Tag: fantasy

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Services Rendered

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: Ed Ahern

It was no one’s fault, really. Jason, a high-functioning ghoul, was working at the plant that produced hydrophilic acrylic eye lenses for cataract surgery, night shift naturally. It was a batch production process, sealed off immediately after the raw materials were measured in and mixed. There was the rub.

Jason wore latex gloves, a hair covering, and a mask that covered his nose and mouth. But Jason was a perspirer, and the mixing area wasn’t airconditioned. A drop of his sweat fell into the mix as he was pouring. It was, for better or worse, just enough.

The high temperature process drove off the water, but left behind a chemical essence that altered the optical properties of one of the lenses. Someone’s vision was about to be too clear.

Seymour Phillup had postponed his cataract operations until his view of the world came with fuzz. With the exception of tonsil removal, he’d successfully avoided surgery of any sort until he was fifty-five, and viewed surgeons as dissectors. He finally opted for a woman doctor in the vague hope that she had more delicate hands.

The right eye operation went without incident, except that he noticed that people were a good deal uglier than he remembered. The left eye, however, the sinister one, was installed with an unwanted upgrade. Everything seemed all right immediately post operation, good clarity, no infection. Until a nurse came in and he thrashed, then screamed.

“Get away from me!”

The nurse rushed to the bed to restrain him, and Seymour went fetal, arms and legs trying to tuck into his considerable belly. “Mr. Phillup, calm yourself, there’s nothing wrong.”

Except there was. Seymour had a double vision, his right eye showing a middle-aged beefy woman in scrubs and his left a hairy incisor-toothed humanoid, also in scrubs. The combined vision hurt to look at, and he felt a stab in his forehead, the start of a migraine.

He reflexively closed his left eye and the nondescript nurse was in his face asking what was wrong and checking readings. He peeked out of his left eye, saw fur, and slammed it shut again.

She eventually left and he cautiously unsquinted his left eye, then closed his right eye and again surveyed the room. Boringly plain and undecorated, just like the hospital administration had intended. Seymour wondered if the anesthetic had hallucinogenic properties, then wondered if maybe he could sue for malpractice. After all he was a lawyer.

But everyone else during his stay was unprepossessing, that is, normally homely. His doctor, Simplicity Sinclair, cleared him, the staff handed him a half pound of paperwork, and Seymour went outside to wait for his Uber.

His driver, an Armenian named Armen, wasn’t talkative, so Seymour idly voyeured into the side windows of cars in the right-hand lane. And almost peed himself. About every twentieth car had a driver who was grossly abnormal. Hairy or corpse pale or horned or hideously deformed. Once over his shock, Seymour studied their faces like he would a jury pool. Under their monstrous appearance, they all had that stoic resignation of beings who’d left a job they didn’t like for a commute they hated to a home they weren’t sure was worth the effort. Just like Seymour.

One of the drivers, though, a man with a thoroughly scarred face and a pig snout noticed Seymour noticing and glared back. Mr. Porcine then slowed his car and dropped behind Seymour’s Uber.

Once home, Seymour turned on his cable TV, more than a little afraid that some of his favorite actors would be monstrosities. But, maybe because of camera filtering, everyone looked normal. Not so the next day in his group practice.

Seymour was a confirmed bachelor, but his favorite fellow lawyer was Gwendolyn Kruste, an acerbic woman with his sense of suspicion about everyone’s motives. When Gwendolyn walked into his office he almost ran out of it. Gwendolyn had the spike haired stems of an arachnid, and a face with mandibles.

“Ah, ah, Gwen, urgent bathroom call. Probably something they gave me at the hospital.” He dashed out and went into a stall in the restroom, sitting on the throne without dropping his pants and trying to make sense of his life descending into one of Dante’s levels of hell.

Gwendolyn and he worked on too many cases together for him to avoid her, so Seymour cinched up his resolve and went into her office, trying to remain calm as they talked about upcoming trials. She noticed his anxiety and asked if he was feeling sick.

Seymour went home early. He was able to return to the office only because, as a defense attorney, he was accustomed to working with human dregs. But he never got over his apprehension, and discovered (on Amazon, God bless them) that he could buy apparently clear glasses with a left lens that blocked incoming light. He wore them constantly but still out of the corners of his vision or in glassless moments was shocked by the apparitions occasionally around him. Such horror story beings shouldn’t be in this world.

Eventually the objects of his revulsion noticed it. One dark winter evening Seymour returned home, entered his house, took off his glasses and was slammed against a wall by a pig-faced hulk who looked like the driver he’d seen three months earlier.

“It’s not your fault, but I need to kill you.”

The beast was about the size of a small boar, perhaps 350 pounds, and Seymour, who barely knew how to make a proper fist, also knew he had no chance to defend himself by fighting.

“Wait, please, before you commit my murder, at least tell me how it can be that so many of you exist and we never see you?”

“Ah. We’ve always had the ability to shield our true natures from you, but until Cagliostro it was of uneven quality and your kind were killing us off with gusto. Cagliostro, a great alchemist of the 1700s, was able to devise a medication that more thoroughly hides us. We’re almost never spotted now.

“So you see, even though blameless, we can’t allow you to reveal our presence and put us at risk. I’m sorry. Now I have a question. How is it that you can suddenly see us?”

Fear flushed through Seymour’s body. Then his training took over. He was pretty sure if he admitted the truth about his left eye lens, the eye would be gouged out and he’d be killed anyway. “I have no idea, but I’ve been really sick lately, with a high fever.” His lie was fluid, his body language sincere. “It’s probably a temporary aberration.”

Seymour hurriedly continued. “With so many different species, there must be serious disagreements between the kinds.”

“Of course, blood feuds even.”

“And if you do decide to settle differences, it must be hard to find an impartial judge, since he, she or it will always belong to one of the kinds.”

The porcine man tightened his hold. “Naturally, what’s your point?”

“What if I wasn’t a liability but an asset for you all?”

There was a wrinkle-snouted scowl. “What are you saying?”

“I’m a lawyer with extensive experience in both civil and criminal cases. You can verify that. What if I was to become your judge, or better still, your arbitrator. I’m not a member of any of your species and I don’t personally know anyone. I can make impartial judgements. The parties involved can split my fee so there’s no suggestion of collusion. Isn’t that worth considering?”

“But what about if you accidentally disclose something?”

“I can recant it or claim temporary insanity. At that point I’m beholden to you all for my livelihood and not likely to reveal anything.”

More wrinkles furrowed the massive brow. The sort-of-swine eased his hold, letting Seymour’s heels retouch the floor. “You may have value. May. We’ll discuss it. If we decline, I’ll make sure your death is quick.”

With quick movements that belied his size, the beast was gone. Seymour, who rarely drank, poured himself one. But just one. Then he made some preparations. Sealed notes were provided to three agencies, to be opened in the event of his death by accident or violence. Each of them specified that the lens of his left eye should be removed and used to view an auditorium full of unsuspecting people. Just a little no-fault insurance, he thought.

Then he drafted a rate schedule, adjusted to the severity of the offenses. After all, he thought, if they don’t still kill me their first question will be what will it cost.

About the Author:

Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over 600 stories and poems published so far, and twelve books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories where he squats on the review board, and at Scribes Micro where he is the idle figurehead.

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The Chicken House

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: Fija Callaghan

Old Mrs Iles first came across the house when she was out gathering moss to line her garden stones. Her own home had been awfully quiet since Mr Iles ran off with New Mrs Iles, and so Old Mrs Iles often went for walks in the woods behind the property.

The forest was a bright young thing, all adolescent saplings spaced a respectable distance apart so they could grow big and strong. Even the brambles and ivy behaved themselves, most of the time. So when Old Mrs Iles discovered a ramshackle stone cottage not much bigger than a garden shed, with a pair of scaly chicken feet sticking out from underneath, the most reasonable thing seemed to be to go inside and see what it was about.

The house seemed bigger on the inside than it did on the outside, but not much bigger, not like a magic trick. Just big enough to while away a pleasant afternoon. There was a cold woodstove and a kettle, a small table with two off-kilter chairs, a lumpy mat piled high with blankets, a narrow broom cupboard propped against one side, and a dusty, meaty smell like someone had eaten stew there a long time ago. Old Mrs Iles thought that actually, it was quite homey. So she did a little dusting and cleaned off the single windowpane so she could see outside.

By the time night fell, nobody had returned to the house. So Old Mrs Iles thought oh well, I’ll just rest for a few minutes. The truth was, she still wasn’t used to coming home to a place that didn’t have Mr Iles in it.

Old Mrs Iles lit a fire in the woodstove, laid down on the lumpy mat, and was out like a light.

When she woke she wasn’t sure where she was, but she knew the air was salty and sweet, and she was more well rested than she’d been in a long time. She could hear gulls crying. Outside the window was a broad, sparkling expanse of bright blue sea.

Her heart swelled with longing and joy. She hadn’t seen the sea in more than fifty years.

A quick look in the broom cupboard revealed a neatly folded fishing net. Old Mrs Iles took it outside to catch some fish for her breakfast. She stood right in the water in her bare feet, with her trousers rolled up to her knees, and laughed like she was a young girl.

That night she lay down in the little house again and wondered how her garden was faring. But that made her think about Mr Iles, and some of the day’s happiness went from her. She dispatched the cumbersome thought by promptly falling asleep.

The next morning when Old Mrs Iles looked out the window, the world was carpeted by powder-blue and violet bluebells. Gentle, gnarled garry oaks stood watch between moss-covered stones. It reminded her of the place she used to go for picnics with Patrick, the first boy she’d ever loved. Her mother hadn’t approved of her marrying a penniless painter, and so the two of them had to meet in secret.

Old Mrs Iles stepped outside and let the fresh, cool blooms brush up against her ankles, and felt like she’d come home.

When Old Mrs Iles built up a fire in the woodstove that evening, and warmed her old bones, she remembered the day her mother had introduced her to Mr Iles and said isn’t he such a nice young man. And he had been nice to her, or at least companionable, up until the end.

Old Mrs Iles fell asleep to the sound of wind rustling the oak leaves.

The next morning, the house rested at the foot of a deserted cobblestone street. The sun was just beginning to peek out over the rooftops, and a smell of freshly baked bread drifted lazily through the air. It looked a bit like the village she and Mr Iles had visited once on holiday. She’d been too nervous and distracted to enjoy it, gathering her courage to tell Mr Iles what the doctor had said—about how having children would never be possible for her. Not without an expensive medical treatment. It was in the village square, beside a bubbling fountain surrounded by life, that Mr Iles told her he loved her for the last time.

Old Mrs Iles bought a croissant with jam for her breakfast and walked along the charming passageways, peering in windows at colourful and exotic treasures. A gentleman tipped his hat to her as she went by.

Her feet seemed to know their way, and Old Mrs Iles found herself at the village square. The fountain was gurgling contentedly, and an artist had set up an easel nearby. A tourist posed in soft the morning light while he painted their portrait. Old Mrs Iles closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun. There was a feeling of life and effervescent happiness all around.

Then someone said her name.

Her eyes snapped open. There, standing at the easel, was Patrick—a little stouter, a little greyer, but no less handsome. Old Mrs Iles touched her own grey curls self-consciously.

With a few more brushstrokes—Old Mrs Iles couldn’t see the canvas, which had its back to her—he pronounced the painting complete and handed it to the happy tourist. Then he came and sat by Old Mrs Iles at the fountain.

When at last they spoke, it was easy, as if they’d seen each other only yesterday. He told her of his travels through Italy and France, painting souvenir portraits for the wealthy; she told him about Mr Iles and New Mrs Iles and the garden at home, which wasn’t large, but was delightfully fragrant on summer mornings. No matter how long they talked, there was always more to say. There was a whole lifetime.

Finally, Old Mrs Iles said, “Patrick, would you like a cup of tea?”

And he said that sounded like a fine idea. So they left the square and wandered back to the little house at the bottom of the cobblestone street. Old Mrs Iles couldn’t wait to see where it took them next.

About the Author:

Fija Callaghan is a storyteller and poet who has been recognised by a number of awards, including winning the SFPA Poetry Prize in 2024 and shortlisting for the HG Wells Short Story Prize in 2021. Her writing can be found in venues like Seaside Gothic, Gingerbread House, Howl: New Irish Writing, and elsewhere. Her debut collection, Frail Little Embers, was released by Neem Tree Press in 2025. You can find out more about her at www.fijacallaghan.com. 

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The Hand that Bites

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: Rye

The Hand that Bites

The leaves had only just started to turn. An awful viscera-red crawling up the struggling green with a terrible, earnest determination; that was when the teeth had started to grow out of my hand.

I’d noticed a subtle feeling of wrongness over a few weeks, a gnawing ache that radiated from my palm and through my fingers. Years of carrying burning plates from the kitchen had, I thought, killed all sensation in my palms, but this did feel different. Midway through an unremarkable shift, I ducked into a tiny alcove, predominantly to escape the sharp gaze of the managers who circled like vultures, but the effort was wasted. There was nothing there but a faint redness; a few inches of blushing skin stretched in a lazy crescent shape from the padded place beneath my thumb to the base of my little finger.

I finished my shift, the oddness with my hand pushed to the back of my mind as a group of eight barged through the doors, demanding the best table we had—only then to leave it ransacked after hours of loud, honking laughter and sporadic cheering. After two hours of unpaid overtime, I returned to my one-bedroomed cell, originally sold to me as a cosy flat, and passed out.

Days oozed past, each one the same as if I were stuck in some terrible TV show documenting the miserable life of the hospitality workers. Customers chatted inanely, celebrating the summer which refused to leave; blissfully unaware the planet was clearly dying as they ordered another ice cream sundae for their ugly, red-faced children. I kept my head down when I entered the roiling heat of the kitchen, where the underpaid cooks swore and snarled about the lack of air conditioning. I wove around the tables and chairs, dodging the wandering hands of bored men like some nightmarish obstacle course; only to fall asleep knowing the following day would bring the same.

“I told you I didn’t fucking want pickles!” A man shouted, and as I turned, a bun whipped past my face like a bloated breaded bird. It seemed everyone in the restaurant paused to watch as it splattered onto the wall, one half slid down the plaster and left a gory trail of ketchup and pus-yellow mustard. I turned back to the man. His cheeks were flushed, and his porcine eyes narrowed in anger. Yellow, crooked teeth glinted when his thin lips pulled back. I felt so still. I had stepped outside of my body to look at the depressing scene unfolding. At me, my crumpled uniform and dishevelled hair, at how easily an apology rose from my throat. From this perspective, I couldn’t see the anger which grew through my veins like barbed wire.

The restaurant slammed back into my senses with merciless force, and I swayed on my feet.

“I want another one, do you understand? And a fucking refund. Are you listening to me?” The man’s voice was grating, a petulant note heard in the toddlers who whined for dessert. His meaty fingers reached for my shoulder. I jerked away, my own burning, stinging hand rose to fend off the invader. Our skins touched, and he yelped. The man staggered back and grabbed the edge of the table to remain upright, his eyes wide. Blood, ketchup red, was smeared on his hand.

“I’ll go and get the kitchen working on your order right away and my manager will handle your refund, I am so sorry this has happened to you today.” The script was so light on my tongue, I wondered if I said the words in my sleep. I darted around the man and through to the kitchen, where I grabbed a wad of bandages. Instead of returning to the front, I slipped outside the fire exit and stood beside the large bins in the filthy courtyard. Only now, alone, did I unfurl my hand.

The red crescent was now vivid, a pure and pulsing shade of cherry-red. I watched as the skin writhed, and I felt it. I felt all of the nerves in my palm, as it squirmed. Then the redness opened, revealing two rows of glassy teeth bared in a mischievous grin. I quickly wrapped a length of bandage around my hand and was sure I felt the impossible teeth grind in frustration.

I returned to the flat, and my hand throbbed beneath the bandage. I could see the shadow of blood rise from the gauze. My kitchen felt even colder as I unwrapped the heated skin. Blood had dried into the cracks, dying my prophetic lifeline a vivid red. For a moment, I wondered if the teeth had been an illusion, some stress-provoked hallucination—but no. The second mouth opened, as if stretching after confinement, and again revealed two rows of pale, almost transparent teeth. The flesh surrounding the lipless maw felt raw and tender as if it had been gnawing on itself. I could feel it move, feel the shift of my flesh as it yawned and revealed glistening innards.

Sleep, surprisingly, came easily that night. I woke to see my hand resting on the other pillow, the mouth now on my palm was soft, as if it too slumbered. With a yawn, I walked into the bathroom and found I could shower without consequence; the teeth did not snap or nip at my skin. Instead, I was sure I felt the jagged edges caress my skin with the sweet gentleness of a parent.

A thunderous banging broke through the soft post-shower comfort. I walked with apprehension to the front door, the door which now seemed to tremble beneath the pounding fist on the other side. I exhaled slowly and opened the door to reveal Mason.

“You can’t do this!” The words were spat at me through lips I used to find alluring.

“Mason? What are you doing here?” I asked, keeping my new mouth behind my back.

“You don’t just get to leave, not after everything. Please, come on. I know you, I know us.” He said, and I felt something in my chest fracture. His anger tilted into passion, and his eyes burned. I let him pull me against his chest, let myself inhale the scents of sweat and sandalwood. His arms rose and held me tightly, and my resolve weakened. Our script rose in my mind, and like at the restaurant, it was one I knew in my sleep—the apologies, the promises that this time would be different. We’d find therapists we’d never go to, or download communication guides we’d never read. I’d apologise for my passive aggression, and he’d apologise for smashing my favourite mug. I knew my part. We drew back slightly, but I was close enough to see the amber flecks in his eye.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it. He always did. Now it was my turn to apologise, my lines waited, but something in me tightened. Why was I sorry? What had I done? Mason’s face was expectant.

“It’ll be different this time,” he added, giving me another cue.

“No,” I said softly, “it won’t. We aren’t good together Mase, we haven’t been for a long time. I think… I think we need to stay finished.”

“No, no you’re wrong. I’ll plan better dates, make more effort. You deserve it.” He said earnestly, and I swayed. My body ached for his warmth. A sharp pain flared through my palm and helped ground my resolve.

“Are you happy? Because I’m not.” I said, straightening my back, “We’re stuck in this cycle, and it has to end.”

He shook his head, and for a moment, I was reminded of the petulant man who threw his burger.

“Give us another chance, you can’t just walk away after everything!” he replied, his voice growing louder, “I won’t let you.” His lips tightened into an ugly line.

He reached for me, but I stumbled back.

“Leave, I want you to leave,” I said.

“No, we are going to fucking fix this!” he shouted. I became aware of his size, of the strength of his arms. Of the weakness of mine. He strode forward and closed the distance between us. My back hit the wall. My phone was in my bedroom.

“Mason, please. We can talk another time,” I said, trying to calm the anger I saw twisting his features into a different face.

“There is nothing to talk about. You aren’t leaving me.” He snarled and placed one hand beside my head. I felt so small. I could not find the man in this creature.

“Mason…”

“I won’t let you go,” he said softly, the oath echoed in the twitching muscle of his jaw.

“I believe you.” My lips were numb as my body slackened. I lifted my arm and placed my hand on his neck. I could taste salt and skin, and then I could taste blood.

About the Author:

Rye is an English writer who specialises in both poetry and short form fiction. They have been published internationally in online journals and literary magazines, including ‘The Pink Hydra’ and ‘Dusty Attic Publishing’ among others.

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The Path Back

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: R.C. Capasso

Magda stared at the empty room. “Fitz, where are you?”

The cat was good at hiding, but with her powers Magda had never before failed to sense him. “I really don’t feel like playing today. I’ve got a lot to do.” She set down her basket of herbs, seeds, mushrooms. “It’s going to rain, you know. A good day to brew up some potions.”

The room remained silent.

“It’s not like I’ll ask you to help. Maybe remind me of an ingredient or two. Keep an eye out so nothing boils over.” Really, what was the point of having a familiar if they didn’t take part in your life?

A faint breeze blew a wisp of gray hair into her eyes. A window at the back of the cottage was open.

Magda crossed the cluttered room and peered out into the garden. Fallen leaves were beginning to swirl under the wind that would bring rain at any moment.

“Fitz! See to your needs and get back here. Now!” She was the mistress in this family, after all. The witch, if she wanted to pull rank.

A faint glow at the base of a tree caught her eye, and she squinted. A sign, like a breadcrumb, gesturing to her.

So he’d gone that way. Deeper into the woods? A funny choice to make with a storm brewing. Fitz was particularly ill tempered if his paws got wet.

But he was getting on in years, just as she was. What if he’d wandered farther than he meant to? She wouldn’t want to see him in real discomfort.

Grumbling, she snatched at a thick cloth. If she had to carry the little fool home, that should keep the worst of the rain from soaking him. She also grabbed her own cloak. It was a bit too warm for the moment, but the temperatures would drop quickly in the woods in bad weather. Hardly thinking, she gripped her basket as well. Maybe she’d find a deceased toad or something useful. Never go to the woods empty-handed; that had always been her motto.

She closed the shutters, glanced at the fireplace and instructed it to keep burning steadily and safely, then pulled and latched the door of the cottage behind her.

She went round the back of the house and headed for the faint light, the trace Fitz had left.

She liked the woods. Most of her magic came from it, her power, her assurance. The smell of the loam, enriched with dying leaves from countless years. The feel of bark under her hands, some crinkled and cracked like her own skin, some smooth and almost pulsing with life. The birds that grew quiet at her passing yet sang out before and after her. The vitality in the very air. The hidden wealth so easily revealed to her, the secret strengths and the frank dangers of the natural world. It was as much her home as the small cottage that she had created in a self-indulgent whim. And as a place to hold her supplies and her potions. Every professional needs an office.

The woods were cool and dark under the clouding sky. Personally, she liked a thunderstorm, but Fitz was more a creature of comfort. His whiskers must be twitching by now, the hair raised up on his back. What was he thinking?

She called his name out loud. Surely such communication was not necessary between them, but if he was going to act out in this way, she was going to exert her authority.

“Don’t make me come after you!” she shouted, which was idiotic since she obviously was trailing after the creature.

There was no footpath in the wood, just here and there glowing paw marks tracing Fitz’s passage.

What was he doing? This was no call of nature; he was going somewhere in a straight, purposeful line.

Ordinarily she might have enjoyed the walk, but it was no fun dragging along her cloak, the basket, and the cloth for her renegade familiar as the air grew humid and thick.

The trunk of a massive tree lay fallen before her, and she could imagine its positioning upright, how it used to stand, as a faint memory tickled her mind. If she was right about the direction, and she was never wrong….

Ahead she saw a slight lightening as the trees grew further apart. This must be the south entrance toward…She halted.

At the edge of the clearing Fitz sat on his haunches, smiling at her.

“What are we doing here?” She clutched her cloak to her chest.

“You’re wanted.” The cat’s smooth voice was always maddeningly persuasive.

“No, I’m not.”

Hadn’t been for years. Not since the argument.

Fitz’s voice lowered. “You’re needed.”

She took a step closer, so she could see the cottage through the last trees.

It did not look its best. Why did it appear so neglected?

A large crow dove down from the trees and landed on a stump a foot away from Fitz.

Magda gave it a long look. Birds never do show their age, magical or not.

“Scratch. Good to see you.” She had nothing against the other familiar.

“Please.” The word croaked out. Not an easy one to say, ever.

She took a tighter grip on her basket and headed toward the back door. The two creatures weren’t going to let her just turn and walk away.

She raised her hand to knock. In the old days the door would have swung open before her. Until that last time, years ago, when it slammed in her face. She couldn’t even remember the cause of their quarrel.

Not waiting for an answer, she lifted the latch and stepped into the dark interior of the cottage.

Hilda was sitting in a chair at least. Not prone on her old cot yet. She turned large eyes on her former friend and offered a hesitant smile.

“Right.” Magda thumped the basket onto a table cluttered with smeared dishes, wilted herbs and limp, dirt-covered roots. “Well, I just happen to have what’s needed. Let’s get your fire going again, shall we?”

She glanced to the hearth as a bright red flame sprang up.

A gust of wind battered the door, and Fitz and Scratch sped in through the open window. With a word Magda ordered the shutters to close just as the first heavy drops of rain pounded against them.

But the storm didn’t matter. Fitz was already padding around the cottage, laying claim to its welcome, weaving his spell of belonging, while Scratch perched on a high shelf and watched with bright eyes.

And she, Magda, had all sorts of healing in mind. Incantations, magic herbs and good long talks over hot tea. She was in her old friend’s home and in her life again. Their lives, their paths, wouldn’t be separated any longer.

About the Author:

A lover of all forms of literature, R. C. Capasso writes in a variety of genres, from ghost and horror stories to science fiction, steampunk and even the occasional romance. Flash and short stories have appeared in Bewildering Stories, Zooscape, Teleport Magazine, Spaceports and Spidersilk, Fiction on the Web, The Last Girl’s Club and parABnormal Magazine. Further works have also been published in online and print anthologies including Iron Faerie’s Flights of Fantasy, Red Cape’s A to Z Horror series, The Librarian Reshelved (Air and Nothingness Press), Home Sweet Horror for Black Ink Fiction, Through the Briar Patch for Hollow Oak Press, and Gypsum Sound Tales’ Thuggish Itch.

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The Last Time I Saw You

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: Jake Stein

I called him by the waterfront, where the black river reminded me what I loved about the city and hated about the world. “I’m sorry for doing… what I did,” I said, between vaping my chemicals.

(Yeah, they were the bad kind of chems, but not the really bad kind.)

“Relax about it,” Beo said over the phone—always over the phone these days. “Nothing to apologize for.” And I could hear his wolfish grin, almost see it.

Almost.

I walked through the night alongside restless waters, puffing clouds. I chose not to check the reflection of my new haircut in a passing store window. “Well, just know… I won’t ever say those magic words again.”

“Never?” Beo sounded disappointed. “It’s not bad for me, at least.”

The spotlight of a streetlamp crawled past on the sidewalk, and I gazed down at the fading “X” on my wrist—an entry stamp from the last time Beo was in town, when I went to see his karate competition. But I couldn’t stare at that “X” on my skin, couldn’t think about what it meant, or I’d start crying again. “I just hate being this far away. I miss your face, and your hair. All of your hair—”

Ahead, someone stepped out of the shadows.

“Speaking of hair,” said this big stranger, who was attempting to block my path, “I really like yours.”

First off, I’m quick. You better believe I skirted around him, no problem.

Keep walking, keep walking.

But his footsteps grew louder. He was coming after me.

“Something wrong?” asked Beo, still on the line.

“Same old crap,” I muttered, picking up my pace. A glance over my shoulder told me Mr. Creep was fully giving chase, barreling through a cloud of his own chems—which, judging by the smell, were the reallybad kind.

“Get out of there,” Beo said, but I was already running.

“Didn’t you hear me?” the creeper called after me. “I love your hair! Can’t you take a compliment?”

Inhaling my chems, I turned onto a main street and waved down a cop, but he drove past. Probably figured there was no point in wasting his time on some chemmed-out low-life.

“Hey you!” This asshole was whistling and everything. “Don’t even turn around, I love how you look when you’re running away!”

Beo was panicking in my ear. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

I didn’t answer, too focused on escaping this lunatic. Tearing along the waterfront, through an intersection, cars honking. No matter how much I tuned out the shouting behind me, I couldn’t tune out the footsteps, getting closer…

From thousands of miles away, Beo said, “The magic words. Say the magic words!”

I knew he was right, but as I swung around a corner, I blurted, “I can’t. It hurts me.”

“Hurts?”

“I mean, to only see you for…” But I was lost now, shooting through dark alleys, the kind where people don’t exist, only echoing sounds like the sound of the creep gaining on me.

He called out, “Don’t make me hurt you!”

And yeah, that was it. I took Beo’s suggestion.

Spinning on my heels, I dragged my chems, filling every little pocket inside me with sweet vapor—and released the cloud in my pursuer’s direction. In that split-second I felt like a dragon; I felt amazing. For once.

Before he even knew what hit him—or should I say, who—I spoke the words. The incantation I’d stumbled upon; the spell which was, I hoped, about to save my life.

The voice which fell from my lips was not my own, but the voice of a thousand sorrows, the not-sound before a car crash.

“I don’t want to call you my ex.”

For a second, reality refused to break. My cloud merely floated past my assailant, dissipating around him. No spell.

Backpedaling, I found myself up against a wall. This alley was a dead-end.

The big guy was close enough that I could smell his wheezing dumpster-breath. He had that chemmed-out look of a festered turd with raggy skin, and his bloodshot eyes were crawling all over me. “Don’t wanna call me your ex, huh? That’s skipping a few steps. I haven’t even told you I love you yet…” But he trailed off, glancing over his shoulder.

My exhaled cloud was reappearing, expanding to fill the alley like fog. From those vapors a shape emerged, taking humanoid form. The eyes appeared first, yellow and leering. Then came the snout, the ears, the whiskers. The lean-muscular body covered in hair. He was standing on two legs, tail whipping angrily, drool hanging from snarling lips. He looked even more like a monster than usual.

My monster.

“What the—” And that’s all this creep could say, as Beo emerged from the mist.

I don’t think it would have taken more than two punches, but Beo gave him three. Beo, the wolfman I’d met in a different city where we both used to live. The black belt who’d been waiting for this moment his entire life.

I didn’t blame him for taking the third swing.

It was enough to send the creep off with a limp and a trail of blood. Darkness swallowed him, and in that instant it was like he’d never existed. A passing shadow of a night which could have gone so much worse… a night which would probably never leave me. But I would pretend—until arriving home, locking the door behind me, and stepping into a hot shower—that this attack had been nothing more than a nightmare, no more real than this version of Beo standing before me.

Beo’s mist-copy turned and smiled, massaging his fist. “Funny, it stings like I’m actually there.”

“Thank you,” I managed, and that was all. My throat knotted with tears. Looking at the doppelganger of my boyfriend was like poking a raw wound inside me.

Always hurts to see someone you love when you know they’re about to disappear.

Indeed, Beo’s cloud was already beginning to fade. It never lasted long. “Hey, don’t cry,” he said, even as he evaporated. “I’m gonna call you right back, okay? This won’t be the last time I see you.” And his vicarious presence wrapped his arms around me.

But I felt no embrace, only condensation.

“I do these chemicals to fill the space between us,” I said suddenly, shocked by the truth of it.

“We are too far away, I agree.” His voice was becoming quieter, quieter. “But I can’t afford to move out there, and with your mom, you can’t come out here…” And the cloud finally dispersed, those last wet tendrils of my breath-spell slinking away.

Eventually I found the river again and followed it. Beneath a streetlamp I studied my hand, trying to find the “X.” But the ink seemed to have completely faded now, like my chem vapors had washed the stamp away.

Beo called me, but I didn’t answer. I was thinking about how he hadn’t mentioned my haircut. Maybe hadn’t noticed.

I took another hit of my chemicals, the bad kind, and kept walking.

About the author:

Jake Stein’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Lightspeed Magazine, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, and Aurealis.