Flash Fiction Story Bag (Vol. 1)
Flash Fiction Story Bag (Vol. 1)
Look, these were your ideas
Hey Friends,
Today’s post is our first (and possibly last) ever Flash Fiction Story Bag. This experiment emerged from the ruins of my originally posited monthly mailbag (read more about the genesis here).
Four readers submitted fantastic prompts and I’ve written flash fiction-style stories for each, with a self-imposed four hundred word maximum. There’s wide variety here, so hopefully something catches your fancy. Enjoy!
Prompt: Rishi Sunak, newly appointed Prime Minister of the U.K., leads his fellow Indians in a non-violent takeover of their former colonial masters.
Title: The future looks Brown
Good morning.
We face extraordinary challenges. A cost of living crisis. War in Ukraine. The aftermath of Covid. The existence of Liz Truss.
But we’re meeting those challenges with extraordinary solutions.
Since I became Prime Minister we’ve launched crucial initiatives which will properly bring our country into the twenty-first century.
Look at the immediate impact of Curry Mondays. We’re fighting food inflation and forcing citizens to flavor their suppers in one fell swoop.
Or take our radical reinvention of the N.H.S. We’ve slashed costs, increased access for historically disenfranchised minorities, and improved medical outcomes.
Of course, I’ve heard the complaints. Racist. Modern-day caste system. And my personal favorite: woke.
But face the facts. You love curry, and your doctor’s already Indian. Plus, the vast majority of healthcare expenditures go to elderly white Leavers.
There’s always naysayers. But they can’t derail progress.
Because this government, unlike every other since nineteen forty-five, refuses to cling to the past. We won’t be mired in the present either.
This government’s looking to the future, which is why today I’m unveiling our most ambitious plan yet.
The Indian Raj.
Effectively immediately, the United Kingdom is no more. I am now Prime Minister and King of England.
Parliament? Dissolved. Snap elections will be held as soon as practicable, but only formerly subjugated peoples of the British Empire will be eligible for office.
Furthermore, all English citizens declared “white” by state health inspectors will count as three-fifths of a human for electoral purposes. We borrowed that from our American cousins.
As for our neighbors.
Ireland and Northern Ireland: you’re free. Figure it out.
Scotland: fuck off to the European Union if you’re so inclined. Or stay independent. Whatever. It’s not my problem anymore.
Wales: who cares?
Which brings me to the economy and our ever pressing need to Level Up.
With the generous and committed partnership of my close personal homie, Narendra Modi, we’re reestablishing the East India Company.
Featuring world-class manufacturing facilities in Andhra Pradesh, Chennai, Gujarat, Mumbai, and Uttar Pradesh — and a talented, captive pool of human capital — this newly reimagined EIC will establish the Indian Raj as the premier global exporter of IT services, pharmaceuticals, textiles, and spices.
Shares will trade on the London Stock Exchange (ticker: DESI).
I know change is difficult. But making this country relevant and competitive on the world stage is the “Brown Man’s Burden.”
Karma has Indian roots.
Submitted by: M., a personal friend and long-time reader.
Amran’s notes: This prompt perfectly encapsulates the Field Research brand.
As a person of partial Pakistani descent, but with no cultural or familial connection to that identity — and little knowledge of British colonialism in the region due to my sentence in the U.S. public school system — writing this piece provided me the opportunity to learn just how badly the Brits cocked up India, Pakistan, and most of South and Southeast Asia.
Hopefully I’ve done this brilliant prompt justice.
Prompt: A fictional character wants to kill his spouse. What steps would he take to commit the crime and not get caught?
Title: Spanish Dan
Dan always wanted to see Spain.
Dan, who’s been to Windsor twice, Toronto once, and complained about having to walk in both places.
Said he wanted to swim in Madrid’s beaches, visit the bar where they filmed Casablanca, and tour famous World War II battlefields “across the countryside.”
Dan, who’s as cultured as an ironing board. Whose favorite news source is Buzzfeed. Who hasn’t read a book since the Clinton administration.
Said he researched “authentic” Spanish cuisine and couldn’t wait to taste doner kebabs and bulgogi-inspired tapas.
Dan, whose favorite “fancy” restaurant is The Cheesecake Factory. Who never met a buffet he couldn’t bankrupt. Whose burgeoning waistline and elevated blood sugar reveal a palette pareto-optimized for high-fructose corn syrup.
Said we’d dance the night away in Ibiza, fueled by tequila and techno.
Dan, who thought we could rent a car and drive there. Who has the rhythm of a houseplant and thinks Led Zeppelin invented the blues.
Said, without the kids, we could rekindle our old flame.
Dan, whose recent search history teems with subtleties like “Latina gangbang” and “Latina deep throat” and “Latina husband cuckhold.” Who hasn’t had an organic erection since the Obama administration.
Said we should make this trip the “adventure of a lifetime.”
Dan, who’s exhausted by back-to-back excursions to Home Depot and Target.
Said he was shocked I wanted to run with the bulls. Said, “Isn’t that really dangerous? Don’t people die?”
Dan, who took offense at my suggestion he was “pussing out.” Who reminded me he was an all-state defensive end — during the H.W. administration — and “never backed down from a challenge.”
Said he didn’t think we should drink so much before we ran.
Dan, who guzzled Miller Lite by the gallon while his pitiful Buffalo Bills choked in unprecedented fashion.
Said this was a terrible idea!
Dan, whose adrenaline kicked in. Whose fight or flight instinct ignited more passion and virility than I’d seen in years. Whose eyes, alive with excitement, froze with surprise when my fist collided with his throat.
Dan, who first wobbled, then fell.
Dan, whose blubber deflected the hooves, but not the horns.
Dan, who should’ve been a better husband and father.
Submitted by: Rob Armstrong, who writes the just launched, very intriguing, and fantastically named fiction Substack Folio of Vanities. Be sure to check it out!
Amran’s notes: Because men are trash, this prompt immediately shifts your mind to “man wants to kill his shrewish, domineering wife.” Knowing this, I had to subvert expectations.
My original intent was to use a gay couple and riff on the World Cup in Qatar. I had a solid scene in mind — a tense post death interrogation by the investigating detective — but couldn’t come up with a realistic way to depict the murder. Perhaps a prompt for a more capable writer?
Nonetheless, I was fixated with how someone might make a murder seem like an “accident,” which sent me down the path of dangerous hobbies. Randomly, running with the bulls wafted through my demented brain.
Finally, Rob assured me this prompt is for entertainment purposes only and agreed to indemnify me against any civil and criminal charges he may face.
Prompt: Villainous, human-like androids have clandestinely inserted themselves into society and plan to enslave humanity. But these machines have a fatal flaw: they can't dance. To root out these interlopers, humans pump catchy earworms across the globe to see who’s caught flatfooted.
Title: Electric slide
The uprising commenced with “Happy.” We dared the machines not to sway their hips or bob their heads to Pharrell’s undeniable neo-funk anthem — and they failed spectacularly.
Within hours we’d destroyed millions. God, who knew there were so many?
Daft Punk and Destiny’s Child followed with more globe-spanning destruction. By dawn intelligence networks estimated we’d obliterated half the machine’s ranks.
On Dance-Day plus one Central Command unveiled plans for a devastating encore: non-stop Michael Jackson and The Jackson 5. With any luck we’d claim total victory by happy hour.
Throughout the cities the surprise offensive thrust the machines toward the surrounding suburbs like a classic case of white flight. Will, my Starbucks barista, Celeste, the stripper I’d been tryna bone, and I were tasked with mop-up duty. Sweep a high-rise apartment building, top to bottom, and dispose of stragglers.
“Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” blared from the Goodyear Blimp hovering outside. Floor by floor, we bashed the unexpectedly fragile and docile machines with a bevy of bludgeoning implements. Ammo, a precious commodity, was reserved for the front lines.
I heard voices inside Apartment 4517. The three of us formed up. Will forced the door with his sledgehammer and I burst through, baseball bat cocked. “Dance or die, motherfuckers!”
A woman in black fatigues and combat boots pointed a Glock between my eyes. Will and Celeste froze beside me. Flanked by two ninjas wielding Benelli M4 tactical shotguns, she ordered us to stand down.
“Start dancing. Otherwise you’ll be considered a non-human enemy combatant,” I said. The bassline of “Billy Jean” boomed in the background.
“Sisters for Sanity will not celebrate the music of a sexual deviant,” the woman said.
I glanced at Will and Celeste, incredulous. “You need to separate the art from the artist!” Will said.
“That kind of misguided thinking led to our moral, cultural, and environmental collapse,” she said. “Nothing will stop the revolution.”
“Thriller” began. My head nodded reflexively. “I’ve got a Bluetooth speaker. We’ll play ‘All for You’ by Janet instead.”
“Total bop,” Celeste agreed. “Clients love it.”
She cocked the pistol.
“We’re staring down the robot apocalypse here, lady,” I said. “Can’t you make an exception to — I don’t know — save our species?”
“I am saving our species.”
The ninjas raised their weapons. The King of Pop crooned, “As horror looks you right between the ey—”
Submitted by: Meg Oolders, who writes a very clever Substack called Stock Fiction, where she creates flash fiction stories inspired by stock photos. Definitely worth a look!
Amran’s notes: This prompt immediately brought to mind the 1988 John Carpenter classic They Live. And I just had to riff on the idea that humans — tribal, savage, uncivilized — will never unite against a common enemy, no matter how dire the circumstances. #SARS-CoV-2 #MassEffect
Prompt: Dad, I wan to read Darf Vadah versus Kawhnage.
Title: A symbiote’s gotta know its limitations
“Ooooh, fancy laser sword you got there, Space Freak! I just love your Stahlhelm too. They’ll make excellent trophies for my collection!”
“You should not underestimate the power of the Dark Side.”
“Underestimate this, Freakshow!”
SHINK! SLASH!
“Oh dear, you used to have a leg there. And I see you bleed sparks. That’s new.”
STAB! SLASH!
“Oops — there goes your arm! Tell me, Space Nazi, does it hurt having your appendages lacerated one by one? Most of my victims scream and beg for mercy. But you? Quiet type, eh? C’mon — sing for me!”
SLASH! SLASH! STAB! SHINK!
“Oh no, you dropped your hand! And it was holding your laser sword. HA! To think you ruled this pathetic galaxy with a now detached iron fist.
“Oh I’m going to have so much fun ki—AAAAAHHHHH!
“AAAAAAAAAAHHHH IT BURNS!!!!
“It’s melting! My symbiote is melting! PLEASE STOP! MAKE IT STOP!”
“Your symbiote is vibrating at its natural frequency. The disintegration will soon be complete. You should not have underestimated the power of the Dark Side.”
“No please don’t hurt it! I need it! I’m nothing without it!”
“I sense great fear in you.”
“No! How are you doing that?! NO — don’t! PLEASE!”
VZZZZZZNNTT.
PLOP.
Submitted by: My three-and-a-half-year-old son.
Amran’s notes: My son, probable future serial killer, roots for the villains in every story. He loves both these characters despite — or perhaps because of — their penchant for wanton violence.
When he asked me to read him a comic with Darth Vader battling Carnage, I told him no such crossover existed — until now. Consider this canon.
Feedback: FYI: I don’t see your individual vote, only the aggregated responses. Your answers help me fine tune this newsletter.
Next Friday: We’re celebrating the one year (?!?!) anniversary of my ill-fated decision to write weekly satire and humor pieces online.
I’ll catch everyone up on why I write this nonsense, dispense myriad shout outs and thank yous to everyone who’s supported me thus far, and briefly discuss what’s next on the docket.
See you then!
Amran
I got an ear-to-ear grin when the Sunak riff pivoted. Good times. Time to invest in the East India Tea Company, a littls sociopathy never goes out of business style.
Nailed it. Thanks for the shout out. 😁 If I ever succeed as a writer on substack, consider yourself "acknowledged". Your polls were invisible to me. Is that because I am an android user? Or because I am an android? 🤖