A Matter of Taste
by Paul Liadis

note: This was written as part of a flash fiction writing contest at the blog, The Clarity of Night, back in 2009. Here is a link to the original post. The idea was to write 250 words based on a provided prompt.

“Drink,” said Graymatter, pointing at the goblet.

“I will do nothing of the sort,” spat the man in the sombrero. “I drank first at ourlast encounter.”

“Your memory is faulty,” replied Graymatter. “Much like your spine.”

“Have you met the last man who questioned my valor?” said the man in the sombrero. “He’s six feet under the ground. Perhaps you would like to join him?”

“Save the braggadocio and drink, coward,” said Graymatter, leaning back in his chair, just out of reach.

The man in the sombrero looked at the glass and then at his rival. With a cackle, he folded his arms and grinned. He would not be fooled so easily.

Graymatter blinked. Had he underestimated his opponent? Had the large man somehow found composure?

The enemies sat silent, each waiting for the other to flinch. The taunts of Graymatter gradually wormed their way under the skin of the man in the sombrero. Unable to ignore their itch, he clutched the glass and consumed its contents.

“Well?” asked Graymatter, smirking at the shrewdness of his maneuver.

“Red… banana?” replied the man in the sombrero, coughing as his body rejected the wretched drink.

Graymatter gasped. “Impossible,” he said. “That flavor exists in legend alone.”

The door swung open. A young man wearing a golf shirt emblazoned with the Kool Aid logo emerged. “Next,” he said, placing a new glass on the table. “And this time with a little less drama, please. We have twenty more flavors to test today.”

The Traveler and The Game
by Paul Liadis

note: This was written as part of a flash fiction writing contest at the blog, The Clarity of Night, back in 2010. Here is a link to the original post. The idea was to write 250 words based on a provided prompt.

An old man stopped me on my way to the mountaintop. He had a beard as black as coal stretching to the tops of his feet and a long flowing robe so filthy that tiny green buds sprouted upon its surface. A rock, a stick, and a gun lay before him. “Stay for a game,” he said to me. “If you win I’ll let you pass.”
“And if I refuse?”

The man said nothing, instead turning his eyes toward the gun. I got the message.

“Well, what’s the game?” I said.

“Using any one of these items, rid me of that wicked creature,” he replied, pointing a crooked finger at the raven circling overhead. “In one shot.”

I considered the objects at hand.

The rock. Too light and insignificant, it would do nothing but agitate the bird.

More substantial, but terribly inaccurate, the stick was not worth the risk.

The gun was my only true option. Lifting the weapon, I trained my sights on the winged creature. Moving the barrel just to the left of my target, boom click boom, I emptied both chambers. The creature departed.

“Thank you,” said the old man, fading like mist in the breeze, the shot still ringing in my ears. The rock, the stick, and the gun followed.

The land compelling me to rest, I sat in the very spot the man had been. And there I remain, seated, watching the raven fly above, waiting for an unfortunate soul willing to play my game.

It’s Getting Hot In Here
by Paul Liadis

note: This was written as part of a flash fiction writing contest at the blog, The Clarity of Night, back in 2011. Here is a link to the original post. The idea was to write 250 words based on a provided prompt.

Published July 13, 2041 | FOXNews.com

Record high temperatures were reported across the United States for the thirteenth consecutive month, causing health officials to warn the elderly, the infirm, and mammals to avoid the outdoors between dawn and dusk. Some scientists put the blame on the shoulders of the democrat controlled government at the beginning of the century.

“Although the science is mixed on whether climate change is real, and has it never been proven that the Earth truly is warming, if it was, it most surely be due to the inaction from the left at a most critical time,” said Dr. W. R. Scrued, Political Science, Liberty University. “Not that human action could affect the Earth’s temperature in any way.”

Others take a more spiritual view on so-called climate change.

“If the good Lord meant for us to go outside in the middle of the day, air conditioning woulda never been invented,” shouted Brent Melanin through the driver’s side window of his Ford Decapitator. “Anyways, the Sun is just doin’ what it’s s’posed to. Makin’ the Earth warm.”

Democrat-influenced historians from liberal universities often blame the lack of meaningful climate change legislation on abuse of the filibuster and corporate influence on politics. An overwhelming number of our readers disagree.

According to a FoxNews.com poll, seventy-nine percent of voters blame the democrats for climate change, while eighty-two percent of voters feel that the Earth is not getting any warmer because it snowed that one time last winter.

Ar’n Man
by Paul Liadis

note: This was written as part of a flash fiction writing contest at the blog, The Clarity of Night, back in 2008. Here is a link to the original post. The idea was to write 250 words based on a provided prompt.

“Will it always feel this odd?” said Douglas, opening his eyes.

“No,” answered Dr. Grim. “You’re body will adapt.”

“But it feels so cold,” said Douglas, touching his face.

“Steel,” said Dr. Grim.

“How about all the dials and numbers? “Will I always…”

“You’ll get used to it,” interrupted Dr. Grim. “Everything you need is in the packet the nurse gave you. My advice is to wait a few hours before looking in the mirror. We don’t need you back here with a heart attack.”

“Is it that bad?” asked Douglas, peeking at the shape his shadow cast on the floor.
“Not everyone can afford the best parts, son” said Dr. Grim, walking toward the door.

“Sometimes we have to improvise. “

Douglas’ shoulders dropped. “What happened, Doc?” he whispered.

“All in the packet,” said the doctor, closing the door behind him.

His mind spinning, Douglas sat alone with his uncertainty. How had he died? Who had paid for the procedure? And why couldn’t feel his lips move when he talked?

Douglas opened the envelope with a shaking index finger and removed a thin pamphlet, hoping for answers. Staring back at him was the title: “Your New Head: The First Twenty-Four Hours”.

Laughing, Douglas tossed the packet in the bin marked Biohazard. He would find his answers where all great thinkers do, not in some book, but at the bottom of an icy glass. He was thirsty and his problems could wait. Now, if he could just locate his mouth….