Tags: air travel, flash fiction
Chuck’s Challenge this week was to spin the random wheel on whatever music we listen to, and the first song that comes up, use that as the title. Five hundred words. No other restrictions.
I was glad that a song by Paul Westerberg came up. I would have taken any song of his, any at all, just so I could tell you people that if you haven’t heard of him or haven’t heard him, give it a listen. He was quirky before Zooey Deschanel, and influential to a host of artists, including Kurt Cobain. (The album “Nevermind” is named after a song Westerberg wrote. No lie.) I had never heard of him before 2006, but based on a poorly recorded version of one his songs (“Attitude”) I drove 100 miles with a friend to see him. I was completely unfamiliar with all of his music, and it was one of the best concerts I had ever been to. There’s more to Milwaukee than just Prince.
To see more musical mayhem and fiction, two-step on over here:
Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: Song Shuffle Stories
The plane was falling from the sky.
The pilot and copilot were nervous, but professional. They were trying to find a place to put down.
The passengers’ emotions ran the full gamut from fear to scared-shitless. Two of the three flight attendants were scared but trying to remain calm for the passengers.
The third flight attendant, Diane, was angry as hell.
“Lynn, help me please!” Kyle was struggling with a hysterical passenger that had sucked him into an awkward wrestling match over the seat belt.
Diane was right there. Mr. Arnold had looked up expectantly when Diane appeared, because this fluffy effeminate flight attendant did not understand his deep need to go to the bathroom and change his underwear that he had peed in.
Diane grabbed him forcefully, by the face. She leaned in and whispered harshly to him, “I will rip your face off and eat it if you don’t sit still and be quiet immediately!”
Diane went to the front and grabbed the microphone. “Listen up, bitches. We are going to land and we will be okay. It’s going to be bumpy. It’s going to be a lot worse if every one of you doesn’t sit still and be quiet! You aren’t helping. Shut the fuck up, all of you! Are there any questions?”
A woman timidly raised her hand. Diane calmly put the mike down, went to her, and punched her in the face. She went back to the mike. “Any more questions?”
The flight attendants took their seats and strapped in. Lynn pulled out her rosary. Kyle nervously tapped his hands until he got a look from Diane, who was in mid-stew about her morning before getting on the plane.
While plane approached a small airstrip, she thought about how she came home to find Steve fucking another woman. How he tried to apologize and blame her at the same time. How he blamed her for being a glorified waitress in the sky, and was never home.
As they made their descent, she remembered how the other woman told him to shut up, and then helped Diane pack her bag because she couldn’t see or think straight. How she wasn’t mad at her, because he had lied to her also. As they skidded off the end of the too-short runway, she thought about how the woman gave her a ride to the airport.
When the emergency vehicles arrived Diane began to recall all the things that had seemed suspicious to her that she had just ignored, but which now her instincts told her she had been played.
The airline put them up in a hotel, of course, and the passengers and the crew were all fairly happy that the hotel was next to a bar. Diane had a plan.
After she and Lynn got into their room, Diane said, “I’m going to get drunk and get laid tonight. By the first asshole that hits on me. I’ll show Steve who’s a goddamn waitress in the sky.”
Tags: bodice ripper, fiction, flash fiction, historical fiction, serial killer, sub-genre mashup
Chuck’s flash fiction challenge this was another subgenre mash-up. I really like these, because I get to explore other kinds of writing. This week, we had to choose any two from this list: Dystopian Sci-Fi, Cozy Mysteries, Slasher or Serial Killer, Lost World, Spy Fiction, and Bodice Ripper. So if I tell you the two I chose, from that and other clues I expect you to be able to figure out the identity of the good doctor.
I chose Serial Killer and Bodice Ripper. The two really just go hand in hand.
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Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: Revenge of the Sub-Genre Mash-up
Anne-Marie first met the dashing young doctor at her aunt’s garden party. Initially she felt ambivalent about attending—
Until she met him. Anne-Marie felt a strange stirring in her loins, and she felt the heat rise to her bosom. She felt her cheeks flush, and dared not make eye contact.
The medical man noticed her symptoms straight away, and took pity on the young thing. “Good evening to you, Madam.” His dark eyes gazed forcefully at her, taking her in. She flushed more when he said, “You look stunningly beautiful this evening.”
At once he was close to her, taking in her perfumed scent and her warmth. Ann-Marie could sense his animal lust, barely concealed beneath the silk shirt and wool vest that kept him civilized. Were it not for the crowd, she thought, I would mount him this moment—
As if reading her thoughts, the doctor offered her a gloved hand. “Take a walk with me,” he ordered. He didn’t ask, he just ordered. His hot breath sent a cool chill down her neck as she crossed in front of him, acquiescing to his gentle demand.
“Wherewith would you take me, sir?”
“For a carriage ride, I think.” They were at his coach, just beyond the walls of the garden.
“But sir,” she purred at him, “you could take me most anywhere.”
“I intend to.” He gave her a hand up, steadying her by holding her thin, corseted waist. He told his driver, “Head over to Whitechapel, my good man,” before entering the coupe himself.
Anne-Marie said, “Whitechapel? That’s not the best part of town, is it?”
The doctor brushed it off as he sat close with his arm around her, immediately touching her lightly in exactly the right place. “It’s the perfect place for an adventure, my dear. And it’s on the way to my office.”
Thusly placated, Anne-Marie looked into his dark, hypnotic eyes. “I-I’ve never…I don’t do this sort of thing, you know. I don’t go off with just any man. I’m not a Pinchcock, I’ll have you know.”
The doctor was deftly maneuvering through her layers of clothing to get to her commodity. “Of course not, my dear. I don’t associate with those types.” He reached her mound and delicately caressed it with a gloved hand, eliciting a gasp from Ann-Marie. “Aye, but I bet you’re a bit of a bobtail, aren’t you?”
Breathily, desperate for his pulsating member, she reached for his trousers. The doctor drew back. “Aye, now’s not the time, love. Plenty for that later. Just enjoy the ride for now.” He held her and kissed her neck whilst he fingered her cock alley. Anne-Marie was breathing hard and fast and nearly there when the coach stopped.
A voice from above said, “Aye, sir, here are, then.” Quickly, Anne-Marie worked to regain her composure. After he helped her out, the handsome, mysterious doctor sent his driver off for the evening.
Shunting herself against the cold evening, and noticing an absence of streetlamps, Anne-Marie turned to hold herself against his hard, broad shoulders. “Are we far? From your office? Can we go there? I dislike this lowly part of town, it’s unsavory.”
He turned to her, and his dark eyes seemed cold, penetrating. “Really?” He grabbed her roughly and pushed her against the wall in an alley. “You seemed fine moments ago, when you were ready to salivate on my willy. Weren’t you?” He shook her at the last statement.
Anne-Marie felt as if she had been slapped. “What? How dare you—No. I am a lady, good sir. I would never—“
“Well, that’s not what I heard, milady.” A devious grin fell upon his face as he sneered the last word, and began roughly feeling her body. “I have it on good authority that you’d just as soon take three cocks at once.”
The heat and the sensual desire began to drain from Anne-Marie like a thick pudding into a rain barrel. The realization slowly came to her that she was in trouble. This was not a date. This was not brazen illicit sex. This was probably going to be a murder.
Trying to regain some control, and find a way to parlay, she put her hands on his chest tenderly, but it was unyielding. “Pl-please, kind sir. There’s no need for anything rash. I can make you feel good, I can.” Trembling, she put her head on his chest and held him, trying to get him to yield, to soften.
Or to harden, she thought. If I can get my hands on his lobcock, I can make him forget everything except my lips.
Her hands moved to the buttons of his trousers. He seemed to relax, and Anne-Marie made the barest motion of moving downward to open them. When she did, the doctor violently grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and threw her back against the other wall. “There’ll be none of that!” he hissed at her. “I knew it. I knew you were just like the others. All you want is a man’s private business. Well, ye not be getting mine. Not today!”
With that, the doctor began to unbutton his pants and open his breeches. To her horror, Anne-Marie saw that the doctor had neither willy nor bullocks. Instead was a scarred, horrible mass of flesh. She was in shock as he fastened his trousers back.
Shock was replaced with fear he pulled out a surgical knife, which shined in the dim light from blocks away. “Please, sir—please—“
Anne-Marie now begged for her life, and horrified that she could no longer curry favor with her sex. Maybe she can buy some time.
“Please, sir—I would—don’t kill me. Don’t kill me without telling me your name.”
The doctor paused briefly, and considered this odd statement. He shrugged. “My name is Jack.”
Jack then ripped Anne-Marie’s bodice from her. It made the next step easier.