feet and fighting crime soon."

"Thanks." The Astounding Welt turned to leave, paused, then rummaged for something in his utility welt. "By the way, if you ever want to be more than just 'the mugger,' maybe this could get you started." He held out a simple black superhero eye-mask.

The mugger took the mask and stared at it in disbelief. "But...I don't have any superpowers."

"You have compassion," the hero smiled, "and that's a kind of superpower."

**Meanwhile, in Spiderguy's apartment...**

"Hello? Helloooooooo? If anyone can hear me, I'm in the bathtub. I drained the water out because I was getting wrinkly, but now I'm cold. Hellooooooo..."

22

Here, There and Everywhere

**Challenge #10: Collaborate with one or two other writers, featuring a journey between places you live or have lived. The journey must involve an unusual method of transport and the story must not include any adverbs.**

_This story was written in collaboration with_ G. Deyke _, who wrote everything up to "The tour was neither..." and_ SCFrankles _, who wrote everything from "They started to eat" onwards. My contribution was the section in the middle._

"I've had it." Paul grabbed his guitar and strode out the door.

"You can't—" Ringo ran after him. "Hey, you can't leave!"

Paul spun to face him. "You know what? We aren't—weren't—even that good. Losing a member can't make it worse."

The audience glared.

Ringo glared back. A handful of people from a handful of villages—there were fewer people in the tent than there were cigarette stubs. As they continued to play, he saw several groups come in, look at the three-Beatle stage, listen to a few bars of a three-Beatle song, and leave. He suspected that their potential fans living in Kottspiel—who could hear the music from outside the tent—weren't bothering to come in at all. It was obvious what was wrong.

"There are meant to be four Beatles," said John. "We'll need another Paul."

" _Paul_. Ha!" Ringo jutted his chin at the audience. " _They're_ the problem. No appreciation. It's like they don't know what they're listening to."

"Beatles covers short one member?"

"We don't need a Paul. _Paul is dead_ _._ "

"Er... right." John wasn't sure how many people would get it.

"You know what? We should go to Reading. Play at the Festival. Maybe we'd get to play for people with some _culture._ "

John and George stared at him. They both appeared to have been struck speechless.

"Come _on_ , guys. It'll be a Magical Mystery Tour!"

They surrendered in the face of the glint in his eye. "Fine."

***

The tour was neither as magical nor as mystical as Ringo had suggested. In fact, it was less a tour and more a mundane plane journey with a budget airline. John's complimentary pillow smelled like sick and George's seat wouldn't stay in any position except tilted all the way back. The train into Reading itself wasn't much better, and when they got off they spotted someone getting mugged just outside the station, which John hoped wasn't typical for Reading but suspected was. The...atmosphere sure was different from the more low-key, rural gigs they were used to playing.

At the festival itself, however, things started to look up.

"Hey," said George, "there's a lot of musicians here. Maybe we'll even be able to find ourselves another Paul before we go on stage!"

They didn't. Ringo had been right about one thing: the Reading Festival did draw people with culture. Enough culture that a three-man Beatles tribute act didn't cut it. They weren't so much booed off the stage as beered off. Squeezing Carling out of his '70s fringe, John joined the others backstage.

"Hey, maaan." A man with a long grey ponytail and a faded tie-dye T-shirt approached Ringo. "I dug your three-man groove. Because, like, Paul is dead, right?"

"Yeah!" Ringo grinned. "See, I told you!" He looked around at the others. "This guy gets it!"

John and George looked at one another. The hippy seemed to be a few eggmen short of a walrus. Still, it was nice to have a fan.

"Here." The ageing hippy handed Ringo a large square cake. "Those guys may not appreciate what you guys are doing, but I do. I want you to have this."

"Wow!" said Ringo. "Thanks!"

"Are you, uhh..." George leaned over. "Are you sure that's okay to eat?"

"Oh, come on, guys! It's homemade for sure—that guy must have put a lot of effort into it. Dig in!"

They started to eat.

"Unusual flavour," said George.

"Nothing wrong with mine," Ringo said.

The turquoise words floated out of his mouth and hung over his head.

"Er..." said George.

"What?" The four letters floated up, rearranged themselves to "thaw" and dripped on Ringo's hair.

John was staring into the sky. "The birds are singing," he whispered.

"So?" Ringo turned to the giant pig at his side. "I'll be with you in a moment, madam."

"They're singing selections from Elton John's greatest hits..."

But Ringo was deep in conversation.

"So, you're Lucy," he said.

"Yes—Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds! I know you're looking for a Paul and I can help you."

She turned round and showed him a rocket strapped to her back.

Ringo gasped.

Lucy faced him again. "I will transport you all to the magical city of Liverpool—there to find your new fourth member!"

"Will it take long, O Rocket Pig?" said Ringo.

"Nah," said Lucy. "About four hours if you follow the M6."

She ascended and indicated the basket that was now hanging from her chest.

"Climb aboard!"

"Come on," yelled Ringo. "This rocket pig is taking us to Liverpool to find a Paul."

George and John looked over and both squinted at where Ringo was pointing.

Then John grinned. "You're right. It is a rocket pig. Thought for a moment you were seeing things."

"What is this rocket-piggery..?" muttered George but he clambered in with his fellow band members.

Lucy rose into the sky and before they knew it they had touched down in Liverpool, next to the Beatles Museum.

"Go inside," said Lucy. "You will find whom you seek."

So they did and they saw...

"It's Paul," said Ringo. " _The_ Paul—Paul McCartney!"

They approached in adoration.

Looking up, Paul smiled.

"Please," said Ringo. "Would you consider joining our band? We have need of a fourth member."

Paul shrugged. "Why not? Sounds like fun."

"Our quest is at an end," said Ringo. "And now I'm going to have a little sleep."

Ringo, George and John lapsed into unconsciousness.

When Ringo came round, a normal-sized pig was chewing on his hair. Raising his head, Ringo blinked. "So it was all a dream..."

"Er," said George, who had got to his feet. "Paul McCartney isn't Paul McCartney."

John gulped. "It's Ringo Starr."

"Hello." Mr. Starr gave a little wave. "I still want to be in the group."

Ringo eased himself up and stood with mouth gaping, staring at the former Beatle.

Then he frowned.

"Well, that's no good. What are we going to do with two Ringos?"

23

As 'Tis the Custom

Long, long ago in a land far, far away, a knight rode bravely through a dark, dark wood. His armour was strong, and his sword was true, and so when he met a terrible ogre upon the road, he did not hesitate to step down from his horse and prepare to do battle with the evil creature.

"Hark, yon beast!" he said, levelling his sword at the creature. "I prithee, face my blade in honoured battle. Though thou be but a base monster, you must know this would be better than to turn away, and be run down in ignoble flight."

"Sorry," said the ogre, "I didn't catch any of that."

"Dost thine low intellect wrestle with my noble tongue? Then plain let me be. I challenge you to single combat, as 'tis the custom 'twixt knight and villain." He made a flourish with his sword for good measure.

"Honestly," said the ogre, "it's like talking to Ozzy Osbourne!"

The knight stumbled back in horror, clutching his horse's reins to stay upright. "Dost thou sully our tale with..." he lifted his visor momentarily to spit, then snapped it down again "...pop culture references?"

The ogre put his hands on his hips. "I _dost_ indeed."

The knight straightened up. "Then thou art twice the blaggard I didst think. Have at thee!" and he lunged forward.

But "Aha!" cried the ogre, whipping a large, horseshoe-shaped magnet from behind his back, even though he obviously hadn't been holding one a second ago. The knight's sword flew out of his hand and stuck to it with a comical boinging sound.

"Verily this is beyond the bounds of natural philosophy! Why dost thou mock our conflict with this implausible levity?"

"I don't know." The ogre pressed a finger to the point of the sword, testing its sharpness. "I just thought it was funny. Also, it keeps the swordfight suitable for a very young audience: you don't want anybody actually getting stabbed."

The knight glared. "Truly thou art a bast..."

"Uh-uh-uh!" The ogre wagged a finger. "Let's keep it PG, alright? I don't want the censors on my ass."

"But...didst you not just..."

"I was talking about my wisecracking donkey friend. He's not here now, but if things start to look unsuitable for children, the censors hop on him and start following me around. It's a real pain in the ass—by which I mean carrying the censors makes the donkey's back ache."

"Mine rage boils over!" shouted the knight, grabbing a crossbow from his horse's pack. "Not only dost thou reference pop culture, thine flagrant disregard for the natural order and free discourse upon the nature of our medium stretches suspension of disbelief to breaking point!" With some difficulty, he drew the crossbow. "I'll fire mine bolt into thine brain!"

"Woah, woah, woah!" The ogre put his hands up in a "stop a minute" gesture. "You think _I'm_ stretching suspension of disbelief? First of all, nobody in the history of the world has ever talked like you do. Ever. I mean, you keep switching between 'thou' and 'you.' Pick one! Beyond that, why on Earth are you riding around in full plate armour? It's hardly casual wear, you know. And finally, sorry to be such a pedant, but you can't _fire_ a crossbow at all. That term won't even be invented for a couple of hundred years."

"Well..." the knight lowered the crossbow. "Those things art trivial and inconsequential."

"Right. Because small clumsy anachronisms are fine, but obvious deliberate ones are right out." The ogre walked past the knight and away down the road.

The knight glanced around the dark, dark wood, then clambered back onto his horse. "I liked this place better when the ogres just said 'grr.'"

24

The Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny

**Challenge #11: Write a story featuring two fields of action and using the name of your favourite song as a title. The story may be no more than 256 words long and must break the fourth wall.**

"At last!" Skalthrag1 cackled. "The Orb of Ithrael2 is mine!"

Londrea3 struggled to her feet, using her enchanted longsword4 for support. "The Orb will never be yours, tyrant! Not as long as any citizen of Nurnheim5 stands against your villainy!"

"You know nothing of the Orb!" Skalthrag held it aloft, pacing madly before her on the field of battle. "For it was not your ancestors6 who tamed the star, but mi-7

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1 _CRASH!_ The fourth incarnation of the Gal'khag.

2 _THUMP!_ The remains of the star, Ithrael, whose light was consumed during the War of the Second Era.

3 _BANG!_ Forty-second in the lineage of Bael.

4 _WHUMP!_ The blade Shadowbane. Forged for the War of the First Era by the legendary hero, Vanmar.

5 _THUD!_ The ancestral home of the noble Frost Elves.

6 _WHAM!_ The Elder Clan, who sailed into the heavens upon a golden barge at the close of the Third Era.

7 _"OUCH!"_ said Skalthrag, rubbing his shin. "Who keeps leaving these note thingies underfoot?"

25

Running Joke

"If you do another banana story this year, I will kick you in the groin."

"Okay, fine. I promise I won't do another story consisting of nothing but banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana bananouch, my groin!"

26

Black Throne White Noise

**Challenge #12: Write a story based on the work of David Bowie, featuring a cross-dressing, transgender or androgynous character. The story must begin with a hook and end with a twist.**

"Another mead."

The barmaid slid the mug across the bar, watching in fascination as the leather-clad patron tipped his head back, angled the drink over the slotted faceplate of his helmet, and poured. It wasn't exactly neat, but the chugging noises suggested that it was at least effective, and that was something.

"Hey, honey," said the regular with the ample bosom and prominent Adam's apple. "That's quite a talent you've got there. And I like your style. Want to make me scream like a baby?"

"No." He set the mug down and sighed.

There was a pause. The barmaid dunked a dirty glass into a bucket of water.

"This is really going to bother me if I don't ask...are you a man or a woman?"

"Honey," said the regular, "I can be whatever you want me to be."

"Hmm..." another pause. "Still no."

"Humph," said the regular, storming away with a flourish of his or her bipperty-bopperty hat.

The guy with the helmet stared into his empty mug for a moment. "I could do with another."

The barmaid poured it out.

"You don't have to take that personal," she explained as she slid the mug over. "I'm not entirely okay with it going on in here myself, but it's just business."

Another sigh. The mug of mead vanished through the faceplate just like the three before it, and the drinker rested his head on the edge of the bar. He looked unwashed and somewhat slightly dazed.

"So..." the barmaid tried to spark up a conversation in some way that wasn't painfully awkward. It didn't work. "You seem pretty down. Want to talk about it?"

"No." His voice was muffled by the wooden countertop.

"Want to talk about something else then?"

"No." He rolled his head over to one side, so he didn't just have his face pressed against the wood. The barmaid supposed it was the next best thing to actually sitting up. "I want another mead."

"Don't you think you should pace yourself a bit?"

"I'm not drunk."

"You've had four already!"

"Most of it just soaks into my collar."

The barmaid set down the glass she'd been wiping. "People who aren't drunk tend to take their helmets off in order to consume more alcohol."

"You know how when some people are reckless teenagers, they get bad tattoos and then just have to deal with it for the rest of their lives?"

"Yeah?"

"When I was a reckless teenager, I got a helmet. Now I just have to deal with it."

"Oh. So..."

"It's permanent, yeah."

"Ah." She poured another mug of mead and carried it over. He sat up to take it. "My name's Eleanor, by the way."

He tipped half the drink through his faceplate. "I'm the Dungeon Lord."

"Aaaaaaah." Eleanor winked. "I get you. And that does explain the outfit..."

The Dungeon Lord groaned, slumping forward once more.

"What's wrong?"

"That. Everything. I had an actual dungeon, but everyone ended up mistaking it for something...kinky. In the end I just couldn't do it anymore."

"Oh." Eleanor thought for a bit. "Well 'Dungeon Lord' is bound to give the wrong idea. Why didn't you just use your real name?"

"My real name is Girth Loinhammer."

A barbarian at the other end of the bar burst out laughing.

"Okay," said Eleanor. "I'll admit you've definitely been dealt some low cards."

The Dungeon Lord took an angry gulp of mead. "All I wanted was to get unlimited power and money by hurting people. But it always ends up turning into some weird sex thing. I've tried everything! I set up one of those snake cults, I bought my own island, I became a general in the legions of Shagamemnon..."

"Oh dear."

"Yeah. That was a particularly bad one. After that I went for a whole different genre altogether and took up a job as a starman. Figured I'd join a spaceship crew, then just spend all my time waiting in the sky, beating up anyone else who landed on my asteroid and maybe looking for satellites to hold for ransom."

"Well what went wrong there?"

The Dungeon Lord took a deep breath. "Green, three-boobed alien women wanting to be taught the Earth-concept of love."

"I see." Eleanor rinsed and dried another mug. The Dungeon Lord drained his. "Do you not think your real problem might be that you're determined to use violence to solve everything? Maybe you'd have better luck if you tried to take up a different lifestyle altogether. If nothing else, you'd be less likely to bump into the unsavoury characters you've been meeting so far."

The Dungeon Lord thought about this. He shook his head. "Violence and torture are what I do. It just bothers me that I can't do what I do without the situation becoming really, really uncomfortable. For me." It seemed important to clarify that.

"That's just it!" Eleanor ploughed her fingers through her hair. "I'm not saying that you should race out and do anything you're uncomfortable with, but it's worrying that you seem to be more troubled by the prospect of romance than violence. Maybe if you were just a little nicer to other people, you'd stop ending up in that kind of situation and perhaps find a relationship you actually..."

"You know what?" The Dungeon Lord stood. "I came here to forget my problems. I shouldn't have to listen to a lecture from you. And I shouldn't have to change who I am just to avoid everything suddenly heading towards sex. And I...don't...seem to have any money to pay you for the drinks. I'm very sorry. Dungeoning was my only source of income and that ticket to Space really ate into my finances."

"Oh, that's okay," said Eleanor. "I'm sure we can...come to some other arrangement."

The Dungeon Lord stared at her, eyes welling with tears. Then he ran out of the tavern, blubbering.

"Wait!" shouted Eleanor, after him. "I only meant you could wash some of these mugs!"

27

A Damp Squib

Professor Hattersley took his place at the podium, ignoring the less than kind murmurs that spread through the audience as he crossed the stage. Talk didn't bother him. For one thing, he was used to it. For another, after this conference the talk would be different. He set the shoebox-sized casket of gold and lapis lazuli before him.

"Esteemed colleagues," he began. "I am aware that my research has drawn a certain amount of scorn in the past, and I appreciate that a degree of scepticism is only healthy." The murmurs showed no sign of abating. If there was one good thing about being an academic pariah, it was that it did wonders for one's public speaking skills. He spoke louder. "The idea that the deities of ancient Egypt were not merely the invention of a primitive society, but powerful visitors from another dimension, will no doubt have a dramatic effect on Egyptology, and indeed the study of all ancient civilizations."

"This is just conjecture!" shouted a no-nonsense delegate at the back of the room. "You've never provided so much as a shred of evidence for the ideas presented in any of your books."

A hearty chorus of "hear hear" went around the auditorium.

"I have provided enough evidence," retorted Hattersley, "for anyone who is prepared to accept it. And I will provide much more. Behold!" He held the box aloft.

"That could have come from any New Age hippy woo shop." One of the speakers sitting in the front row flapped a hand dismissively.

"As a matter of fact, it did." Professor Hattersley tapped the lid of the box. "But though this item may be made of plastic, its design is based on a ruined original believed to have been associated with King Scorpion, and that design is what matters. That, and the summoning incantations I discovered on my most recent expedition. These have, of course, already been performed." He smiled, waving a hand over the box.

"I'm sorry," a reporter at the side of the room spoke up. Until now she had been looking pretty bored. "Do you mean to say that inside that box...there is a god?"

"That is exactly what I am saying." Hattersley grinned. "But the sacred charms I recovered do not merely summon this god—they will allow me to command it." Without a word more, he whipped the lid from the box.

Suddenly, there was a blinding light that obscured the entire stage. When it faded, there stood before the podium one of the strange, animal-headed figures every member of the audience was so familiar with. Its head was that of a lioness, and it regarded the mass of observers with a cold, distant gaze.

"Oh my goodness..." one delegate whispered to another, "I think that's Sekhmet!"

"I don't think so," replied the other. "Sekhmet was the focus of my thesis—she's usually pictured robed in red. More likely this is..."

"SEE ME!" boomed the goddess on the stage. "I AM TEFNUT—GODDESS OF MOISTURE!"

"Prove it!" shouted the delegate at the back.

The goddess opened her mouth and produced a hissing chant, like ten thousand leaves swaying in unison. Suddenly, the room was quite humid.

"Amazing!" the delegate at the back had to concede. "Tell me...can you do more than this?"

"NO," replied Tefnut. "IF I DID MORE THAN THIS, THE ROOM WOULD NOT BE MOIST. IT WOULD BE WET. IF YOU WANT THE ROOM TO BECOME WET, YOU SHOULD SUMMON ANUKET—GODDESS OF THE NILE—OR IT MIGHT BE EASIER TO JUST SPRAY IT WITH A HOSE."

"Wait..." Professor Hattersley peered from behind the podium, where he'd been hiding. "Do you mean to say I've spent my entire career searching for you...and you're basically just a supernatural humidifier? You can't do anything else at all?"

"THERE IS ONE OTHER THING I CAN DO."

"Go on then."

Tefnut stared blankly at him.

"I command you," shouted Hattersley, "show me!"

Tefnut stepped down from the stage and approached the speaker in the front row, who began to panic. "SCRIBE," she said, "YOUR LIPS ARE DRY." So she stretched out a hand and pointed to his lips, and they were dry no longer.

"Thank you!" stammered the speaker. "I left my chapstick on the plane and I've been without it for days...thank you so much!"

Professor Hattersley slapped a palm to his forehead. "Is that really all you can do?"

"THERE IS YET ONE MORE THING," said Tefnut.

"Yes?" Hattersley tapped his foot.

"IF ANYBODY HAS A DISAPPOINTING TURKEY SANDWICH, I CAN..."

"That's it." Professor Hattersley pulled the microphone from his lapel and threw it to the ground. "I quit."

28

How the Fox Got His Cry

Long ago, when the forest was young, a fox was walking amongst the trees. He had not been walking far when he came across a little frog croaking by a puddle. Immediately, the fox seized the frog, and would have swallowed it down in one gulp if the frog hadn't spoken.

"You may as well let me go, fox," said the frog. "I can make myself far too big for you to eat."

"Go on, then," said the fox, "show me."

So the frog gulped in many breaths to swell itself, and it did indeed look too big to eat.

But the fox saw how it was done. "This is nothing but air," scoffed the fox, and he swallowed the frog breath and all.

The fox had not walked much farther when he came across a little squirrel nibbling pinecones on the path. Immediately, he seized it, and would have swallowed it down in one gulp had the squirrel not spoken.

"You may as well let me go, fox," said the squirrel. "I can make myself far too big for you to eat."

"Go on, then," said the fox, "show me."

So the squirrel bristled up its fur, and it did indeed look too big to eat.

But the fox saw how it was done. "This is nothing but fluff," scoffed the fox, and he swallowed the squirrel fur and all.

The fox had not walked much farther than this when he came across a tiny new butterfly just emerged from its cocoon. This creature the fox did not even need to seize, for it was still too frail to escape. But the butterfly saw the fox approach, and it spoke.

"You may as well let me go, fox," said the butterfly, "I can make myself far too big for you to eat."

At this, the fox laughed. "You are almost too small to be worth eating! How can you become too big?"

So the butterfly flipped open its wings, and suddenly it was not a butterfly, but two huge eyes staring back at the fox, who now felt very small indeed.

"How!?" cried the fox, confused and afraid, and he fled back the way he came, terrified that the butterfly—with its great hunting eyes—would come and eat him. At night, sometimes you can hear him crying still: "How!? How!?"

29

Some Manner of Shocking Twist

**Challenge #13: Write an epistolary story in response to a piece of flash fiction written by another author this month. The story must include at least one dead character, at least one nameless character, and at least one cat.**

**This story is a response to** Joe Wright **'s piece, "**Toil and Trouble **," included here:**

" _Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn the power of man, for none of woman born shall harm Macbeth," wailed the apparition, dripping gore as it floated around the room.  
"That sounds suspiciously like the set-up for some manner of shocking twist," said Macbeth, raising an eyebrow. "Oh God, is it Flash Fiction Month again already?"_

Dear Miss MacAbre,

I have a somewhat embarrassing problem. As a recently deceased usurper of the throne, I'm having some difficulty adjusting to the afterlife. I understand that's totally normal, and I've been very impressed by the advice on offer. The leaflet I was given upon arrival— _So You've Been Besieged by an Army of Guys Dressed Like Trees and Your C-section Rival Lopped Your Head Off_ —was both helpful and unnervingly specific. I've taken everything it says on board and, though it's hardly smooth sailing, I feel that I'm making good progress. My wife, who died shortly before me, seems to have acclimatised much more quickly and has already succeeded in gaining employment with a local magazine.

My real problem is that while I am content to slowly adjust to life after death, my wife is pressuring me to commit regicide once again. This causes no end of worry, as not only did it not work out so well for me last time, it is actually the same king. I fear that murdering him a second time would threaten to end our already strained friendship.

I love my wife dearly, and have tried to divert her attention from what I believe to be a doomed enterprise by adopting an adorable kitten named Spot. Sadly, my wife does not share my affection for him and upon seeing him will invariably attempt to shoo him outside. Also, I fear that distracting her with a pet or hobby would not address the underlying problem in our relationship.

I eagerly await your advice. Also, if there's any chance anyone at your publication would be able to look after a small but very energetic kitten, I would be much obliged.

Yours sincerely,

Anonymous

***

Dear Anonymous,

Boo hoo hoo! You sound like such a whiny little girl. If I were a man, instead of a lady, I would totally murder that king so hard! In fact, I wish I wasn't a lady so that I could actually murder him. I would be, like, soooo full of cruelty and thick blood and junk. And manly. _Really_ manly. Just like you should be, except you're not, because you suck. You big wuss.

Go kill Duncan again, and do it right this time.

Yours sincerely,

Lady MacAbre

***

Dear Miss MacAbre,

I've taken your advice, but I can't help but feel that I'm just going round in circles. Everything is happening the same as before, only this time people seem to be much, much, _much_ more suspicious of me. I didn't like to mention this initially, but a _lot_ of people who were around for my first stint on the throne are also dead now, and it's hard to persuade them that I didn't kill the king's ghost. Frankly I feel kind of guilty that they're even giving me the benefit of the doubt.

Anonymous

***

Anonymous,

It's fine. Just throw a big banquet. Get 'em so drunk they don't know what's what! Also, if any of these people gave you trouble last time around, this would totes be the time to bump them off. Live and learn, right? Well, learn anyway.

MacAbre

***

Dear "Miss MacAbre,"

I didn't exactly study at Wittenberg, but I'm pretty sure it's not a good idea to plan multiple murders in the "Help and Healing" section of a widely-read magazine. While I'd like nothing more than to see both of you get your comeuppance, I personally would prefer it if you didn't arrive in the after-afterlife quite so soon.

Regards,

Banquo's Ghost's Ghost

***

Too late. He's your problem now.

MacAbre

***

Not anymore.

Banquo's Ghost's Ghost

***

I think we should see other people. "Till death do us part" and all that. You can keep the cat.

Macbeth's Ghost's Ghost's Ghost

30

The Samaritan of Fourth Street

**Challenge #14: Write a 666 word urban fantasy story featuring a monk or holy person. It must begin with an argument, and the main character must be marginalised in some way.**

"What did I tell you about coming here? Fourth Street's ours!"

The voice carried all the way up to the window of Vittore's fifth floor apartment. He glanced down at the street below, but couldn't see anything out in the open. It was the alley with the bins again. It always was.

"And what did I tell you? This bit ain't Fourth. You on _our_ turf."

"The hell I am! Get out of here, dog!"

"What did you just call me?"

"You heard... _dog_."

There was a snarl, and a crash as something bashed into the dumpster around the side. Vittore grabbed his keys from the bowl, locking the door with a trembling hand. He knew that the fight would be over before he'd even hobbled to the elevator, but he had been a priest once, and despite—perhaps even due to—having been cast out of the church, he could not simply sit inside like the rest of the residents and pretend not to hear. The doors pinged open, and he stepped inside.

When the elevator reached the ground floor, Vittore was surprised to find that he did not need to go any farther. A girl in a battered grey hoodie was sitting on a bench by the main doors. Vittore's neighbour Mrs. Rennolls was standing over her.

"You can't just walk out of here." She said it with force. "I'm calling an ambulance."

Vittore stepped forward. "I'm sure that won't be necessary." He put on his most convincing voice, taking care to hold eye contact with his neighbour. "I'll see to it that she gets home safely."

"There's gangs out there!" Mrs. Rennolls waved an arthritic hand towards the doors. "And they're dangerous! All that fighting..."

Vittore had been momentarily taken aback—when he had a mind to persuade someone, they usually came around immediately—but he recovered quickly. Where polite persuasion failed, there were other methods. He stepped towards Mrs. Rennolls, baring his teeth. "You would do well not to interfere with what you don't understand."

Mrs. Rennolls shrunk back. "Alright, dear." She started towards the elevator. "If you're sure."

Vittore waited until the doors closed and the floor number started counting up before speaking to the girl. "Are you hurt?"

"Just a little, Clanfather." She unfolded her arms, revealing a sharpened length of dowel jutting out from just beneath her ribcage. When she tugged it out, the wound did not bleed.

"If that had been a little higher," said Vittore, sternly, "you would be dust right now. Was that one trespasser really worth risking your life over?"

"It wasn't about that one," she replied. "Everywhere we go, they're watching out for us. _Everyone's_ watching out for us. But they only stand out at the full moon."

"I know, child." Vittore placed a hand on her shoulder. "So choose your battles better. It will be a full moon tonight, but now you're in no shape to defend the clan."

She stared at her scruffy canvas sneakers. "I'm sorry."

"You'll do better next time."

Vittore spent the evening quietly watching TV. He would have liked to read, but his eyes weren't what they used to be and the large print section at the library had little to offer him. He considered that he wasn't much help to the clan now either. Unfortunately, for him there was no next time. The most he could provide now was a stern word or some brief advice, and even then there weren't many opportunities. That was why, when he heard a muffled thud from the apartment next door, he went to investigate.

"Mrs. Rennolls?" he shouted through the wood.

"In here!"

Vittore reached for the handle, then hesitated. "Are you inviting me in?" he asked to make sure.

"Yes. It's open."

Vittore stepped inside and found Mrs. Rennolls collapsed in front of the sofa, tufts of fur sprouting from her cardigan, claws sprouting from her fingertips.

Yellow eyes looked up. "I think I've thrown my back out...somehow. Little help?"

31

One Year One Day

**Challenge #15: Write a story featuring summertime, and a multi-headed entity. It must include a word beginning with "f" in every sentence, become progressively more insane, and be written in the form of a 369er. A 369er is three different stories that are each exactly 69 words long, that are connected by a common theme, and meant to be read together.**

Even without looking closely, you can tell that someone managed to survive here—alone and desperate—for quite some time. The festering animal bones in the corners of the room make you glad of your respirator. There are pages of writing scattered about the floor, but the hand is jagged, illegible. Your superiors refuse to tell you what happened here, and for the first time, you do not care.

***

We have watched a flaring match blaze into the sky. Oldself knows this is signalsymbol for canvasbirds flying overhead. We mastered such once, flicking switchsticksockets behind eyes glass. We once glad pilot training trusted mission special payload for gloryforce air. But newself has no formshapehandslimbsorder. Failure forced bailout made tankrupturerelease. No matter now, for someone is at the door. For we will greet. For we will make them new.

***

DOWNED PLANE HAS BEEN FOUND STOP

FERNIOT COUNTER CONFIRMS SEVERE CONTAMINATION OF CRASH SITE STOP

PASS UNNAVIGABLE EXCEPT IN SUMMER USING FULL TRACKED VEHICLE STOP

FIRST PILOT CONFIRMED DEAD BUT SECOND UNACCOUNTED FOR STOP

LOCAL WILDLIFE EXHIBITING FULL RANGE OF ALICE INDUCED ABERRATIONS STOP

SIGHTED FAUNA WITH MULTIPLE HEADS SPINY PROTRUSIONS WHIPLIKE APPENDAGES STOP

RECOMMEND FLAMETHROWERS TO CLEAR AFFECTED FOREST STOP

FORCES EXPENDABLE BUT PAYLOAD MUST BE RECOVERED STOP

Statistical Analysis

Well, here we are. You've (presumably) read all the fun stuff, and now you're stuck with this statistical analysis of the event. You've gobbled down all the nice chocolates in the box—and they were _sweet_ —but now you're stuck with nothing but coconut. Dry, mathematical coconut. Sure, you could just skip this section. You could just chuck all those coconut chocolates in the bin, still lovingly encased in their shiny blue wrappers. But you won't. You'll wolf down this unappealing block of graphs, and do you know why? _Because I heard some guy say you couldn't._

Let's get started.

Fig. 1: As you can see, this graph wasn't quite ready for its moment in the spotlight and is currently having a mini freak-out.

Fig. 1 is a style of graph I've been using since I first started doing this in 2012. While the word count across individual days (red line, square markers) makes trends hard to interpret because it forms such a spiky line, taking an average across five days (green line, triangular markers) smoothes things out and makes it much easier to see what—if anything—is going on.

What appears to be going on is that word counts across the month remained reasonably steady (or steadily erratic, if you want to look at it like that) with a bit of a slump in the middle. Besides a fairly impressive peak at around 900 words on Day 10, there's not a lot else going on. Compare that to previous years:

Fig. 2: This graph illustrates variations in topography across Middle Earth—from the Shire to the Misty Mountains to Mordor. Just kidding, it's more average word counts.

I'll admit, this one's kind of confusing. However, that's partly because the average word counts for all three years start off so similar. For about a week near the beginning, there's not more than about 200 words difference between the three years. It's only towards the end that they really start to separate out, with my first attempt at Flash Fiction Month finishing off with a long string of short stories, my second attempt ending on a high note, and this year's work wrapping up pretty solidly in between the two. Which sort of screws up my analysis from last year in which I concluded that the first Flash Fiction Month, combined with eleven months of miscellaneous writing experience, had made me better able to produce work more consistently on demand.

So yeah. I'm starting to think that my B in GCSE Maths hasn't really set me up to do this kind of thing in a statistically rigorous fashion.

Fig. 3: I may as well just have been sticking pictures of cats in here all this time.

But it's not all doom and gloom. Having now participated in Flash Fiction Month three years in a row—producing nearly a hundred individual stories in the process—I've collected enough data to do some things that I couldn't before. For example, up until now I've been relying on averages across five days to explore trends over the course of each month. But now that I've got three events to work from, I can work out an average for each day across all three years!!!

Okay, it's probably not exciting enough to warrant three exclamation marks, but here it is anyway:

Fig. 4: This graph is smooth and mellow, like the voice of James Earl Jones when he's not playing an asthmatic cyborg.

This graph shows a word count for each day of Flash Fiction Month (blue line, diamond markers) averaged across the 2012, 2013 and 2014 events. Obviously this is going to even out some of the extremes since I'm unlikely to produce a 1,000 or 55 word story on the same day each year. Day 11 is notable for its average word count of 979, as is Day 31 (the final challenge in both 2012 and 2014 demanded a 369er, requiring a word count of exactly 207).

To make any trends across the month clearer, I've also worked out an average across every five days of the three year average (red line, square markers). Put like that, it sounds anything but clear, but it does exactly the same thing as the five-day averages in Fig. 1 and 2: instead of taking into account every individual day, when I might have ended up with only twenty minutes to mash a story out of my keyboard or been handed a 999 word challenge, it averages out how I was doing on any given five days.

Changes in this five-day average are likely due to my personal performance varying over the course of the month: either a period of getting worn down or gaining a boost, or a run of unusually long or short stories. With the exception of the dip at the very end—caused entirely by Day 31's challenges bringing down the average for the previous two days—it looks as though I had a fairly steady run. There's a gentle peak around Day 10, perhaps due to me getting into the swing of things, followed by a slow decline up until about Day 23, then a boost during the last week (ignoring that anomalous Day 31).

Fig. 5: A man walks into a bar graph and...oh, you've heard that one?

While I'm basically making the assumption that "more words" equals "doing better," which is absolutely not true, it's...well, actually kind of true. It may be possible to write a brilliant, _Baby Shoes_ style masterpiece in only a handful of words, but during this kind of event a string of long, complex stories is naturally more of an achievement than a string of snippets thrown together just to get through the week. With that in mind, looking at the average words per day in any given year (alongside the minimum and maximum numbers of words possible, for perspective) should give some idea how it went. This year is middly. The stories have definitely been longer on average than they were for the first event, but it's nowhere near matching the average from last year's, which was pretty astonishing.

Still, it's not all about length. While I definitely feel like I had a harder time keeping up for portions of this year's event, I also think the quality has stayed reasonably consistent. I didn't write anything I really wasn't proud of, and I think even the stories that were written in less than ideal conditions—with very little time, on the road, in hotel rooms, that sort of thing—were inventive and entertaining. Overall, despite having now produced a hefty number of stories for Flash Fiction Month alone, I don't feel as though I'm running out of new ideas. In fact, I feel like I'm coming up with more than ever. And really, I think that's what this event is all about.

The End

Here we are: the end of the book. I hope you've enjoyed it. Also, if you're my nephew, I just want to take this opportunity to point out that at the time of writing you are less than a year old, so the fact that you're reading this means that this message has _travelled forward in time_ to reach you. Cool, right? Though given some of the jokes in this book, I hope it's travelled forward in time _significantly_ and that your mother is okay with it. For everyone else, please consider sharing this book with a friend: it won't cost you anything, it would really help me out, and I'm sure they'll enjoy it. Everyone's a winner!

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Books by Damon L. Wakes

**Prehistoric Fantasy:**

Face of Glass

**The** _Flash Fiction Month_ **Series:**

OCR is Not the Only Font

Red Herring

Bionic Punchline

Osiris Likes This
