A Fixed Point in Chaos: two new flash fiction stories

Two new shorter flash fiction stories for you now. The first – The Next Scream You Hear by new writer Ed Walker, is very much horror meets urban fantasy. While the second – Odd Hours by new to the Angel writer Tony Pisculli, takes us into cyberpunk territory.

Ed Walker is a civil engineer and writer who lives in the Seattle area. He adds that his work has appeared in concrete, never on paper or online. Hawaii-based Tony Pisculli is a graduate of the Stonecoast MFA program in Creative Writing, and has previously been published in Daily Science Fiction.


The Next Scream You Hear
by Ed Walker

You are not impressed with the ad copy. The latest thrill ride was a supposed to be a real mindbender. But all you get out of the flyer is that it takes place in a room, and is supposed to make stalwart men piss themselves.

You get there, buy your ticket, and go into the room, which has no windows, and one door other than the one you entered through.

An electronic sign hangs above the exit door. It reads: Are you afraid of the dark?

You laugh to yourself, thinking that no, those are not the terrors you fear. Not at all. And where is the VR gear you had more than half been expecting.

A flicker: You will be.

You shake your head, thinking of the ticket price and how you will be asking for a refund within five minutes. 

Half smiling, you walk to the door, and the sign changes again as you reach out to open it. The next scream you hear will be your own.

With a snort, you pull the door open, noting to yourself how over the top this thing has gotten, for what is supposed to be a subtle yet somehow terrifying experience.

There is only darkness behind the door, and you step inside, ready for the most realistic of virtual ghosts and vampires.

There is no floor. As you flail and fail to catch yourself, you hear a wailing scream.



Odd Hours
by Tony Pisculli

Text from Ani suggesting we meet at Interval at eleven o’clock. But I’m already here, and it’s past midnight now. Like her favorite club, Ani doesn’t conform to classical notions of time and space, but she’s worth waiting for.

I’m at the bar, nursing the same scotch I ordered before the slip, not sure if it would be available after. You have to be careful with your drink order at Interval, especially at odd hours. The barman in the leather apron who recommends the Lagavulin at a minute till the hour becomes a smoky-eyed Parisian girl who pours you absinthe over a sugar cube just two minutes later.

I hate absinthe.

Ani loves the liminal times, delighting in the heady whirl of cultures as the patrons of past hours yield to the newcomers: a carioca offering his seat to a drag queen, a London proto-punk buying a drink for a Harajuku loli-goth. Ani surfs the flux with aplomb, though she herself is immutable. 

I’m more at home with the stability of the even hours, when the theme has settled. At the moment, I’m enjoying the jazz trio in the corner – I’m close enough to admire the drummer’s delicate brush technique on the snare – and the quiet buzz of conversation that serves as backdrop. With few exceptions, myself included, the patronage could have wandered in off the Champs-Élysées in 1950.

​Update from Ani. She’s around the corner. Which means everything, and nothing. The more specific her location, the more uncertain her momentum. Still, the simple fact that she’s nearby thrills me.

We’re closing in on one o’clock in the morning now, and things begin to shift: the trio acquires an improbable erhu player; the thick brocade of my high-backed barstool gives way to a rattan weave; my drink, left unattended for a moment too long, sports a wedge of coconut and smells suspiciously of dark rum. I’m wrenched out of my comfort zone as the club accelerates into the slip.

My phone buzzes in my pocket with a new text alert, but I’ve already spotted Ani by the entrance. Perfect. Timeless. A fixed point in the chaos. She smiles when she sees me, the club swirling around her, and holds me steady in her eyes.