Flashshots, By Mark Orr


by Mark Orr

Santa sighed as he surveyed the bloody snow. It looked like he’d have to train a new Blitzen this year, and Cupid might be out right up until Christmas Eve. Well, at least there would be venison for dinner.


by Mark Orr

Dr. Frankenstein regretfully rejected the arm, tossing it aside onto the pile of unusable body parts he'd been harvesting from graves and gibbets all over Switzerland. It was a good arm, strong and sinewy, but he was unable to break the fingers out of the rigor mortis that arrayed them in the hanged man's last act of symbolic defiance. The middle finger remained steadfastly extended, and the others curled tightly into the palm.


by Mark Orr

“No one is real unless they use the bathroom?” I asked my patient.

“Yeah. Ozzie Nelson wasn’t real, Doc. Nor Ward Cleaver, Magnum, Rockford, Paladin, Ricky Ricardo. Archie Bunker was. He went to the can.”

“Those are television characters.”

“So? Don’t mean they are or aren’t real. Only the ones who use the toilet. Al Bundy is real. Homer Simpson, him too.”

His delusion was certainly real. “Homer Simpson is a cartoon.”

“Yeah, but he takes a dump every so often. What about you, Doc? I never seen you go into that little bathroom over there.”

I vanished.


About ghostposts

Trapped in the moody Texas weather, this disabled mom squeezes out a few hours each day to write. Her husband and children are patient, her housework is neglected and her dog is not speaking to her. Her fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and e zines including Whispering Spirits, The Shadow Box Anthology and Quietus Magazine.
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