Flash in the Pantheon

By Rhys Hughes

A collection of 101 flash fictions by a writer who has made his reputation as a devoted champion of the short story form. None of the stories in this book are longer than 1000 words; many are under 500 words; some are less than 100. The very short story is a noble literary tradition and includes such renowned names as Kafka, Chekhov, O Henry, Frederic Brown, Daniil Kharms and Brian Aldiss among its greatest practitioners. Ranging the spectrum of the imagination and encompassing a diverse range of styles and moods including fantasy, science fiction, humour, irony, whimsy and satire, this collection is perfect for the contemporary reader in our modern busy world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rhys Hughes
• Release date: Oct 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466117648

Rhys Hughes

RHYS HUGHES was born in Wales but has lived in many different countries and currently lives in India. He began writing at an early age and his first book, Worming the Harpy, was published in 1995. Since that time he has published more than fifty other books and his work has been translated into ten languages. He recently completed an ambitious project that involved writing exactly 1000 linked short stories. He is currently working on a novel and several new collections of prose and verse.

Book preview

Rhys Hughes is an accomplished player with words, plots, effects, relationships, sensibilities; you name it, Hughes tries to stand it on its head. More often than seems attributable to mere chance, he succeeds. — ED BRYANT, LOCUS

What do I like about Rhys Hughes's work? Fun. Hughes sees and precipitates in words the latent humour in almost anything. Ranging from what our culture considers pleasing and smilingly ridiculous to horrors that have to be laughed at if they are faceable at all, Hughes is a laughing observer, both inside and outside. With Hughes you get humour that is white, various shades of grey, black – and I don't know why humour cannot be characterized by other colours. I am also enormously impressed by Hughes's stylistic brilliance. The richness of language, the occasional Cambrianisms, the inexhaustible array of puns, weird metaphors that form the point of a story. And I envy him his netted imagination. As a man who sees connections where others do not, he offers enough ideas, if parcelled out, to fill a catalogue of fantasy for a generation of writers. — E.F. BLEILER

I wore throughout the undisplaceable, unsequelchable rictus of a grin of both delight and amazement. — MICHAEL BISHOP

Hughes' similarity to Spike Milligan runs deeper than the occasional shared lurch of phrase, for he writes as though he'd been bloodied in the same wars Milligan fought for eight decades: the same up-yours melancholia about the malice of the absurd – about the absurdness of the world defined not only as an inherent lack of species-friendly grammar in the convulsion of the real, but also a sense that anyone who acts as though he believes what he is told by our Masters will almost necessarily inflict pain on others." — JOHN CLUTE

Dazzling prose. Put your feet up and dip in. Life will never seem quite the same again. — THE THIRD ALTERNATIVE

Flash in the Pantheon

flash fiction

101 Stories

by

Rhys Hughes

Published By Gloomy Seahorse Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Rhys Hughes

Discover other Rhys Hughes titles at Smashwords.com

The Tellmenow Isitsöornot

The Astral Disruptor

The Phantom Festival

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Dedicated to:

Lisa Duesing

excellent singer, wonderful person

Author’s Foreword

Not one of the following tales is longer than 1000 words; many are much shorter. I suspect that an ideal microfiction is always less than 500 words. Not so long ago, works of this nature were known as ‘short shorts’, rather a clumsy name, and king of the form was Fredric Brown. Saturated with puns and silly language twists, Brown’s texts somehow manage to avoid being mere jokes. They are authentic tales; but the cliché that every story needs a beginning, middle and end on the page isn’t true. It can be enough for a microfiction author to provide one of the three, leaving the others to enjoy a late existence in the reader’s head.

There are many special categories of so-called ‘flash fiction’ and most are fairly recent developments: the ‘mini-saga’, a complete tale in exactly 50 words, not one more or less, dates back to the 1980s, the brainchild of Brian Aldiss; the suggestive ‘69er’ allows a microfiction writer to bask in the luxury of an extra nineteen words; and the ‘drabble’ (100 words long) is even more generous in this regard.

Some heavyweight authors indeed have been experts at flash fiction. I ought to mention the names of Franz Kafka, Jorge Luis Borges and Italo Calvino; I will also point out that Russia often produces specialists in the art: I don’t know if there is a good reason for this. Writers such as Mikhail Zoshchenko, Leonid Dobychin, Varlam Shalamov and the dark absurdist Daniil Kharms suggest there must be something in the vodka; or perhaps simply living under Stalin’s regime forced one to write short and pithy to accurately reflect anticipated lifespans.

My favourite microfiction of all is a tale by John Barth that appears in his collection Lost in the Funhouse. A pair of scissors and pot of glue are required to appreciate it fully, for the story consists of a strip of paper that must be twisted into a Möbius strip. Before the twist is made, the story is no more than ten words long; afterwards it becomes infinite. That’s a very Borgesian trick; and Barth, an admirer of Borges, holds the distinction of writing the only never-ending story that is also a microfiction. I refused to cut up my own copy of that fine book, however, and satisfied myself with imagining the twist. Perhaps I am timid.

The mini-, micro- and nanofictions in the following book span almost my entire published career. The earliest dates from 1990 and is my fourth oldest surviving tale; the most recent is from the end of 2011. I collected them together in chronological order first, then I printed off the titles, put those in a hat and plucked them out to determine a new, random order: it’s better that way. I chose one hundred and one for no special reason; I just like that number. I hope you enjoy them!

Table of Contents

Goblin Sunrise

Sexing the Confection

Gone With the Wind in the Willows

The Spanish Cyclops

The Backwards Aladdin

The Man who Gargled with Gargoyle Juice

The Strongest Monster

The Fluffiheadophus

The Holiday Makers

Waiting for Breakfast

Penal Colony

The Fire Jump

The Demon Walker

In Moonville

The Planet of Perfect Happiness

Primate Suspect

Celia the Impaler

Sentence has been Passed

The Cloudhouse

The Smile Inside

Six-Word Story Time

The 4-D Mind

The Birth of Opera

The Younger Man

Perpetual Motion

The Landscape Player

The Revenge of the Trees

Floodtide

The Peat Fire

The Wilds Beyond Carmarthen

Cosmic Bagatelle

The Wooden Salesman

Encore

The Reversed Comma

In Sunsetville

I Saw a Ghost Ship

Sir Cheapskate

The Time Tunnel Orchid

The Free Spirit

Blocking the Flue

The Seal of Disapproval

The Two Kingdoms

The Landslide

The Hidden Sixpence

The Shrug

Brief Hilltop Halt

Lunette

Fanny is Famished

Diplomatic Immunity

An Inconvenient Fruit

The Psychoanalyst

Kharms Before the Storm

The Wrexham Chainsaw Massacre

Doom Laden Haven

A Curry in Camelot

The Business Diary of a Madman

The Metaphorical Marriage

The Googol Seasons

Flash in the Pantheon

The Moon and the Well

The Juggler

Christmas Overtime

The Cat

Go West, Young Ripper

Mad March Stylist

N+ Prime

Learning to Fly

The Snail Path

Rainbow’s End

A Rather Depressed Young Man

Eyelashes in my Nepenthe

Black Ops

The Culture Shock

The City That Was Itself

A Post-Disaster Story

Description of a Liar

In Eclipseville

Making a Request

My Biological Prism

The Maze

The Grave Demeanour

The Tribal Philosophers

Stale Air

The King of the Cardboard Castle

The Sun Lamp

The Falling Lover

Don’t Shoot the Messenger

The Porcelain Pig

The Imp of the Icebox

Virgil Leading Dante into Hell Takes a Wrong Turning

The Earthworm’s Ecstasy

Deluged With Aunts

The Precious Mundanity

The Jeweller

Moonchaser

The Burning Ears

Down in the Park

Hatstands on Zanzibar

The Apricot Jar

The Sundial

Goblin Sunrise

Anna shook her husband awake. Gareth blinked dreams from damp lashes. He struggled through the syrup of hypnopompic sleep. His yawn was as pink and large as the morning.

Anna kept shaking him. Eh? he gasped. His hands clenched the pillow and wrestled it over the edge of the bed. The reflexes of a tree, Anna thought derisively. His eyes snapped open.

What is it? What’s wrong?

Anna lost no time. There’s a little man outside the window. He’s wearing a floppy hat and curly slippers. He’s laughing his head off. He’s very ugly. He has a dirty beard and a warty face. Also, he’s got horns.

Ah yes, that must be the goblin I ordered.

The what? Anna cast a doubtful look through the frosty glass. She frowned. "Did you say goblin?"

Didn’t I tell you? I ordered one yesterday to do some work for us. Very hard workers apparently, very efficient, very neat. Good overall value. Gareth yawned again.

Where did you order it from?

Little People Inc. A new company based in Cork, Eire. They provide goblins, gnomes, dwarves, elves and leprechauns for customers. Goblins are the cheapest of the lot. Not very bright, you see, but good workers all the same. Beautiful, he added.

Anna pouted. I see. She lay back down on the bed. Gareth closed his eyes. Anna frowned once more. Gareth snored. After a couple of minutes, she turned on her side, propped herself up on one elbow and studied his face with its gaping, drooling mouth.

What now? He was somehow aware of her gaze.

Let me get this straight. You ordered a goblin to do some work for us? What sort of work?

Oh, in the garden. He was dismissive.

There was another long pause. I see, she said again. She scratched her nose. She introduced the toes of her left foot to the toes of her right. Then why is he floating in the air? And why is he cutting at the clouds with a pair of clippers?

What? Gareth woke with a start, jumped out of bed and squinted in the early light. The sun was big and red on the horizon. And there, far away, silhouetted by the dawn, a goblin was carefully trimming the rosy cumulus tufts.

Gareth opened the window, looked down at his overgrown garden, shook his fists at the sky and cried, The lawn, you fool! The lawn!

Sexing the Confection

The baker turned crusty eyes upon my purchase. Chocolate éclairs. What use are they in sex?

I beg your pardon? I had no desire to linger. My girl awaited me in my garret. We have an original kink, which I shall keep secret for another nine paragraphs.

Don’t be coy. I know your type. I’ve worked here for a decade. You don’t copulate like I do. I’ve watched.

I gulped. You have?

The baker bent closer. His whisper was a hiss of deflating pastry. I parted the miasma of his yeasty breath and saw his baguette-like chin looming over the counter.

I followed one chap home. Peered through his window. Saw him with his macaroon. Unnatural it was. Disgusting!

Clutching my bag, I crept towards the door. The baker broke down in a flood of tears. My wife refuses to do it with me. We can never have cakes of our own!

Trembling, I managed to open the door without sounding the bell. I took to my heels and reached my attic. Celia was already there, having returned from her own bakery.

We placed our prizes on the table. I teased her doughnut onto one end of the varnished surface. She agitated my bag until the éclairs spurted forth onto the other.

We sat back exhausted. Over the following week, the éclairs would struggle towards their destination. Most would fall by the wayside, but we hoped at least one would make it.

We are trying to breed gateaux.

Gone With the Wind in the Willows

The Confederate Army was shelling Toad Hall. Down in the bunker, Toad and Ratty were cowering under a table, drinking bourbon. Plaster fell from the ceiling and filled the room with fine dust. Where the hell is General Badger? Toad wailed.

Just at that moment, Mole erupted from the floor, a message clamped between his jaws. Toad snatched the communiqué and devoured the spidery words with his rheumy eyes. Badger’s forces have been eliminated on the outskirts of Atlanta.

Oh my, we’re doomed! avowed Ratty.

Toad drained his glass of bourbon and puffed on a cigar. Time for the cyanide and petrol, boys.

Screams of terror reached them from outside. It seemed the entire Confederate Army was on the run. The door to the bunker flew open and a svelte figure stood framed by licking flames.

I came as quickly as I could, it said.

Who the hell are you? Toad cried.

Bambi, it replied. It trotted into the room. I know I’m not in your story, but I couldn’t sit and watch you be annihilated. I’ve brought the Hollywood Infantry with me.

Well I’ll be darned, a goddamn postmodernist.

Not quite. What’s that you’re drinking? Bourbon? May I have some? I’ve got a tankard with me. Will you fill it up?

You are joking. This is vintage stuff.

I’ll settle for just a wine glass of the liquor in that case.

No way. This is expensive 108 proof Wild Turkey Rare Breed with a kick like an electrocuted whore.

Well how about filling a whisky glass? I only want a taste.

Toad climbed from under the table and sneered. Frankly, my deer, I don’t give a dram.

The Spanish Cyclops

There was a lens grinder who had fallen on hard times and who decided to revive his fortunes by exceeding the limits of his profession. Accordingly, he saved his remaining materials and set to work on the grandest project he could imagine.

The citizens of Valencia were perturbed at the noises that emanated from his workshop during the days and nights of a whole week.

At last he threw open his doors and rolled out into the town square the largest monocle in the world. It glittered below the green lamps that hung from the taverns and theatres. And soon a crowd gathered.

What is the purpose of this object? they wondered.

They walked around it, touching it lightly. It was too big to fit a king or bishop or even the statue of El Cid that loomed on the battlements of the palace. No eye in history might wear it comfortably in a squint. It was clear the lens grinder had lost his sanity.

The soldiers came to lock him up in a madhouse, but he stalled them with an explanation. They rattled their pikes uneasily.

He said, The entity for whom this monocle was made will seek it out when he learns of its existence, and he will pay me handsomely, because he has waited to see properly again for centuries.

There was much speculation as to the nature of this customer. People mounted the city walls to look out for him, but they saw nothing when they gazed inland. Once they called