Wordsmith Holler

Original Pulp Fiction

Category: Flash Fiction

  • Standing in the Rain, Hammer in Hand, With Murder on my Mind

    Standing in the Rain, Hammer in Hand, With Murder on my Mind

    Honestly, I never imagined he would take me up on my offer. I mean it is preposterous, but here I am standing outside an apartment in the rain and holding a hammer. I grabbed the first one I could find and sizing it up I think it may have been too much hammer for me. Strangely, the head has ridges, and it weighs a ton. I took the biggest one from my dad’s collection. I suppose, I have no one to blame.

    As for placing myself in this position, I guess I am to blame. He seemed so upset and I being the funny guy said “I can kill him for you.” It was a flippant remark to break the tension. He immediately said yes and told me how to find the guy.

    Sure, I could have walked, but it’s kind of like when your friend doubles down and dares you to put your tongue on a frozen pipe. You can’t back away. You’ve got to go through with it.

    So, I stood out in the rain and tried to see the top window where the guy was sleeping. And that’s how you found me officer.

    Standing in the rain, holding this hammer, with murder on my mind.

    If you liked this story, check out Cindy’s Sin, the first novelette I wrote about a girl traveling to Las Vegas to get revenge.


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  • The False Portal

    The False Portal

    This story is another bit of flash fiction writing.

    Only a few months ago, her mother revealed the secret portal, yet the days had passed so quickly she wondered if it had been years. She walked inside and entered a world of intense color and light. Very much unlike the world she had grown up in, the sparkling light melted away her fears of the colony; she loved her mother even more.

    The colony represented darkness, fear, and unease while the world on the other side of the portal felt warm, inviting, and peaceful. She longed to stay and feel warmth. And she would have stayed had it not been for the nagging notion she was in danger. How could a warm and beautiful place seem so perfect and wrong at the same time? It was too perfect.

    She returned to her mother on the other side who greeted her with an immense hug and a kiss on the cheek. Something was wrong.

    “You mustn’t go through the portal again,” her mother warned. “It is a false world mean’t to enslave you.”
    “But you showed it to me.”
    “I know, but that was before I understood. The portal is a means to fill you with hope. Once you give in, terrible things happen.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Monica Weber came back after many months. She had escaped,” said her mother. “She was wounded after a fierce battle and all she could say was ‘our children die.’ I can’t let you go back.”
    “I too felt danger, but it is so beautiful.” the girl said.
    “Sometimes beauty blocks our view from the evil surrounding us.”
    “Still, I think I would like to go back. Maybe there is a way to defeat it.”
    “You might think so, but we need to destroy the portal. There is no point in letting it remain.”

    With a powerful spell, the mother and daughter aimed all their energy at the portal to destroy it. Yet, a little anger crept in and the portal grew larger until it overpowered the women and drew them in.

    This time, there was no beautiful light and warm feelings. Only danger as evil took over their hearts and stamped out any hope.


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  • Wild Thing

    Wild Thing

    This story is another bit of flash fiction writing. More flash fiction stories can be found here.

    Wild Thing. You make my heart sing, the crowd on the stands chanted along with the music coming from the baseball announcer stand. The player, Wang Xiu Ying, looked nothing like the character played by Charlie Sheen in the movie. He was taller, had a buzz cut, and resembled tall composure compared to the underachiever Ricky “Wild Thing” Vaughn.

    Xiu Ying settled in for the pitch knocking the fast ball far to left field. A foul. The player, by now comfortable in the American stadium, spit out a long stream of spit. He set up again and waited for the pitcher.

    A curve ball slid to the right. The tall batter reached a bit to strike the ball dead center. It curved up over the shortstop and aimed for the center field fence. The outfielder ran back and dove up as the ball sailed over into the crowd, which rushed to find the ball.

    Xiu Ying rounded the bases as the speakers rang out Wild Thing. You make my heart sing.

    Enjoy this flash fiction? Find more here.


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  • The Dead will Pile Up

    The Dead will Pile Up

    “Ready,” the squad officer shouted out.

    I stood at the ready waiting for the order to shoot. Five rifles with laser sights pointed at the target dancing with my heartbeat. I took a short breath. The laser lights danced again.

    “Citizen, society demands control, which you have none of.” The words bounced in my rattled head. “You will learn to control your impulses. Or the dead will pile up.”

    Freedom or conformity. Transformation or tradition. Creativity or reality. I chose liberty. I had been warned.

    “Aim,” the officer shouted.

    I only wanted to be left alone, to pursue my painting, and make my children happy. To make my mother proud.

    I winced waiting for the shot. I failed to master my thoughts, to forsake my family, and conform to the state. I now face the consequences of my lack of control.

    “Fire!”

    The rifles ran out. The bullets hit their target and my body slumped to the ground. Blood covered the wall and I knew my mother was dead. I stifled my anguish.

    “Next!”

    The soldiers pulled my mother’s body out of the way discarding it on a pile. Another group brought out a sobbing boy aged roughly seven.

    My son!

    “No, I will conform. I will only teach restraint. I respect strict compliance.”

    “Ready.”

    My son wailed and I pleaded again.

    “I can serve. My children can serve. My boy can serve.”

    “Aim.”

    “I beg you. I have changed. I understand the power of control.”

    “Fire!”


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  • No Sound and No One Around

    No Sound and No One Around

    Tom woke to no sound. Nothing. Not even the flap of the paper stuck in the fan grate. He rubbed his ears to unblock them and still nothing filled them with the sounds of the fan, the cat meowing, the dogs barking, or the cars moving across the railroad crossing behind his house.

    Not even the blood whooshing past his ear drums made a sound. He heard nothing.

    He promptly panicked and screamed for Miss Marble to come quickly. However, he didn’t hear any sound come from his voice. Nothing filled the silence. No sound came to his ears.

    And Miss Marble never came.

    He wandered down the stairs to the kitchen looking for her or his sister Lacey. Nobody was in the kitchen and they had made no coffee. The cat who normally sunned herself in the window was also gone. No sound and no one around.

    He stood on the porch looking for the paper. No wind, no sound of the leaves, no creaking of limbs or twinkling of the chimes. No sound.

    He saw a car coming up the drive but didn’t hear the crunch of the gravel on the tires. The car stopped and his sister opened the door. He didn’t hear it either as it shut and so he went to meet them. He waved and pointed at his ears.

    Lacey ignored him and walked around to the passenger door to assist Miss Marble who was slowly exiting the car. He watched as the two women held each other and walked around him as if he wasn’t there.

    They were wearing black and crying. He reached to console them and his arms went right through them.

    That’s when he realized why there was no sound. He could no longer hear the tires, or the wind, or the fan because he was not alive. He cried out in anguish and heard nothing come from his mouth.

    Then he realized the truth: ghosts don’t hear because they don’t make any sound.


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  • Give me a Saxophone Any Day

    Give me a Saxophone Any Day

    At the Winter Festival dance, a group of teens gathered around a college freshman on break to debate the styling of pop music:

    “I prefer a saxophone over a harmonica,” the college freshman said.

    Sally, who secretly loved the freshman, said, “The sax does bring a sort of boost to the brass section.”

    “However, the harmonica seems more earthy,” said Molly, who would have said anything opposite of Sally as a point of pride.

    “I like neither,” said Tom, a high school freshman and rarely listened to. “For me, it’s all about the electric guitar.” He played an air guitar slide, which no one paid attention too.

    “Give me Billy Joel, a sax, and a piano; that is heaven,” said the college freshman. Sally smiled and patted his arm. Molly drew closer to him and placed her hand on his neck.

    Tom seeing he really couldn’t compete, turned around, and played his air guitar with rare enthusiasm impressing a certain 10-year-old girl who thought he was the coolest kid at the dance.


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  • A Stitch in Time

    A Stitch in Time

    Aunt Katie stitched a small heart covering the prick in her jeans below the pocket. “A stitch in time saves nine, or in this case five saves twenty.”

    Jenny rubbed her finger over the heart. She took the embroidery needle from her Aunt and added another heart. “Now it doesn’t seem so lonely.”

    The red hearts resembled tear drops and she thought about the last few weeks; the sudden fever, the anguish, and the eventual death. Her mother went so fast she hardly had time to say goodbye.

    Jenny ripped the tiny hole in her jeans on the door as she rushed from her mother’s hospital room. Her mother had just died and all she could think about was a simple question: did mom love me?

    Jenny rubbed the threads and sobbed.

    Aunt Katie pulled the girl to her chest and let her cry. When the girl seemed settled, she covered her in a blanket, and went into the other room. She returned with a fabric book.

    “Your mom taught me embroidery,” Aunt Katie said. “She practiced with patterns and her own designs. She dreamed of having a daughter like you.“

    Aunt Katie turned the fabric pages until she stopped on a picture of a baby girl holding a laurel flower.

    “This is a picture of you.” Jenny fingered the stitches of her baby face. Each delicate stitch combined to create a photograph on the fabric.

    “Your mom wanted you to have a beautiful life. She loved you very much.”


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  • She Never Really Left

    She Never Really Left

    The scent of her lingered long after her death. He smelled it mostly in the kitchen, especially when he opened the drawers or reached for a cup. Her favorite perfume had been Shalimar because every girl wore it and she had a fascination with India.

    It suit her and gave her recognition by the doormen and the other singers. He met her backstage near a sticky spot of the floor where too much champagne spilled and no one bothered to mop it up. He rocked back and forth, his shoes making a ripping sound on the floor.

    It didn’t seem to bother her and soon they were talking like old friends. She married him soon after and over 50 years always wore that perfume. He missed her. But her scent lingered in the kitchen.


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  • A Cold, Wet, Sticky Package

    A Cold, Wet, Sticky Package

    She parked in the dead end and eyed the front door in the mirror. A green door with a cotton boll wreath and a ‘welcome to our home’ sign in the center. The door made the house inviting and the recent deliveries piled up in front of it made it more inviting. She looked around. The only thing she saw was a white wire reindeer, holiday ribbons, and an inflated Santa Claus bouncing in the wind. The driveways were empty including the driveway in front of the house with the packages. It would be too easy.

    She opened her door and sprinted to the green door. She inventoried the packages and weighed each in her mind. She then reached down to pick one up.

    “I wouldn’t do that,” came a voice from above her. She looked for the voice and failed to find anyone near. She hesitated before running back to the car with the package.

    “You’re going to regret that. I can see your face,” the voice faded as she reached the car.

    With the package in hand, the woman rounded the cul-de-sac and rushed out of the neighborhood.

    At a nearby park, she sat with the package on the passenger seat anticipating the treasure inside. This was the best part. She only took the small packages because they usually held something she could use and something the true recipient could do without. This one felt a bit heavier than usual. Maybe it held something real good?

    She tore off the tape and stuck her hands into the package. She felt something cold, wet, and sticky. She pulled her hands out and found them covered in dog shit. Cold, wet, sticky, nasty dog crap and blood.

    “Yuck!”

    The remaining packages sat near the green door waiting for the next thief and all of them contained something messy and ugly. Our homeowner spied the woman’s face on his phone. Lovely. She likely won’t come back. Too bad she only took the small box. The biggest package contained the head of the last guy who tried to steal from him. A cold, wet, sticky, nasty, bloody head.


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  • Good Thing You Can Pull Me Up

    Good Thing You Can Pull Me Up

    Arthur Belevedere clung to a root as he dangled below the ledge. He refused to look at the ground below. Could it be 50 or 100 feet? He screamed again for help as his hand tingled. It was getting numb, and he didn’t know if he could hold on much longer.

    “Just hang in there,” shouted his girlfriend Sally. Arthur wondered if she ever listened to herself.“Just hang in there!” No problem, honey. I’ll just keep hanging here.

    His forehead and forearm hurt from the scraping and bouncing through the rock slide. He grabbed the tree at the last minute. Another foot and he would be dead at the bottom. Arthur closed his eyes and dared not to look at the canyon floor.

    “There’s a guy here with a crank and a rope on his Jeep,” shouted Sally. “He says he can pull you up.” “Well make it fast,” shouted Arthur.

    The whole thing started when he was taking selfies with Sally on the canyon edge. They were walking backwards to the edge when he fell off. How Sally stayed on solid ground mystified him. She must have been farther from him. He lost the camera in the tumble. Just as well; Arthur wasn’t sure he wanted to remember this, anyway.

    The guy with the wench pulled him up after tossing him the rope. He scraped his way on the rocks and looked like road rash when he arrived on solid ground. Sally placed gauze on his cuts. They burned like hell.

    A week later, Arthur was feeling better, and the cuts were scabbing over. The scrapes were just a reminder of his near death experience.

    He sat at his computer and logged into his photo account. It was possible his phone uploaded the selfies before his tumble. Sure enough, he found thirteen new photos in his queue. A series of shots of him and Sally smiling with the canyon floor behind them. The last three shots were of the fall. Arthur smiling, Sally with a determined stare, and the last photo of Sally’s hand giving him a shove.

    Arthur gasped. He reakoned he had some thinking to do about this relationship.


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