Flash Fiction Daily

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Mar 1

Posts will be resuming soon™!

Beet Root, er, I Mean ReBoot!

Bad TV Fortnight over at Bark. Today, I take us back to the conception of computer animation with ReBoot!

Feb 4

Music Monday! Nujabes — Eclipse (Feat. Substantial)

When I say there’s a certain subset of rap that I particularly enjoy, I’m talking about amazing work like this. When music meets poetry.

Moriarty’s Lament

(The first in what I hope is a series of braided poems that steal lines from TV shows. First up is Moriarty from BBC’s Sherlock. Next will probably be the glory that is the 90s Hercules TV series)

Moriarty’s Lament

I’m disappointed in you, Sherlock
The sharpness of your cheekbones,
that ridiculous hat
I’m disappointed in you, Sherlock
I’d tell you more, describe
the hollowness before you
the hollowness after I
learned who you were,
but you’ve
already thought of everything

I’ll make you rich
I’ll make you into shoes
I’m fickle like that, but you already
knew that, didn’t you?
Knew that the line between
genius and child is not
drawn with the hands of a clock
or the sands in an hourglass,
but with delight in new toys.

You, Sherlock.
I’m disappointed in you
and I will skin you for it,
wear you like a mask and believe
for just one moment that someone like me
could have peace and be
simple. I am

disappointed!

Magic Beans

CGP Grey explains coffee and I stick it to the coffee snobs. Sort of. In this week’s Bark post!

Thaw

These books had opened up the world to me, had nursed me and fed life into my writing. Year after year, book after book, I fed on their pages greedily with an unsatisfiable hunger. It was these books in this library that gave me life, and it seemed only fitting that their final act was to preserve my own meager existence just a bit longer.

I took a copy of The Giving Tree and tossed it into the fire. It had given me lessons and comfort, and in its final act, its stump would burn after I had rested my ungrateful self on it for decades. If this book had been made out of that very tree, I liked to think that it would have given itself freely to the fire in order to keep me from freezing.

Outside, the blizzard intensified. It had been raging for two days. I leaned back against the stack of books I planned to burn next. College textbooks and Norton anthologies had long since been sacrificed to the god of combustion, and I had arranged to burn those books that I found it particularly amusing to burn. This library would eventually go up in smoke, but the ideas between the covers would remain. I felt no sadness, no despair, just the vague hope that the blizzard would die out and I could go on living.

Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle was the next to burn. Take that, Ice9, I thought. Let me consume your world of ice in fire. I held my hands out to the flames, and as my hands absorbed the heat, I could feel the words from the page creeping up my arms and into my mind. So it goes, so it goes.

Character Description: Ferdinand

(When at a loss as to what to write, sometimes just describing a quirky character can be a good warm up!)

Ferdinand avoided summer at all costs. It was his Muse. While other men of history might have been driven by money, power, women, or fame, Ferdinand strove to avoid the season of summer. He carried this motivation through childhood, where his young mind would explode with determination during summer vacations. In the sweltering and sticky heat of a Louisianan June, Ferdinand would sit comfortably in an air conditioned library reading, seeking to rush his way past grade school, into university, and to a job that allowed him the luxury of switching hemispheres annually.

It was not the heat or humidity of summer, as one might expect, that motivated Ferdinand to obliterate it from his frame of existence, but rather, it was the mere concept of it. Much like sexuality or personality, it was genetic, built into every fiber and every cell of his being. Summer was not for him, and he was not for summer.