The Selfcleaning World

stories & images from a world on the edge..

Tag: flash fiction

Industrial Accidents

I have a flash fiction story in the latest edition of Zygote In My Coffee titled ‘Industrial Accidents’:

An exploration of puberty as mutation…

“I remember some of my contemporaries who mutated early, sex hairs
sprouting all over their bodies, muscles bubbling up from bones that
might grow an inch in one excruciating night.  Limb extension.  I
remember wailing in the dark for hours and hearing my brother too, a
couple years later, as hormonal chemicals ravaged his system.”

Puberty as mutation


Library incidents

I have a story in the latest edition of Locust Magazine called ‘University Library’:

Incidents while drifting through corridors…

‘I approach a tarnished wooden table bending under the weight of texts. One archaic-looking tome catches my attention. It’s an atlas, waiting to be opened again.

The atlas creaks open, land slides out.

The land is wrong, the boundaries are different and the coastlines are off. There was more ice then, less liquid water …’


Poor old sad sack, couldn’t even…… you know.   He slept out back.

At a convent nestled in the alps in the Garden of Needing the Monsignor dines on pears, wine and emmentaler cheese surrounded by a bevy of nuns, unaware of an approaching coven of enchanted priestesses, dew of the Urchin running off their chins.

The Judas Goat is under surveillance and war brides are guaranteed, so enjoy the carnage.

Watch as the drunken shoreman is ignored by the showgirl.  He heads into the night with a bone to pick.

I pick up a highwayman on the freeway.  He says that he who lies down with dogs rises with the fleas.  I turn down the radio, put the car in cruise control and nap.

On waking I’m alarmed at the bulge in my passenger’s pants.  “Oh that” he says, “it’s just priapism.”  The permanent erection was the result of a curse acquired by his grandfather in Burma, recently identified as a transgenerational parasitic venereal disease, cock-ring worm.

Meanwhile at the convent the priestesses, naked and chanting in unison, pour dew down the mouths of the liberated, as the Monsignor, tied down to the wine stained earth, is raped by the dozens.




I have a flash fiction piece up at Farther Stars Than These, sci-fi about noise and silence in a future world:

“There were old recordings of silence, but they couldn’t be heard for the din. Of course there were density isolation chambers, but only the obscenely wealthy could enjoy those …  Only the old ones remembered silence, the pure natural kind and what it was like.”