You may or may not remember that a while back I was working on a project called Flasher. This short story collection started out as a fun writing exercise that I thought I might publish, but eventually all the fun got sapped out of it. After a lot of thought, I’ve decided it’s not something I’ll ever continue to work on, or publish. But now I have over 30 short stories and pieces of flash fiction sitting around in a folder, collecting digital dust.
But that’s not a bad problem to have.
Lately, I’ve been adding more and more onto my plate, and I’m worried I’m skating too close to the edge of burnout. And I do want to take a little bit of “real” time off in November (and maybe December). I think this collection of unpublished (and barely edited) short stories will help!
I still plan on having 2 blog posts per month for the time being, and obviously the last one of the month is always a writing update. To help reduce my workload, I’ll be sharing one Flasher story per month (maybe two if it’s a month with extra weeks). Not only will this help me to ward off burnout by sharing unpublished stories and experiments with my wonderful readers, but less time writing for the blog means more time for working on the stories that I will be publishing. Besides, people seemed to like when I shared older unpublished stories from the vault, so I think this is something you all will enjoy (if not, well, don’t tell me).
Originally, I debated weather or not to write a story called “Flasher” for the collection. But after writing a few stories, this specific image of a grimy flasher on a street corner sprung into my mind and I had to give him a home on the page. His story turned out to be the perfect introduction to the overall project, and I’m happy he finally gets to see the light of day.
So, without further ado, here is “Flasher”.
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There’s a dirty, old man who stands at the corner of the intersection. It’s so busy there that most people don’t notice him. Unless, of course, he wants you to see him.
If he catches your eye, a slight nod of his head is all it will take for you to follow him down the nearby streets until you reach a nameless back alley.
Then, positioned behind a dumpster so no one else can see, he’ll give you the widest grin you’ve ever seen in your life, exposing all of his horrid, crooked yellow teeth. But still, you won’t run away. Not even when he grabs the frayed edges of his filthy overcoat with gnarled fingers.
The coat opens.
There are no words to describe what you see. Such eldritch horrors can only be experienced. Universes collide inside your brain as your bowls loosen, voiding the contents of your body into your clothes, splashing the pavement. You’re falling inside out and there’s nothing – no one – to catch you. But you can’t take your eyes away. Can’t help but stare. A screech from some far-off galaxy bounces off your eardrums and your bones collapse. Your eyes are the last to go as what’s left of you liquifies. You cannot take your eyes off the man.
When all that’s left is a steaming heap of muck, the man smiles to himself and closes his coat, wrapping it tightly around his scrawny body to protect against the slight chill in the air.
