Welcome!
A sweet, white-haired old granny normally sells fruit (figs and oranges, I think) from a public bench outside our closest big supermarket. She’s not there when I arrive with Manchee, so I’m in position when she eventually turns up. But there’s a problem: a drunk is passed out on the bench.
So she starts beating the crap out of him with her walking stick.
Eventually she gets bored of that and crowbars him onto the ground, at which point he wakes up.
That’s Dangerous Lady #1
I am stuck in “Laura’s Suitcase”, the short story I had hoped to finish last week.
Every time I’m just about to give up, it starts to work and Laura draws me back in.
That’s Dangerous Lady #2.
In today’s Flash Fiction, we meet Dangerous Lady #3.
No spoilers, but you should know that today’s short story is aimed at mature audiences who aren’t afraid of spiders.
Flash Fiction: Last Legs
Frank waited until the last moment to cancel. He called the hotel from the hallway, letting them know he wouldn’t be there. The handle of his small carry-on case sweated under his palm. He turned his phone off in case Lisa texted to ask how the traffic was at his end.
She wouldn’t know he wasn’t coming until she arrived, and would be too angry to drive back and confront him.
She had promised she wouldn’t, but she could never resist showing him her spider when they were together.
When he told Lisa he would do anything for her, obviously he meant anything except spiders.
He’d find someone else.
Maybe.
She kept suggesting they move in together. With rent prices like they were, it made little sense to keep their own apartments. That’s what Lisa said.
For Frank, it made perfect sense. She had her spider in her flat, and he had his flat without. She brought it everywhere with her, though, and insisted on showing it to him.
It was bad enough knowing the thing was there. She didn’t have to shove it in his face!
His phone buzzed as soon as he turned it back on. She shouted at him, calling him a coward and other names. Worse was the tapping of the spider’s legs as it touched the phone to get to him.
He had been right to cancel: it was already on the loose, despite her promises. Well, let them enjoy their holiday together. They wouldn’t need him for that.
He missed her, though, as soon as she hung up.
He dreamt about her that night. She wasn’t wearing panties. She had tied his hands to his lonely bed’s headboard with them.
When she knelt to straddle his face, the spider that lived between her wet lips reached out to caress his face with its hairy double-jointed legs.
In Case You Missed It This Week:
Read!
I don’t read much SF, but when I do, then only the good stuff. Like the Mirrorshades anthology, featuring William Gibson, Pat Cadigan, Greg Bear and more. Long out of print, contributor Rudy Rucker is hosting it on his website as a free read!
Prophesy!
I already told you that short fiction magazine, The Deadlands is now free if you sign up. They’ve launched a Kickstarter to fund the next year of fiction, and one of the perks is a 3 card tarot reading for $10. My tarot newsletter was one of my most popular editions, so I know you’re interested.
This is your chance to find out who will replace Liz Truss and clean up at the bookies!
(And marginalised/unpublished short fiction writers can snag a critique from professional writers for a measly $25!)
Research!
I loved this story about the conspiracy theory that Barbara Bush, the wife of George Bush, is the daughter of Aleister Crowley, the self-styled “Beast” of sex magick.
“I wanted to test whether anyone would take the first, obvious step of contacting me and asking ‘Is this real?'”
Daughter of the Beast, or rather Mother of the Beast, is therefore Dangerous Lady #4. (She might not be Aleister Crowley’s daughter, but she did give birth to George W. Bush…)
Enjoy!
(Excerpted from my newsletter dated 8th October, 2022. Sign up for the full, up-to-date experience!)
