Tagged: flash fiction

Flash Fiction



Endless processions of driverless cars.

Delivering their contents to automated houses.

Under the constant scrutiny of cameras, overhead drones.

Smart appliances reporting preferences, behavior, patterns; mined for data, narcing to their corporate masters.

Election night: voting by remote control, hardly bothering to check the results.

Keeping your head down, mouth shut.

Addicted to livestreaming porn sites.

Disgusted by the state of affairs but powerless to effect any change.

Buying stupid trinkets to fill the void.

Drugs when nothing else works.

An epidemic of suicide in your age bracket.

Desperately lonely and neurotic, verging on anti-social.

In your solitary rooms, secured by triple locks.

Talking to yourself and the listening walls.

Waiting for the knock on your door.



© Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)

A morbid turn: four flash fictions




An intimacy only death allows.

Forced into close alignment to conserve space.

A press of upturned faces.

Rows and rows, near a field of spring wheat.

Bright sunlight, a perfect cloudless day.

In defiance of this latest atrocity.

 * * *



The Last Room

Is someone there?

Why don’t you come nearer?

Step into the light…

I can barely see you.

There’s so little time.

Please, show yourself.

I don’t want to be alone.

Approach, stranger:

Take pity on my penitent soul.

* * *


Chase Scene

—careening down a narrow path, bucking and weaving through the forest, in headlong flight.

“Hurry! It’s catching up with us!”

Realizing my mistake when the trees around us begin to glow, giving off a vivid, blue light.

The ground vibrating, feeling it through the floorboard beneath my feet.

Oh, Christ!  Oh, Jesus, help me—”

The light coruscating, fierce, accompanied by a blaze of heat, the exterior of our vehicle starting to blister and smoke…

* * *


Reporting as ordered, funneled in with the rest.

Hemmed and jostled, barely able to move.

Exhausted and compliant.

A clipped, officious voice from the loudspeaker, appealing for calm.

Distant shouting, the news spreading in visible ripples through our midst.

The gates are closing



© Copyright, 2014  Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)

“Suspect” (flash fiction)

dore2“The fuck is this?”


“That’s him. That’s our guy.”


“You kidding? You’re taking the piss, right?”


“Look, I’ve been up all night, you wanted to see what I got, this is it.”


“But what is it?”

“It’s a, waddaya call it, a screen capture.”


“A what?”


“Like they take a picture, a still frame. Enhanced all to fuck but that’s what they came up with. There’s your perp.”


“I still don’t get it. You’re saying that’s taken from the hallway camera—”


“Yeah. What you’re looking at is, like, a single fucking frame. That new guy, Panda or Pandra, whatever the fuck, he spotted it. And, man, how he managed it, I’ll never know.”


“So he’s zipping through the footage and something clicks and he goes back and slows everything down—”


“Right, exactly. And this thing is there for a flash, right outside the fucking door, and then it’s gone.”


“Time frame?”




“Fuck that. Nothing fits. This is a locked door mystery and the two of us are hanging out to dry here. In less than an hour I gotta go upstairs, smile ever so nice and show them…what exactly? This? This fucking—”


“It’s all we got.”


“Nine of our best standing around with their thumbs up their arses while the guy we were supposed to be babysitting—“


“No one got in or out. You said so yourself.”


“No one but this guy. That’s what you’re telling me, right?”


”The question is, what are you going to tell them.”


“I’m not going to tell them anything. I’m just going to show them this. The best evidence we have.”


“And then?”


“Then? Then it doesn’t matter. Because it won’t be my problem any more…”



© Copyright, 2014  Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)


“Extinct” (Flash Fiction)



It flutters and at first I think it’s a leaf or a feather.

Run to catch it.

But it moves in my hands!

Drop it like it’s hot.

Go and get Mother.

Telling me to shush as she kneels beside it.

Looking up at me, crying.

“It’s called a butterfly. Butterfly.”

Making me repeat it, so I’ll never forget.



© Copyright, 2014  Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)

“Splashdown” (science fiction)

100_1027…confined in some kind of plummeting spacecraft, unfamiliar controls, banks of switches and gauges, a bewildering array.

Extreme disorientation, not helped by the jolting descent, my capsule pitching and rolling, a sense of increasing speed and friction–

Fire! Fire! Engulfed in a sheath of flame, watching helplessly as long, thin tracks of plastic slide down the porthole-like windows.

I’m melting.

Turbulence reaching maximum intensity, violent gyrations and bumps, hearing the roar even through my helmet.

A shooting star.


Something…heaviness! Good old gravity. Like a slow-settling weight. Or turning to stone.

The fires are going out, leaving behind a blackened cinder.


Outside: purple. Purple-blue. Blue.

100_1031Landing on water.

Bobbing on a choppy sea, weeping with relief.

Waiting for someone to come and get me.

Wondering how long it will take.



Copyright, 2014 (All Rights Reserved)

“Subsidence” (Prose)

100_0742It has something to do with the persistent damp. Seepage; the ground fluid, churning. Things constantly coming to the surface that are better left buried.

In the spring, when the snows subside, dissolve away. Sometimes a careless farmer will plough up the wrong field. Or children will make a grisly discovery in the woods.

We have been condemned, collectively, for those dark times. You would think we all owned Kalashnikovs and a cluster of hand grenades.

They will not forgive the desecration of the churches. Those pictures. Awful, awful. Though some of us insist they were faked…

Listen, we can’t keep apologizing for the past. What’s done is done. It could happen in any modern, civilized state.

They want to call it genocide but we reject that.

It was war and terrible things occurred.

We won’t be treated as pariahs.

We have sinned but are answerable only to God.




Copyright, 2013  Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)

Two short pieces from STROMATA

Kafka Fuck


Once back at my place she plays it coy scuttling under the couch until I menace her with a can of Raid using it to steer her toward the bedroom antennae twitching in excitement crawling up the edge of my bedspread chittering as I run my fingers along her polished carapace stroking her thorax her withered ornamental wings fluttering mandibles dug into my pillow in insectile ecstasy while I prepare to mount her probing for anything resembling a vagina wondering if she uses protection and if not if the pupa will look anything like me.


* * * * *

Greenhouse Effect


I’m not going back to you. I’m gone. I’m outta here. You won’t find me. It’ll be like we never met. Just another face in the crowd. On a forgotten street. In a strange country.  One of the disappeared. Yeah. Lost in time and space. I wasn’t born in the first place.  Back to the womb. Stillborn. No. Aborted. A puddle of pink flesh. Gristle and blood.  Dumped in an incinerator. Reduced to ash. Floating in the troposphere. Burned by the sun. Ultraviolet radiation. A cancer on your body.


* * * * *

These are two of my favorite short prose pieces, excerpted from my recently released volume Stromata: Prose Works (1992-2011).

For ordering information, please go here.

Photo credit:  Sherron Burns