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A New Evolution For Our Species

Jack felt a pair of eyes staring at him as he made his way through the crowd towards the bar; he felt the dark pull of something strange pulsing threw his entire being and suddenly there she was.  A true beauty of a woman, resplendent in a blue rubber coat, knee-socks and a pair of boots that signalled she was no push-over.  Her long flowing blonde hair looked other-worldly hooking Jack in for the long haul.  He had no idea what to do or say as it had been a long time since he’d been with a woman, let alone one so unique and beautiful.

She sat staring at him as he drank his first beer and then grabbed his hand and dragged him outside.  Jack was aghast at her straight-forward approach but quietly appreciated her taking the lead.  It was then that everything became even weirder.

A light appeared from the sky above and focused in on the pair. Jack could feel his body being swept up in a weightless atmosphere and suddenly the town he called home was nothing but a tiny spot in the distance.  Even the island he called home could be seen fully, jutting out off the coast of Europe.

Moments later he was inside a room but it was unlike any room he had seen before.  The walls were made of paper and Jack was immediately intrigued until suddenly a voice began talking to him; it told a story he could really empathise with.  Evolution had failed, it had driven all sense of rebellion out of humanity and that was a disaster.  The voice continued to outline their plan for a re-population of the planet by a new alien-human hybrid, one that deserved to live by the noblest of human traits; those of rebellion and experimentation. They seemed to know all about Jack, his life, what he had achieved, how he had felt betrayed by the whole damn system and they were offering him an opportunity of a lifetime.  The voice continued telling him the plan for the future of the planet he had hated as his home for nearly all his adult life.  Jack, along with several hundred thousand other humans, would help re-populate the world once the inevitable war had been won.  It would be a case of alien fighting humanity for the future of the planet and Jack would be on the side of the alien force.  The alien army would be out there battling the humans who had ruined the planet whilst Jack would be back at the mother-ship.  There it was his duty to engage in wild uninhibited sex with a series of crazily beautiful alien beings in a bid to prepare a population for the soon to be conquered planet.  He took to the task with utmost determination and soon after the re-population had children spread all over the planet.  At last he had a live worth living.

Bradford Middleton

Bradford Middleton was born in 1971 and is a writer of poetry and short fiction who currently resides in Brighton after coming of age in London and then being somewhat transient for a while. He recently won the inaugural Brighton Festival Twitter Fiction Competition and has been published widely online including at Ether Books, The Weekenders, Word Riot, Decades Review, Dead Beats and Down in the Dirt as well as many others. He is also a Contributing Poet at Mad Swirl. He is in the process of writing his first novel.

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Emma

I was two blocks from my apartment, so damn close. Mist hung over the lights of the city like a bad dream. I walked through little droplets of water — rain suspended in air.

The first thing I heard startled me so much I thought my ears had deceived me, “How ’bout you put them pretty lips round my cock?” A gravelly voice said nearby.

I froze, looking up and down the sidewalk, my eyelids peeled so wide I could feel my eyeballs bulging.

An alleyway that had always spooked me was just ahead. I took a step toward it. I didn’t want to, but my body moved on its own. I put my hand against the brick and slid it along its hard surface until I felt the sharp corner leading into the alley. I peered around it.

Two bodies were on the ground, both struggling.

“Put that thing in my mouth, and I’ll bite it off,” said the woman in an oddly calm voice.

He hit her then, hit her hard with a closed fist. A thick slab of raw steak hitting a wooden cutting board, that’s what it sounded like. Nausea rolled over me. The only thing that kept the contents of my stomach down was my own fear; if I vomited, he would hear me.

The woman was still conscious, but barely. She loosely slurred ‘help’ a few times before he slapped his hand over her mouth and held it there. His other hand worked feverishly at her jeans, then her underwear.

In my mind I saw myself trying to help and ending up in the woman’s place, another victim of the pig. Still, I tried to take a step toward them, but my foot shook in the air.

Then I turned around and ran. I ran and ran and ran until my lungs seared and the muscles in my ankles and shins ached. Then, Christ, then I called the police. I lied to them. I said I was inside my apartment and could hear a scuffle outside. After I hung up, my fingers shaking so much that I dropped my phone, I leaned over a drainage grate and retched into it.

I still have nightmares about that poor woman. She begs me to help her, to save her, to please, Emma, do something. In my nightmares, I close transparent eyelids. In my nightmares, there’s nowhere to run.

Max Londberg

Max Londberg has written a book and is currently trying to publish little tidbits of fiction in order to gain the confidence needed to ask people if they'll publish his aforementioned book.

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BURLESQUE: DEEP IN THE P.R.C.

I walk inside what appears to have once been a movie theatre. I sit down along with around a hundred or so Chinese men. Most of them appear to be in their fifties and beyond. The place is pretty run down. Gray walls, a torn red curtain in front of us. Music blares, the lights go down. The curtain rises and a guy dressed in a spangled suit comes on stage and belts out a Chinese version of a Joan Jett song. The singer finishes and back down comes the curtain. Then it’s back up and twelve dancers emerge onto the stage swaying to a Chinese pop song that is currently taking the country by storm. The dancers—ranging from women who are a bit haggard in their early thirties to raging knockouts in their late teens—are dressed in tight white cotton pants and sheer white tops. They wear nothing underneath their blouses. After a good five minutes of dancing to the pop music and frolicking around the stage, the girls move stage right and the curtain is down.

Curtain up and we see a couple of male jugglers in chartreuse spandex pants, red halter tops and green glitter top-hats throwing three small bowling balls up in the air. The juggling act ends and this time after the curtain rises we see two young girls who still have baby fat on their bellies wriggling around on a gym mat rubbing up against each other. This comes off as a mix between wrestling and some sort of an exploratory lesbian teen encounter. They both wear short-shorts with singlets that barely cover their itty bitty titties.

Next, we see a woman in her mid-twenties busting out an amazing performance on an erhu—or what some might call the Chinese fiddle.

The curtain drops and rises again and now we are treated to two girls, one of whom is so short she could almost pass as a midget, standing on their heads. They both wear slinky silver shorts and cut off t-shirts. They brace themselves, legs up in the air against a wall at the back of the stage. They jiggle and shimmy as much as possible from their positions to distorted music blasting from speakers set high above the stage. The natural forces of gravity along with the limited motion causes the girls’ t-shirts to fall over their heads exposing naked breasts. And the loose fitting shorts move just a bit to the side giving us a glimpse of some minge.

After that, the dude with the spangled suit is back out performing a Chinese pop classic.

Then there are two girls sitting on short stools on stage. One is directly in the middle of stage right and the other is centered stage left. Both are pretty darn hot, but one is stunningly beautiful with big, extra-firm, grapefruit-sized boobs. She looks to be not a day over eighteen. They both wear skimpy blue bras and flowery cotton thong panties. The two of them writhe around on their stools teasing giving just a glance of nipple or twat. They throw their legs back and forth crossing and uncrossing to more blaring music. Then just as the song they’ve been grinding to starts to wind down, they both, in synchronized timing reach down and pull their panties aside giving us guys a full beaver shot.

Next up we’re watching a magic act with one of the girls doubling as a magician’s assistant. After the magic, all the girls are trotted out onto the stage again. This time in two lines they are dressed in sheer black short-shorts with no underwear and sheer black skimpy tube-tops. They all dance around to the same Chinese pop song that had been playing when the young ladies had first scampered onto the stage earlier. But this time they are giving us a show of as much pussy and boobs as possible. Accidently on purpose they expose themselves as one line moves to the front of the stage for a bit then moves back and lets the second line come forward. This act continues for quite some time with the girls breaking the line coming to the front of the stage, squatting down with legs spread and pulling their shorts aside giving us a good look at their virtually hairless crotches.

The stunning beauty from two performances earlier seems to take certain delight in letting us all look at her snatch again and again. She cannot contain herself and soon she rips the skimpy top and shorts off, prances around naked, grapefruit boobs bouncing, stopping at the edge of the stage intermittently to flash her twat. This ends up being the last true performance of program and the grand finale is the girls marching around in the same white suits they had been wearing for the first number as they wave goodbye. The lights come on, the audience stands and takes a last look while heading for the exit. I approach the stage and motion for Grapefruit Boobs to come towards me. She starts towards me then hesitates for a second and it appears to me that she mumbles, “Wo bu gen ni shuo hua” (I’m not going to talk to you).

I walk out of the theater pretty worked up feeling an overwhelming desire to relieve myself.

#

Back in my apartment at the university I teach at, with my pants down I pour baby oil all over my cock wanking away as I sit in a reading chair positioned right next to my bedroom window. My bedroom is adjacent to my neighbors’ kitchen. My neighbors, Sophie and Olivier, are recently married French teachers. Their kitchen window is directly beside my bedroom window. As I stroke away I can hear someone washing dishes next door. The sound of running water and dishes being moved around in the sink travels out of the newlyweds’ kitchen window and in through my bedroom window. I know that it is probably Sophie doing dishes. I realize that the sound of the baby oil squish-squashing between my cock and my hand is probably making its way out of my bedroom window and into my neighbors’ kitchen window. And Sophie can probably hear me masturbating.

Although I don’t want Sophie to hear what is going on with the baby oil and my cock, at this particular moment, I absolutely cannot stop because I am already more than halfway there. And it is expedient that I release myself from what the girl with the grapefruit breasts did to my head when repeatedly flashing her beaver at the strip show earlier. Then I’m shooting come in a violent explosion across my floor doing my best to restrain my groans as the blasts come much stronger and in considerably longer succession than is normal for me in a typical masturbation situation.

A little later—after I’ve cleaned my mess up—I’m sitting in a desk chair across the room from my bedroom window. Then I hear a man’s voice coming from my neighbors’ kitchen window. He’s speaking Chinese with a French accent. “Ey…! Bian tai…! Ey…! Bian tai!” (Mandarin for, “Hey…! Pervert!”). This is followed by someone mimicking the sound of masturbation, “Jicka-jicka-jicka.”

“Ey…! Bian tai…!” Another male now is yelling this. I’m a little tripped out and not sure what is going on. But the“Ey…! Bian tai…!” continues along with the, “Jicka-jicka-jicka.” And I realize that Sophie must have, indeed, heard me having a wank just minutes earlier. Then, “Ey…! Ni da shou qiang ma?” (Do you masturbate?). This is followed by, “Ey…! Ni xi huan da shou qiang ma?” (Do you like to masturbate?).

I’m a little surprised at how good their Chinese is, and for a while, I just sit there tripping out on the situation. Then finally, assuming a thick American southwestern twang of an accent, I ask loud enough for my neighbors to hear, “Are you talkin’ ta me or some other motherfucker?”

Robert Vogt

Robert Vogt formerly worked as an EFL instructor in a small town in China. Currently, he enjoys spending his free time in a southern California backyard staring at a cinder block wall for hours at a time. He views standing naked in the face of meaninglessness as the ultimate in human experience. At the present time, Vogt is employed as a utility worker at a plastic bag factory in Torrance, California. He aspires to gain employment as a roustabout on an offshore oil rig.

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We’re Back

Fuck Fiction will recommence publishing twice weekly stories beginning next Monday.

David S. Wills

David S. Wills is the author of The Dog Farm and Scientologist! William S. Burroughs and the 'Weird Cult'. In 2007 he founded Beatdom literary journal, and today he serves as the Editor-in-Chief. He currently lives in China.

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New Year Break

Dear Fuckers,

Thanks for being a part of Fuck Fiction during the evil year that was 2014. The editorial staff will be taking a short break, and will begin posting again in February. Please feel free to keep submitting flash fiction, but be aware that we will not be replying to any submissions until February.

Best,

David S. Wills

David S. Wills

David S. Wills is the author of The Dog Farm and Scientologist! William S. Burroughs and the 'Weird Cult'. In 2007 he founded Beatdom literary journal, and today he serves as the Editor-in-Chief. He currently lives in China.

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Hence

It was in Guadalupe. Hence the title. Palm fronds swing on mistletoe branches. The art historian took a break from a nap and took a towel and took a swim.
The art historian flew out and visited the famous painting and the desert hill and took note of the grains of sand that collected in his fingernails. The art historian was struck dead on the spot. Hence the title.
It rode a fokker into the red. And dug into the earth. The art historian was in Guadalupe now visited the crater. It took note of the depth. To confuse things I now introduce a romantic subplot. It was in love with it. It followed it to the wedding where it married the wrong it and it got angry and it left the crater on its surface. It was raining. It had no idea that it would be like this. It felt a special grudge for it. That is, the art historian. It then got over it and fell in love with the art historian. It was perfect for the art historian. It was the art historian.
Then it was over. Forget it. Hence the title.
In a year close to our own mankind looked up to the sky and saw the stars ripped asunder in vast columns, showering sparks into the bowels of the universe. Violence rumbled beneath man’s feet. Wrath threw up fountains of liquid black rock from endless pits, lightning split the sky, mountains crumbled, plains ripped apart and oceans were swallowed by fiery vents in the earth. Cities were flung aside as if from a child’s idle hand, spewing forth the remnants of humanity in great chaos, flows of screaming masses clawing at the walls of endless chasms and staring, naked, up at the clouds dappled red while the last desperate roars of humanity sunk into the silence.
The young art historian recovered rapidly from this and went out for a while to look at the pleasant sun shining on happily stretching trees. Now let’s forget about all that. Hence the title.

Ben Harms

Ben Harms earned his BA in Russian and BJ in Journalism from the University of Missouri in 2013. Since then he has worked as a journalist, translator, wilderness ranger and English teacher in Southeast Asia.

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The Disappearing Soul

The shaking started as a subtle jerking motion, what might be referred to as a mild convulsion.  But, soon enough their was a full-blown seizure taking place; the body began thrashing and twisting, writhing uncontrollably as it wretchedly wrenched its guts out onto the floor.

To state the situation blandly, the smell stank.  Badly.

But what was strange about the rush of vomit spewing forth was not the gag reflex its disgusting nature caused among the others present, but just how bright, shiny and beautiful its translucent colors were.

It shot outward in thin streams of copper red, florescent blue, neon pink, and silvery amber.  As the raw, undigested strands hit the pavement, they violently hissed and flared.  Smoke began to rise from the spot, as if battery acid had been combined with a split atom in some horrible science experiment gone awry.

The chemicals swirled around together in an ever widening puddle.  As the river of puked pollution ran dry from his stomach, the man collapsed and fell hard to the ground with a splat.

No longer inside the intestines of the suffering chap, the strange puddle really started going to work.  Sharp snaps of miniaturized lightning sparked all around the area.  Firecrackers of waste, pop, pop, popping atop the sweltering asphalt.

The colors began to mesh together, no longer flashy and dazzling in their appearance, but now merging and coalescing into a solid brown shade of shit, which then mellowed out mildly into a murky, cloudy shade of gray, and continued along this pattern of colorized neutralization until the smoking liquid had reached a state of solid blackness.

A thunderous roar emerged from the spot where the upchuck sizzled as the liquid began to evaporate, turning into a gaseous fume that filled the atmosphere with a foul smog.   A new scent, far worse than before, now drifted into the nostrils of those present around the weird scene.

The man from whom this energy had been emitted was now very much dead, lying face down on the cold sidewalk outside the café which he and his two friends had just exited before the whole fiasco commenced.

The black haze was thick in the air, funneling around like a spiraling tornado.

“What is it?” Whispered a scared child to her mother.

No reply was forthcoming.  No parent could possibly have an answer prepared for such a sight.

It could have been the spoiled guacamole that had been served for lunch.  It could have been the thick beer.  But come on now, let’s get serious about this, right?

Hell, just read the title and the riddle will be solved.

The night before, the man had forsaken his marriage vow and committed the act of adultery with a young receptionist his firm had recently hired.  A fine, lovely, attractive creature, to be sure.  But that little tidbit didn’t have any impact on the judgment Karma rendered. Commandments are writ in stone for a reason.

As the paramedics arrived, the scene was quarantined off in yellow tape as onlookers were forced to back away and return to whatever it was they had been doing before stumbling upon the strange situation.

They went on with their lives.  But not the cheater.  Not the liar.  Not the whore.

He just laid there dead while the Black Thing disappeared.

Scott Thomas Outlar

Scott Thomas Outlar hails from the suburbs of Atlanta, Ga. He writes poetry, essays, rants, ravings, screeds, and experimental, existential, hallucinatory, psychedelic, prose-fusion meanderings through the psyche. Recent archives of his work can be viewed at Dissident Voice and Daily Anarchist.

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Good Old-Fashioned Portland Standoff

Matthew is traveling south. Delores is traveling west. Michelle, north. And Mr. Tucker, east. All four by automobile. The motorists converge upon one of the few remaining uncontrolled intersections in residential Northeast Portland at approximately the same time. It so happens there are no cyclists passing just now. Matthew, by a second or so, is the first to reach the intersection. He is in no hurry and breaks smoothly to a halt. Delores sees Matthew’s car to her right and it is a sunny day and she thinks of herself as a kind and happy person and—generously! compassionately!—she stops too. From her left approaches a maroon Toyota sedan that it’s apparent (even to Delores who knows not much in the way of cars) is on its last, so to speak, wheels. In the Toyota is Michelle, who, as usual, is running frantically late for this or that. She sees the other cars coming and stops anxiously, wheels locking briefly and her head snapping stiffly forward, ready however to punch the accelerator at her turn. Finally, there’s Mr. Tucker, who is not in a hurry but curses the fact and existence of these other drivers. He stops, too, feeling personally insulted by the situation. Matthew and Delores each turn to the right and wave the respective driver there forward. Michelle looks in all three directions, her eyes spinning fast as her mind, and signals unhelpfully for someone to do something. Mr. Tucker elects not to stoop to communication and sits in private anger. For a moment, no one moves. Neither Matthew nor Mr. Tucker has seen Delores and Matthew, respectively, waving them forward, but each of the other three notice Michelle’s flailing. Matthew thinks OK sure no prob I can go and starts to roll forward. Mr. Tucker thinks what’s wrong with these people and steps on his accelerator. As they move, they see each other and stop again. Mr. Tucker thinks Matthew is an asshole and waves aggressively for him to just go. Matthew is like whatever man you just go. Michelle flutters her hands up by her face and imagines the person waiting for her watching this scene unfold. Delores smiles and waves with an open hand, which is friendly but not altogether what’s most helpful at the moment. Defiantly, Mr. Tucker, who, does it go without saying, has the fanciest car of the bunch, shifts into park and thinks to himself fuck these hippie fucks. I’m not moving. See how they like that. Delores is slightly confused but still happy. Not everyone would be satisfied by the life Delores has lived so far, but she is. Michelle is more anxious than ever. Matthew, still cool, is beginning to find the situation amusing and toying with the idea of intentionally drawing it out. (If you were there to witness this scene, as I was, it’s probably Matthew you’d ultimately identify with. I figure.) This goes on but all the while no one has any clue who should go. The Oregon Driver Manual, which each of them at least flipped through once upon a time, is of no moral or legal assistance at this point, as no one can recall whether it even says what to do in this kind of situation. The concept of right of way is long since out the window. When Michelle, who possibly risks running out of gas soon, finally honks it’s an accident of her flailing and she quickly waves an apology and thinks now no matter what happens she can’t be the one to go first. It wouldn’t be right. Matthew has all four windows down and turns his music up loud. Delores doesn’t recognize the song but knows well the purpose of music and bobs her head in something like relation to the beat. Michelle does know the song and finds herself singing along without really meaning to. At first she doesn’t even notice she’s doing it, singing.

Only a few blocks down the street kids are playing baseball in the park, dogs are barking, there’s happy shrieking coming from the public swimming pool, and everyone’s thinking about which flavor of snow cone they’ll order when they get to the front of the line, guava this summer being the most popular flavor.

Most of the year in Portland it’s either raining or about to rain. Not today.

Scott F. Parker

Scott F. Parker is the author or editor of Running After Prefontaine: A Memoir, Conversations with Ken Kesey, Coffee—Philosophy for Everyone: Grounds for Debate and other books.

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Sharks In A Closet

I never understood the love for parks. All of the other children seemed to adore the fleeting amusements within, but I couldn’t ever seem to do anything except watch them play and hope one would approach me. Although, they would rarely do so…and even when they did, I felt like my mind was going to tear itself apart. I could not quite seem to speak their language…and frustration is not a sensation I am overly skilled at coping with. I never felt more alone than when my mother brought me out to socialize. Ha! Six years into life and I already feel like some hopeless alien creature. Such is the life of a genius, I suppose.

My name is Hugh Aaron, by the way. Yours is Rosalin Trancy. You are the princess I built for my palace. Although, most would call you a stuffed shark. Regardless, we won’t listen to them. This entire world is built on lies if you really think about it. Why is it so odd for me to play make believe with you if all of the adults are doing it too? Pretending life has some sort of grand meaning… Ridiculous! Life is nothing more than a painful game. We simply pretend it is going somewhere other than six feet under. I am going to pour you a glass of tea now. Just don’t get too excited or I will slit your throat.

My father does not approve of these girly games. His idea of entertainment is rather crude in my eyes. Where is the fun in sweating like a fiend and chasing a puck? I fail to see how that makes you look any cooler than tea parties with sharks do. Actually now that I say it out loud, I feel pretty badass. I am sipping Earl Grey with a Shortfin mako shark named Rosalin! What the heck are you doing!?

See? You are laughing at my jokes, princess. You already know how to make this relationship work. Humans would probably say something like, “But it isn’t real, so how can it be cool?” Just shut up and let me laugh for once, you freaking mongoloids! Do not sass me when I am barely resisting the urge to savage you limb from limb! I swear, how liberating would it be to become the one true God of the universe, Rosalin? I would not be an alien anymore if I became truth itself. Plus, I could own dragons. If you think of it that way, then why do we even bother fighting for this reality? The people are mean, the world lacks dragons, and we are just expected to make do with the few pleasurable aspects of it we manage to obtain.

Why we all aren’t sipping tea with sharks in a closet I truly do not know.

W.D. Frank

Believe it or not, W.D. Frank has lived just about everywhere in the United States. He harbors an extraordinary obsession for exotic pets and currently lives in a gloomy apartment with his deranged partner, Klaus. Oh, and he likes to write surreal fiction.

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Metamorphosis

“Steve,” she says.

My features morph into wood. Smooth and polished.

I nod, as if to confirm I remember. Of course I remember. I wasted more than a year of my life on that guy.

“That time when he came to my place every noon,” she continues.

I nod again. He used to come home for lunch breaks. Quite the drive, but nevertheless, he did. To see me. And then, suddenly, he stopped, and went to her place instead. It was a shorter way, he told me. More time to relax during the break.

“He always wanted to get cozy. I wasn’t having any of that. Well, a bit. But I always drew the line when he wanted to sleep with me.”

My features morph into stone. Chiseled and rigid.

“I know,” I reply.

I don’t. I’m a liar.

“Really? How can you know?” She sounds like she believes me.

“I’m not entirely stupid.”

I am. I trusted you.

“Well, I’m glad. You know, not sleeping with him, I’ve never proved myself a truer friend to anyone.”

She leaves.

My features morph into wax. Soft and runny.

My face melts.

“A true friend,” I tell the shadow of her memory, that lingers on, “would have told me there and then.”

Angelika Rust

Angelika Rust lives in Germany, with her husband, two children and a hyperactive dog. When she doesn't write books, she teaches English.

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