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Monday, March 16


Short Fiction - Fantasy
by Rod Drake

It was a dark, rainy, cold, miserable day, but I was warm and dry in my old pickup truck, driving down the slippery two-lane blacktop surrounded by thick wet forests. I was an hour outside Tacoma, alone in the world it seemed, until I spied what appeared to be a hitchhiker hiding under a dripping poncho, pitiful thumb upraised. In the middle of nowhere.

I had to pick him up, this poor drowned kid, but when he climbed inside and pulled off the poncho, he turned out to be a she. And quite a she too. She was as breathtakingly beautiful and sexy as any girl ever to grace the pages of Playboy. Blonde, big baby blues, bursting boobs, the whole bit. She smiled shyly, seeing how surprised I was at what had emerged from under that dripping poncho.

“What are you doing out here alone in the rain?” I asked, feeling the sexy heat she was radiating in the small pickup cab.

She lowered her eyes and said, “My boyfriend dumped me here. We had a fight. He wanted me to . . . you know, go all the way, and I wasn’t ready to do that.” She looked up at me then and added, “So he stopped the car and ordered me out. I think he thought I would give in. But I didn’t, so he tossed me this poncho and drove off.”

The rain pounded harder on the windshield as we drove in silence.

“My name’s Holly,” she said, starting to warm up.

“Cassidy,” I replied. It was getting warm in the pickup.

After a long pause, Holly blurted out, “I’m not a prude; it just wasn’t right with Wayne. He was a grabby jerk. Just a stupid horny boy.” Then she leaned over towards to me. “I’ve always liked older men anyway.” I could feel the steam coming off her and her tank top gaped nicely and invitingly. “They know how to do it right.”

I knew what was coming, so I got ready.

“Maybe we could find one of the little motel cabin units out here and, you know, get to know each other better.” She licked her pouty lips like a porn actress and stretched her long, shapely legs casually.

I steered my old pickup to the shoulder of the deserted road and shifted it into park. I turned to face Holly, unzipping my jacket. “We could start here,” I offered and waited for her to make the first move.

I didn’t have to wait long. Holly smiled knowingly at me and then slowly stripped off her damp tank top, revealing her lack of a bra, which was not exactly a secret. As she slid over next to me, her arms open and eager to embrace me, I pulled out the Azrael .666 holy revolver that I was holding under my jacket.

The etherblast from it torn a hole right between those perfect 36Cs. “Holly” was completely surprised and cursed in some forgotten, ancient language as she morphed back into the demon “he” really was, a hideous, horned, obscene creature from the netherworld.

A second blast shut his mouth by opening it up even wider. Holy light shot out his ears, nose, eyes and broke through his now-shattered horns. He collapsed, dead before his back could hit the passenger door. I holstered the still smoking Azrael.

I wondered how many lives he had claimed and souls he had destroyed with this little act. Obviously he hadn’t heard of me. Too bad. I can smell the brimstone on ‘em no matter how much exquisite perfume they use or how many sex pheromones they give off.

I hauled his stinking corpse out of my pickup, pulled back the tarp covering the wagon bed, and tossed him in with the dozen or so other dead demons I had collected so far. I was having a good month as a demon slayer.

Rod Drake is a Nobel Prize winner, Top 10 Box Office movie star, astronaut who walked on the moon and former presidential candidate; naw, that’s just more of his fiction at work. Check out Rod's other fiction posted in Six Sentences, Powder Burn Flash, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

Holiday Hiccups

"Holiday Hiccups"
Short fiction - Humor
By Jewel Allen

Ray should have known better than to drink the egg nog.

It wasn’t even the alcoholic type, just his mom’s old-fashioned fattening concoction that she served every Christmas Eve. And he knew the consequence, but he let her talk him into drinking a few foam cups anyway.

You see, when he drunk the stuff, he got the hiccups. Bad.

Which wasn’t altogether terrible, except for as a surgical tech, having the hiccups over the operating table was not Good Form.

So there Ray was, an hour into his hospital shift on Christmas Day, trying to hide out so he wouldn’t have to commit the unpardonable sin of hiccupping over a patient while holding sharp and pointy objects.

“Hey,” Brandon said, spying him in the supply closet. “Loosepants is looking for you.”

“Loosepants” was the staff code name for Dr. Lou Patagonia, who was a medical miracle in that his pants stayed up despite a very huge midriff. He performed surgery on patients whose appetites that led to their heart disease probably didn’t even begin to come close to his.

“Tell him,” Ray said, hiccupping, “tell him that I have to take care of, hiccup, a hangnail.”

“Oh, man, that sucks,” Brandon commiserated. “I hate getting the hiccups. I once had the hiccups for seven days straight.”

“No, hiccup, kidding?”

“Well, it would start and stop, but yes. Seven long days.”

“How’d you, hiccup, get rid of it?”

“My family banded together and tried to surprise the heck out of me. Didn’t work though. I was laughing too hard when I wasn’t hiccupping. And then Sunday rolled around and I showed up at church, hiccupless. I’m sure it was a miracle.”

Yes, Ray thought, after he got Brandon to agree to give Loosepants a brilliant excuse, he needed a miracle about right now. There was no way he was going into surgery and make a fool of himself in front of…

“Caroline!” he blurted out when he turned and came face to face with the new surgical resident. “I mean, hiccup, Dr. Baker.”

The beautiful and unflappable Dr. Caroline Baker arched an eyebrow at him. “Where’ve you been, Ray?” she asked.

“Just waiting, hiccup, for your orders, hiccup, ma’am!” he said.

“Oh no,” she said, “you’ve got the hiccups?”

“No, hiccup, it’s just a new verbal tic I’ve picked up. A Christmas, hiccup, tic.”

“Has anyone surprised you yet?” she asked.

“Nope, hiccup. Are you, hiccup, volunteering?”

“Let me think,” she said, looking up for inspiration at the ceiling. She then said, softly, “I’ve got it.”

She leaned over and gave him a swift peck on the lips.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered.

“What was that for?” he said, when he finally remembered how to speak.

She pointed at the ceiling, and he looked up to see a mistletoe someone had hung up the day before and which Ray had forgotten about.

“Amazing,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed. “You are amazing.”

“No,” she said, “I mean, your hiccups are gone.”

And, true enough, they were.

Dr. Baker backed up and smiled. “See you at the operating table,” she said.

Ray smiled back, deciding that hiccups weren’t so bad after all.

Jewel Allen enjoys writing romantic suspense, horror and historical fiction. She blogs at