The Voice

Stephen had a conversation with the voice every day. It tended to be an incessant dialogue until one or the other of them fell asleep. The voice cajoled and upbraided and urged him to do the worst things.

There was the time the voice commanded him to steal the money from his coworker’s till and she got fired. Or the time it wanted him to cheat on his girlfriend with that woman in the bar. Or his ongoing cocaine addiction.

What made the whole thing even more perverted was the voice sounded just like his third grade teacher, Miss Boggs.

Irresistible

Brian loved being an angel. Heaven was a playground without any teachers and Earth was Tombstone before Wyatt Earp came to town. In other words, anything goes.

There was just one rule to being an angel. Every angel learned, upon getting his wings, the one hard fast prohibition that could get you in hot water. Unfortunately, Brian had broken it three times this very first morning.

Now Brian was going to hell.

"You'd think God would have learned his lesson with the apple. If you don't want people punching baby angels in the face, don't make a rule prohibiting it."

Marching Onward

Joe toggled through the stations on Direct TV, waiting for something to catch his eye. He didn't want to get caught up in another one of those History Channel documentaries. He needed something mindless after all the drama at the office.

For some reason the remote wasn't responding very well and his frustrations began to mount. Whenever he had to call customer service, it was an endless menu of useless options. Maybe if he blew on the inside of the remote; that always worked with his Nintendo.

After changing the batteries, Joe happily returned to his slow march to death.

Mona Lisa

The murder happened right in front of me, yet not one of the detectives ever bothered to question me about it. They had to know I was a witness. I've witnessed so many things during my lifetime that it gets rather tiresome not to be able to share.

I suppose I should give you some background on the whole affair. You've probably heard about it by now. A murder in the world's most famous museum tends to make headlines. Jean was an overnight security guard in the Salle des États who was found dead on the morning of October 22, 2012. He did not die of natural causes.

I was privy to much of the early investigation. The body had no outward sign of physical trauma, but based on the extreme contortion of Jean's corpse, the Paris police suspected a homicide. More than one of the attending magistrates remarked they had never seen such a horrified expression and everyone agreed that Jean must have died in tremendous pain. I could have confirmed their suspicions, and told them things about Jean that no one else has ever known. I have a gift for drawing secrets out of a person.

After questioning Jean's wife, they learned about his marital troubles, about his mounting debt, about his failure as a student and lack of career prospects. They probably read a few of his poems and combed through his journals and emails. They would have seen my name written down, but still, no one thought to ask about my involvement. They were focused on the wife, even though she didn't care enough anymore to commit murder.

Jean's death, because of the location and the mysterious circumstances, made national news. As the investigation dragged on and no suspects panned out--even the cause of death was still a mystery--the national police fell under heavy criticism. Dismissal wasn't an option, but several investigators were moved to lesser departments and it would be years before anyone associated with the affair was promoted.

The museum directors at first pushed for a speedy resolution. They wanted the crime scene opened back up to the public immediately and were pushing for suicide or heart failure as the cause of death. But they soon realized that the sensationalism of the press coverage was driving attendance to record levels. I felt trapped inside a Dan Brown novel.

Time passed, as it always does. By this point, most people have forgotten about Jean. His wife has remarried and his mother has entered senility. He never had any children, and, more tragically, his poetry was never published. You never know which creative works will be cherished by future generations.

I still remember. What I recall most fondly about Jean was the way he looked at me. He'd stare for hours all by himself, as if I were the most beautiful woman in the world. He'd ramble and share his ideas and recite drafts he'd written, but mostly he just stared. It was as if he knew that sometimes, even when you're surrounded by people all day, it's still very easy to feel alone.

In the end, my desire to have Jean all to myself overcame my modesty. His life may have belonged to others, but his death was all mine. It wasn't enough to overcome my loneliness, but there are always small comforts to be found in other people's secrets.

This longer piece was written for the Flash Fiction Challenge at Terrible Minds.

Murder In The Grass

After choking down the pill, Leonard found that his scale of perspective had changed drastically. It wasn't that he was small, but now he saw the world as if he were only three inches tall.

The house, the trees, the mailbox, they all seemed like skyscrapers. The lawn was a forest, and the sidewalk might as well have been an ocean of concrete.

Leonard immediately began to run. He never realized that so many creatures wanted him dead. He was being chased by a million silent ninjas.

When the drug had worn off, Leonard swore he would never trip again.

Everything Fades Before Its Time

Wendell stared at the woman he called his wife, debating whether to respond. For some reason, all he could think about was how beautiful she used to be.

At his bachelor party, his friends had taunted him that this would be his last night of freedom, that after tonight he'd only be with one woman for the rest of his life, but Wendell didn't see that as a prison. He would gladly give up all the woman in the world to be with Simone.

"Yes," he answered, without really thinking.

"You fucking pig."

Wendell returned to reading his sports magazine.

Bohack

Charlie Bohack! Charlie Bohack! Five-and-dime derelict turned depot Demiurge, soot-stained, reeking; his thermos filled with God knows what. He’s rattling off again: In the 60s he was the beau of long-legged gals with Cleopatra eyes; he had seduced Charo (or was it Cher?)at Studio 54, with Travolta-like moves and an avalanche-white smile; and was weaned on Goddess’ teats, on the Good Stuff, but Old Crow and Granddad could hold him for a spell.

The 8:15 is on time (Thank God!). Bodies and briefcases careen around the Bohack-pylon. Chug-Chug-Chug! Charlie Bohack grows small, but of infinite potential, dancing on the tracks.

From Guest Contributor, James Zahardis

Outdoor Wedding

Her friends all warned her against him. They said she was crazy. He was too different. People would judge her. Eventually she'd grow bored. What would her parents think? Where would they ever find a priest to perform the ceremony?

Janet ignored them all. They didn't understand. This was what she'd always dreamed of. They'd realize they'd been wrong. He was patient and sturdy. Plus it would come with an outdoor wedding.

Her friends refused to come. They said it wasn't right to marry a tree stump, even if it did have a nice hat and scarf wrapped around it.

Bachelor Keep

Roger surveyed his creation. It truly was the greatest castle the world had ever known, with impregnable walls and towers on a scale that previous ages would have found miraculous. And unlike the architects of the past, who built at the command of their liege, and using his resources, Roger had built his castle on his own.

The location was perfect too, in a remote landscape that lone travelers found hard to navigate, not to mention an army. He had not seen a single visitor during its construction.

Now, all Roger had to do was wait for someone to attack.

Discarded Laundry

I first saw him laying outside the haberdashery downtown. They said he was born without any connective tissue. Lacking cartilage and tendons and ligaments, he was more amoeba than man, and he was often left out like discarded laundry. Passersby debated his fate. The philosophical wondered if the deformity significantly altered his understanding of the world, while the compassionate argued he never should have been allowed to live. I always found it hard to look away. There was nothing holding him together, yet somehow he continued to exist. And I found myself increasingly jealous of how well-dressed he always appeared.

This is a story I submitted to Every Day A Century, a 100-word poetry blog that you all should check out.