Tag Archives: flash fiction

Siete de Mayo

For those of you who aren’t fluent in Spanish numbers, Siete is 7. And so, Siete de Mayo can also be known as two full days after I partied hard celebrating whatever it is Cinco de Mayo is for (Independence Day in Mexico? I’m not sure). Anyway, we rocked out hard. By we, of course, I mean me, a fifth of Tequila (Fifth for the fifth!), and my disapproving wife who has to work in the morning.

I, thankfully, didn’t have to work yesterday, which was tomorrow back on the Fifth. The reason I didn’t (and still don’t) have to work is because Larry tried to do a donut in the forklift and took out my knee. Couldn’t have been prevented really, but hey, that’s life. And I don’t blame him. In fact, I owe him a ‘thank you’ card for getting me on workers comp. I get a whole two months off and one of those cool knee scooter things! (Google it)

Heck, if I’m being honest, I don’t even remember yesterday existing. I jumped straight from Five to Siete… or something like that. The night of the fifth is kind of a blur as well. But I awoke on the seventh (siete) to find that someone had the gall to deface my knee scooter with crude drawings. There is currently a disagreement about who would have done it (either me or my wife. Sure, I was blind drunk, but that means she had motive because she hates when I drink during the week. And thanks to me being dead to the world on the sixth (Seis in Spanish if you’re keeping with the theme), she also had opportunity). (Sorry about all the parentheticals) 

I’ll keep you updated as the case of the scooter vandal develops. Happy Siete de Mayo!

Working for the FBI

You would think that there are a lot of cool jobs out there for FBI agents. There aren’t. You can go undercover, but honestly, it takes up a lot of your life and I just started dating the shoe gal at the bowling alley—and not to sound cocky, but I feel pretty good about it. So, undercover is out. 

You could also be one of the FBI guys in a suit or a windbreaker that shows up to arrest people for federal crimes (You know, like on the TV?). That’s it, just arrest them and then head back to the office. Pretty boring stuff honestly. Mostly paperwork.

Luckily there is also one other job, one that combines my talents and interests all in one. I’m the guy that spies on you while you do stuff you think is private on the internet. And if you do anything really weird, I look into everything you’ve ever done on the internet. Believe me, I’ve seen and heard some bizarre and unspeakable things. You know those people that put a little piece of electrical tape or something over their laptop’s webcam? Yeah, I mostly look for them, they’re the most entertaining. 

But don’t think you can just call up the FBI and tell them you want to do this (You can’t, I tried). The job was much harder to get than that. I had to prove that I knew a lot about computers (I don’t), or that I’m really good at stalking people (I am!). Importantly, I needed references— so I put down a crush I had in high school, Bonnie Raitt (Not that one), and a guy who works at AT&T who made me pretty mad. They know how much info I can dig up on someone when they become the sole target of my affection or ire. Based on their testimonials, I was given the job immediately.

The fun part is you kind of just get to choose who you look into. Most people in my position look into criminals and suspected criminals. I guess that’s what I’m supposed to do too, but no one really checks up on us. I spend a lot of time looking up family members and neighbors (spoiler alert: everyone you know is weird as hell—or everyone I know at least). 

Anyway, when I got started, they sat me in a dark room with ten computer screens and told me to let them know if I found anything. That was months ago. Well brother, just yesterday I hit the doggone jackpot. Let me tell you about K.J. Hanson:

Finding him was pretty easy. First, I looked for a list of people who Googled their own names recently. He was top of the list (4 times, just today!) The funny thing is, there is no reason to ever search this guy. He has a couple of inactive social media accounts and a half-assed WordPress site with like a handful of posts. I almost had to look away when he was nine pages deep in Google, it was just getting sad.

At one point, I thought he must’ve been onto me. He took off the tape over the camera and started sitting up really straight and making faces of deep introspection as he scrolled through a scientific article that he clearly wasn’t reading. (Does he do this every day just in case someone is spying on him?)

Later on in the day, after he had forgotten to put the tape back over the camera, he began doing karate moves in his living room. He was pretending to fight a lot of attackers. When I say karate moves, I’m not talking about an actual trained martial artist like Jackie Chan or that other guy. No, he looked more like the embarrassing choreography from the old Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movies. You know, before they had CGI and it was just out-of-shape dudes in heavy rubber turtle costumes doing half-hearted punches and kicks.

I wrote up a whole report on this guy for my supervisor. At first, I was worried that I would get in trouble for using so much of my time roasting some nobody for an official FBI memo, but they loved it! I owe them a report on K.J. every week now. Can’t wait to see what he gets up to tomorrow!

Confessions of an American Senator

Truth be told—I wanted to be an actor. But no matter how many acting classes my parents paid for, I kept getting told the same thing: Not believable.

Sometimes I feel bad about the stances I take on certain issues, but if you want your soundbite to be on the news, you can’t just agree with everyone else or say something rational—you need shock and awe!

I often wonder if people realize how little power I actually have to do things, or how little effort I put into doing the things that I can do.

I use most of my salary to pay different media sources to say good things about me and make my life seem down-to-earth, instead of joyously extravagant. Image is everything.

Pro tip for you future senators: you don’t need to do great things if you can pay someone to say you already did great things.

Is Exercise Killing Us All?

Yes. Yes it is. Exercise is morally reprehensible. When you exercise, you consume a drastically increased amount of oxygen (the thing we all need) and expel tons of carbon dioxide (the bad stuff). Exercise contributes to global warming and is killing the planet (thanks fitness jerks). They’re basically poisoning the earth during their wind sprints and burpees (I hope that single-digit body fat percentage and rock-hard abs are worth it, you tool!).

Despite the above paragraph, I don’t think all people who exercise are bad, far from it. Well, not far from it. I actually pity them in a way, and not just for their assumed physical insecurities and probable lack of self worth. I pity them because one day they will understand how many lives they’ve ruined with their ignorance. I don’t envy anyone on that day.

Please keep an eye out for my next article: Why Writers are Actually Hotter than Athletes


If purgatory is truly a possible destination, Jacob Renz is the exact person it was made for. Close friends often remember him as “Okay.” Whenever his name came up, co-workers would be the first ones to say, “Who?”

Who indeed, was this man that was neither great, nor wicked. He stood paper-thin on the line that divides good and evil, so that if you stared at the right angle, he was impossible to notice.

Family members loved the way that they didn’t feel strongly toward Jacob one way or another. He is remembered most as being technically blood-related, and for not forcing awkward conversations on people at family gatherings. “He was my husband,” says his wife of 20 years, “and I don’t have any complaints about him,” she had added with a shrug. His two children had fond memories of not having bad memories of their father. “I really appreciated the way that he never beat us, or emotionally abused us.”

Jacob Renz was a middle-of-the-road man that this world neither needs more, nor less of. He was not a hero, or larger-than-life figure that people will seek to build statues of. Neither was he a bad man who left behind grudges and unsettled scores. And for that, we can all feel satisfied in knowing that his death brings neither intense joy, nor deep sadness to anyone who knew him.

Liked the story? Check out more at KJHansonStories.com!


A lot of people don’t realize how bad it is being a monster. Unless you’re lucky enough to be one of those monsters that can bite people and turn them into whatever you are, like a vampire, or a zombie, or a werewolf. That’d be neat, but if you aren’t one of them, then you’re pretty lonely just about all the time. And the times you’re not lonely are when some hot-shot with a sword and god-complex tries to chop off your head. But that’s just for starters.

Have you ever seen a monster working at any shop or office you’ve ever been to? I’ll answer that one for you, no. And it’s not because monsters are lazy, we would love to work. But nobody hires a monster to work for them. Sure, they’ll do monster appropriation with mascots and such, but hire any real monsters? Nope. Nuh-uh. Not even once. 

Any time I even try to ask for an application they are already too busy making their blood-curdling screams and begging for their lives. It’s hard to make a good first impression with all that going on. And then the stories they tell, my word. They’re on the 6 o’clock news talking about how I crashed through the door and started trying to eat people. You believe that? 

First of all, that was a weak-ass door. I mean, hinges shouldn’t just snap off like that. Second of all, if I was going to start eating people, I would go to a country with a leaner cut of meat, if you know what I’m saying. No offense to North Americans, but that much fat in my diet would kill me in just a few years. Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah, so they get on the news and badmouth me to anyone and everyone who will listen. As if my job prospects weren’t bleak enough.

Do they even ask my side of the story? Of course not. They just assume that I am some hideous outcast from this world of theirs that has come back to exact my revenge. Well, I mean, I am now. But that’s more their fault than it is mine.

Doctor Visit

“There’s nothing to be scared of,” the doctor said, apropo of nothing. That’s what worried me most. Not because doctors are notorious liars (I mean, I guess they could be), but because people don’t feel the need to reassure you when there’s actually nothing to be afraid of. 

To be fair, an appendectomy is generally considered a ‘minor procedure.’ I’ve certainly thought of it that way when it was happening to someone else—but this is me we’re talking about. Anyway, it made me wonder how important an organ had to be before they considered it a major procedure. 

I bet a kidney is pretty major. Is it because a kidney is bigger? Or because it does more? It didn’t seem like a good time to ask. Besides, I had other questions.

“Can I keep it?” I said, unsure of what I planned on doing with it, but it is mine after all. Why shouldn’t I keep it? Before the doctor could respond, I pointed with one finger at my lower abdomen where I thought my appendix would be and raised my eyebrows (I had to be sure we were on the same page of what I was talking about). 

“No… we need to remove it.” The doctor said, speaking a little slowly and annunciating every word. He didn’t get what I was saying.

I shook my head, “I mean afterward.” Again, I raised my eyebrows, indicating not only that I was hopeful, but also that it was his turn to talk.

He calmly explained some law or regulation that prevented me from being able to take my own organ home after the procedure. I just think that he didn’t want me to have it. He probably has a whole freezer full of these things.

Anyway, sorry for the long preamble. The surgery went fine, I give the hospital 3-stars. They won’t kill you, but they also won’t bend any rules for you.


Robert Arrelstein was in quite a slump. After several years of writing a successful series of spooky and fright-inducing books for kids, he suddenly lost his edge. Ideas wouldn’t come to him anymore, no matter what he tried.

His old tricks failed him. The graveyard bore no fruit. The foggy forest up the road brought only yawns. He needed help, so he enlisted the aid of a popular freelance ghost-writer in the area. He goes by Tim.

“How ya doing Mr. Arrelstein?” Tim said like an excited child meeting Superman at the mall.

“I’m doing fine young man, thank you for agreeing to help me with some ideas for my new book. I’ve heard good things from Stefie Queen, although you do understand that my horror stories are for a younger audience I take it?” answered Robert.

“Yes, of course. I’ve read all your books and love them! That’s why I want to help you give these kids the scare of a lifetime.”

“What exactly did you have in mind?” said Robert slowly, a little insulted that Tim seemed to think his books would be better if they really gave children nightmares.

“Well, for starters. I had this idea where a world-wide disease, like the kind you see in zombie movies, has taken over every known country, slowly turning every adult into a grotesque statue of themselves while their children watch.” Tim moved his hands around a lot when he talked, as if his idea was so complex that it would be greatly aided through the art of mime.

“That’s certainly… creative, Tim. I’ll give you that. Don’t you think a story about a deadly infectious disease is in poor taste?”

“I don’t know what you mean, but guess what! My second one is even better. So, all of a sudden everyone in the world has to get a special shot that protects them against aliens that are going to invade. But it’s actually a trick perpetrated by the aliens and all of humanity is being turned into helpless frogs, especially the kids!”

Arrelstein drops his head into his open hands. “I think I’ll just do another one about a creepy doll in the attic. Thanks anyway.”


In my prime, I was the best in the business. No one could run down dealers and addicts like me. Between the two of us, my partner and I received numerous accolades, made dozens of newspaper appearances, and were even asked to participate in photoshoots with various elected officials. He got promotions and bonuses; I got belly rubs and treats. Life was good.

I say ‘was’ because just as you think life is going to be all tail wags and Beggin’ Strips, you get a reality check. I became the very thing that I was so good at hunting, an addict. 

In the business, you see it a lot. Many good boys suddenly have a hard time coping with all the action. It starts slowly: first, you just need it once in a while to clear your mind and feel better. Then, you find yourself skulking around, looking to get more of that sweet relief from anyone you can. 

I suppose I should properly introduce myself. My name is Duke, and I’m addicted to walks.

Not long after my habit started, it began to affect my work. If I didn’t get a nice big walk at least twice a day, I became fidgety and irritable. Not only that, I became ruthless. I once bit a suspect’s ear off on an undercover sting operation when he said he quote “wanted to walk away from the deal,” and then I didn’t get a walk. But fortunately, he was a cokehead and I had a long and distinguished record, so the paperwork got ‘lost’. Everyone in the department looked at me differently though.

At my lowest, I was licking peanut butter from anywhere I needed to just to be taken for a quarter-mile stroll. In the end however, it brought me no satisfaction. I always expected it to be as thrilling as I remember my first walk being, but it never was. Recovering walkaholics call this craving and letdown cycle “Chasing the squirrel.” 

Within a month I was pressured into an early retirement from the force, so my working days are behind me now. I still remember the chuckles from others in the office when someone joked that I was being given my “walking” papers. Real funny fellas, hope you enjoy the turds I left in your desk drawers. 

Since retirement, I have been taking it easy and trying to enjoy some much-needed R & R. It can be hard to do when you’re used to the daily grind like me, and also when you’re battling a pretty severe walking addiction. But hey, one day at a time, right? 

I’m often reminded of something my father used to tell me: “You can’t always be in a race around the track, sometimes you need to stop and smell the hydrants.” He was a wise dog. I miss him, but he’s in a better place now—A farm upstate. A tapeworm got stuck inside his intestines and required expensive surgery to fix it. Luckily, his retirement benefits kicked in so he was sent for surgery at the farm (from the best surgeon around they say!) and he will be recovering for many years. Although the surgery sounds quite serious, I’m glad he gets to spend all that time at a farm because he loves barking at chickens.

As for me, I will be sitting in the shade and taking long, cool sips of water from my bowl as I think about the glory days. I may have done some shameful things, but the good outweighed the bad by a mile. Who’s still a good boy? Me... that’s who.