Surprise Stories (AiD \#20)
Russell here with some surprise flash fiction, inspired by Sherry (and Magic Realism Bot). These aren’t particularly polished (honestly, I don’t think they’re that great), but I had nothing better to do this week, so please enjoy this humble between-newsletter distraction.
Hexagon, O Hexagon
The man stumbled into the hexagonal room. The door disappeared behind him. The walls were gray and featureless. The hexagon sat in the center of the room, contentedly purring. He knew what the consequences would be.
The child read the poem again.
“Hexagon, O hexagon,
How I yearn to speak of thee.
Hexagon, O hexagon.
How I seek to set you free.”
The man stepped toward the hexagon. He knew what the consequences would be.
The child read the poem again.
“Hexagon, O hexagon,
How I yearn to speak of thee.
Hexagon, O hexagon.
How I seek to set you free.”
The man had yearned - sought - found. It had taken him a lifetime, but he was finally here. He knew what the consequences would be.
The child read the poem again.
“Hexagon, O hexagon,
How I yearn to speak of thee.
Hexagon, O hexagon.
How I seek to—“
The child’s parents took the poem away. But it was too late—the seed had been planted, a yearning had blossomed.
The man placed his hands on the hexagon. He knew what the consequences would be. The poem was missing a second stanza.
“Hexagon, O hexagon.
You who cause all men to flee.
Hexagon, O hexagon.
You who cause all things to cease.”
The child cried.
The man died.
This was based on the Magic Realism Bot tweet “A child reads a love poem about a hexagon that can destroy all life on earth, and devotes his life to finding it.”
The Writing Workshop
“Well, it’s a rather unique kind of writing workshop.”
Alice was intrigued. Even though every writing workshop marketed itself as “rather unusual,” something about the way Michael described it—his intonation, his way of forming the words—made her think it wasn’t just event marketing bullshit.
“Fine, I’m in. When is it?”
“Friday, 9pm sharp.”
“You all don’t have anything better to do on Friday nights?”
He smiled. “We liked to think it’s worth it.”
She spent the rest of the week preparing her introduction—her sales pitch—just in case she caught the eye of someone with connections. Someone a few rungs up the ladder, so to speak. She practiced how she held her pen, how she turned a page. She didn’t write very much.
Friday rolled around, the way Fridays tend to do. She met Michael out front of the old bookstore. It was dusty and filled with books she’d never heard of. The walked past the front counter, where an elderly gentleman was pretending to read a mystery novel to cover up his lack of consciousness, and into a windowless back room. Twelve other novelists crammed around a conference table. Two seats at the end remained empty. Michael and Alice took their seats.
The organizer cleared his throat and stood. “I’m glad to see we have a new member this week—if you could wave to everyone, Alice, thank you—and, well, I don’t think you’ll all mind if I describe the exercise for the newcomer.” The were some nods of assent. “As you all know, just like every week—imagine the snake. In as much detail as you can. Then write it down.” With a wave of his hand to begin, he sat down and put pen to paper without another word.
Alice was slightly confused. Was this a writing exercise they did at the start of every meeting? Nevertheless, Michael was furiously scribbling notes next to her, so she began as well.
Luckily, her father had been a prominent herpetologist, so she had a lot of content to draw on for her already-vivid imagination. She drew up the horrifying image she could—horror was something of her speciality.
After twenty minutes or so, the organizer called the writers off. One by one, they read our their descriptions of the snake, to a mix of applause and looks of disappointment. Alice got the sense that every description was missing some je-ne-sais-quoi, something the writers looked for every week. Finally her own turn came. She stood and began to read out what she had come up with.
The snack was giant and black, with venomous fangs—but of course, the venomous fangs were completely unnecessary, because it was so large it could simply swallow its prey whole, even though it preyed on people.
Some of the other writers shot each other nervous looks.
It was unstoppable, unkillable; even doors would prove no problem. It simply opens the door and finds itself in a room with fourteen writers, some of them now standing up, turning to the door, but one remains where she is, heedless, enchanted by her own words. And the snake uncoils and opens its jaws.
And swallows her whole.
This was based on the Magic Realism Bot tweet “Sixteen novelists imagine a snake into existence.”