I really enjoy when I am challenged, to some extent, to lay on the stupid. This is where Fiction 440 comes in. It is a Lansing based group, which challenges folks to write a flash fiction story of no more than 440 words. The stories usually have to contain certain words or feature a theme.

Tonight is the 10th edition of this event (at Soup Spoon Cafe), and the stories had to include the words Score, Sack, and Fumble.

Now, Fiction 440 doesn’t require your stories to be stupid or silly, but that is just what I go for. These stories are read aloud at places which serve booze, so with that in mind, I try to make my stories as ridiculous as possible (here is my first submission, Party Pooper).

My entry for tonight’s event, A Good Day, is below. It has ‘space Vikings.’¹ Yes. I have a feeling I will not be asked to attend the next event. I also wrote this in about 20-30 minutes, and went right up to the midnight deadline, so if there are any grammar or smelling errors, that’s why. Which is fine. Sometimes you just need to take a Devil May Care approach to writing and crank something out, space Vikings or not.

Erik stood on the bridge of his dragon head spacecruiser and watched the chaos on the view-screen. Lasers flashed outside. Ships exploded. Men died. It would be a good day.

Erik hurled his mug of space-mead to the floor, “To battle.” The crew cheered as the spacecruiser broke its orbit and screamed for the planet’s surface. The Pantheran laser satellites were only a threat above the planet. Erik’s brother Lorn, expecting an easy sack, ignored the satellites and approached Panthera at maximum speed. His charred, lifeless ship floated in the starry ship-graveyard above the planet.

Erik gripped the handle of his laser-axe, Veinbiter, as the ship entered Panthera’s atmosphere. The time to mourn his brother would come later. Now, there was only time for one thing: battle. Erik snapped on his stained, purple helmet as the helmsman counted the seconds until touchdown. Each of his helmet’s dents and scratches told a story.

The dragon head ship burst through a bank of orange Pantheran clouds like a nightmare. The Pantherans who were not in awe, ran, as the wedge-shaped ship landed and shook the ground. Erik was the first off the ship, and whirled Veinbiter over his head. A pair of Pantheran warriors roared and flashed their yellowed, dagger-like canines. They lunged for Erik, but Veinbiter was faster and tore their silver flesh. Blue blood sprayed and pooled at Erik’s feet.

Two. A good start, Erik thought, but far from evening the score of his lost brother. Lorn’s brawn and blade would be missed, but Erik looked at the upside: it meant more Pantherans for him.

Another pair of Pantherans felt Veinbiter’s kiss and joined their brothers on the ground. Four. A decent effort, for an ill man, as Lorn would have said. Another swing of Veinbiter, and a head sailed several yards. Five.

Erik threw his shoulder into a Pantheran making a feast of one of his men, and they exchanged blows. Erik’s helmet had a new story, and his tally went up to six.

A thunderous roar cleared a space around Erik. An eight foot tall Pantheran warrior with a flowing silver mane, roared again and ran for him. Its clawed feet tore up the shimmering green grass, and its silver tail whipped about with every step. Erik pulled a detonator from his utility belt and hurled it at the stampeding beast. The Pantheran fumbled with the detonator as its curved handle became entangled in its mane.

A flash. An explosion. Seven. Under his helmet, Erik smiled. Today would be a good day, indeed.

–
¹ While it does not take place in space, I highly recommend the Viking novel, The Long Ships. Its influence on this story cannot be stressed enough. Here are a couple of other flash fiction pieces inspired by the book. One . Two. They are equally ridiculous.

Laundry day was a very tiring day for Abner.

F8, 50mm (prime), 1/640 sec, iso 100

June 15th, 18xx

While on Safari in the wild, untamed marshes of Mid-Michigan, I came upon a most peculiar sight–that of a tiny turtle, shown above. I asked my assistant, Dr. Watchband, for a bit of coinage. “Whatever for?” he asked, searching his sweat soaked pockets for a shiny discus. “Why, for scale of course,” I answered.

The good Doctor appeared perplexed as he stroked his golden beard. “I thought you did not bring any instruments for weighing specimens?”

I shook my head. “Not for weighing, my dear Dr. Watchband,” I placed the turtle on a white plate “but for the sake of photography.” I set the coin near the turtle and readied my camera. “You see? Now, when someone views this photograph, they will have a sense of the size.” I clicked the shutter.

“I say, Bully idea, Professor,” Dr. Watchband exclaimed. He walked nearer to the turtle. “I wonder how big the adults get?” he proceeded to poke the turtle’s face with his right index finger. I returned my camera to its case, “I cannot say, but I would advise against molesting that turtle, Doctor.”

The little turtle began to emit a series of high pitched whines, but the Doctor did not lessen his assault. “What an interesting sound, I wonder why it does such a thing?”

“Likely it is the result of your fingers prodding its tiny eyeballs,” I suggested. “Doctor, kindly cease your childish behavior. We are Men of Science, not school boys playing at the creek.”

“Perhaps I should take this little chap with us.”

“I dare say that would be a terrible idea,” I replied. The sound of branches snapping in the distance caught my attention.

“Poppycock,” Doctor Watchband replied as he pulled on the turtle’s tiny tail, it responded with a more intense whine. “I shall take him with us and give him a Proper name. Like Pancake.”

“Pancake is not a Proper name for such a creature,” I retorted. Birds scattered and cawed from the nearby bushes and trees as if in a panic.

“Very well, Doorstop then.”

“That is an even worse name,” I said as a low groaning grew in volume behind the Doctor. “I pray you never have any children. Your first Born would be named something silly like Toothpick.”

The doctor stood up in a huff. “That was my great-grandfather’s name!”

“This explains so much,” I sighed. “Toothpick Watchband? Really?”

“Don’t be silly,” the doctor responded, “our family name was changed after leaving the Old Country. He was born Toothpick von Vatchhand.”

“Because that is so much better,” I fired back. The tall grasses behind the doctor shook. “Now, SEE HERE!” the doctor shouted. Sadly, these were his last words. Well, nearly. His actual last words were gurgles and sputters as a six-foot tall turtle tackled him from behind and proceeded to maul him with its jagged beak.

- Prof. Rutherford J. Hogan

"Hi! I'm a photo that has nothing to do with this blog post."

I’m posting a flash fiction piece from my Ginger and the Geek blog here. It contains a couple adult words and has a bit of the ol’ violence. Enjoy. 

Re-post begins:

In podcast episode 005, we had Aaron Matthews on to talk about Fiction 440, a new writing group in Lansing. The concept? You get three words (or a theme) you must include in your story–a story that cannot be longer than 440 words.

Easy, right?

After stories are submitted, a reading event is held and selected stories are read aloud. It makes for a fun evening, and is worth trying.

I was unable to take part in the most recent edition, but I did turn in a story for the first outing, which I had the pleasure of reading aloud at Moriarty’s Pub.

The words? Cufflinks, glassware and balls. Knowing there was a chance I had to read my piece aloud, I made sure to make it, in a word, silly. Or in a few more words, fun to read aloud to a room full of people drinking beer.

And thankfully, it got laughs where I hoped.

Read on, warning: this story contains a tiny bit of PG-13 language and a bit of violence.

#

Party Pooper by Daniel J. Hogan

It wasn’t the ninja that bothered Gibson so much as it was the robots.

Ninja, he could handle. Shot to the chest. Kick to the face. Sword through the liver. No problem.

But robots? They were difficult. You could destroy up to 80 percent of their metal bodies and they were still combat effective. The diagonal scar across Gibson’s face was proof enough.

“I ain’t paid enough for this shit,” Gibson mumbled as party guests screamed and fled.

He pulled off one of his cufflinks and hurled it at an approaching robot. It was a foot taller than him at an even seven feet, silver in color and eager to crush a skull with its pincher claws.

Gibson’s cufflink bounced off the robot’s lone glowing red eye and the micro-explosive inside turned the mechanical menace into a pile of scrap.

The scrap pile twitched. Gibson grumbled and dodged a throwing star hungry for his flesh. The throwing star’s owner performed a spin kick. Gibson grabbed the ninja’s foot and twisted. Hard.

The ninja’s hood muffled his scream.

Another ninja slashed at Gibson with a glowing katana. He leaned back, but the shimmering blade cleaved off part of his tuxedo’s right lapel.

“This. Is. A. Rental!” Gibson yelled, as he back flipped behind the banquet hall’s bar.

When the ninja peered over the top of the bar, Gibson rammed a shard of glassware into his face.

“Asshole,” Gibson spat as the glowing katana fell from the ninja’s hands.

A high pitch whining caught Gibson’s attention. He grabbed the katana and hopped over the bar two seconds before it became a pile of cinders, thanks to robot #2’s eye laser.

He ran for the robot, katana at the ready. He had another four seconds before the robot could fire its eye laser again.
Three. Gibson jumped at the robot.

Two. He swung the katana.

One. The glowing blade sliced through what passed for the robot’s neck.

Gibson landed. The robot’s head bounced on the hard wood of the dance floor. He picked up the robot’s head and dumped it into a punch bowl. Behind him, the robot’s body short circuited and fell over.

A thin man carrying a cane appeared through a glowing doorway. He pulled a sword out of the cane. “You cannot best me with a sword, Gibson!”

Gibson produced a pistol and shot the man between the eyes, “Nope.” He ran through the glowing doorway to a computer. A count down clock filled the screen.

“Deactivate,” Gibson said.

“Password?” the computer asked.

“Balls.”

“Accepted. Atomic Doom Laser deactivated.”

Gibson lit a cigarette.

###

The contest was to write a short piece about a character reminiscing of their days at Miskatonic University, a fictional university that is mentioned in the works of horror writer, H.P. Lovecraft.

Winners of the contest will have their stories included in the Tales Out of Miskatonic University anthology (edited by William Jones, who also set up the contest). The anthology is a collection of stories that take place at MU and are written by present day writers.

I’m not getting paid for this, but I get a writing credit–and that’s fine by me, it was a flash fiction piece (a very, very short story–mine was around 330 words), so it isn’t like I wrote an epic novel. Because, now when I send out other manuscripts I can list that in my cover letter (as well as put it on the ol’ resume).

While I can’t put up the actual story online, I can say what it is about–I went with a bit of a different direction, making it more humorous and satirical. The narrator (this is a first person point of view) talks about being awarded a track scholarship to MU and is a background character for lots of wacky stuff going on around campus.

Lots of Lovecraft stories deal with characters finding some kind of ‘forbidden knowledge’ or science gone wrong or beings from other dimensions. My narrator isn’t directly involved in any of that, but his (ever changing) roommates are.

Think Death Star construction workers. Something like that.

I don’t know yet when Tales Out of Miskatonic University will be released, but I’ll do a post once I find out. And better still, I think it might be available at bookstores.

I’m excited!