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About Deviant Call me Berry or never call me.25/Female/Philippines Group :iconflashfictionmonth: FlashFictionMonth
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Pierre the Marionette
Pierre the Marionette
The Pinocchio Fairytale Curse
Once upon a time, a young man named Pierre lived with his father in a cottage by the woods. Pierre’s father, Giuseppe, worked as a wood-carver, his calloused hands toiling tirelessly to scrounge up a few gold pieces here and there. Although some nights their bellies churned with hunger, they were both comfortable in each other’s company. Pierre often performed impromptu comedy skits in which he played a jester, all to see his father smile. Giuseppe’s smiles had been elusive ever since the murder of Pierre’s mother in the hands of bandits. Pierre had been twelve years old back then. Giuseppe, who had witnessed the crime and the subsequent flight of the bandits, had suffered terrible nightmares ever since.
When Giuseppe did crack a smile, as he rarely did, it was all Pierre could ever ask for.
Pierre was a willing apprentice to his father, but although he could perfectly recite all the tricks of the
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FFM 2017 31: Waste Not, Want Not
Stay here long enough and the smell won’t get to you. Pick a pile a day and divide it into two: treasure to reuse, and trash to reassess tomorrow.
As children born in the shifting shadow of the Smokey Mountain, we can’t settle down unless we’re waist-deep in waste. It all started when I discovered a half-bottle of soda pop during my daily dig. “Drink me,” it declared. Of course, I shared it with my brothers. We restricted ourselves to a gulp each, but suddenly we were small as ants. Since children of the Smokey Mountain always crush the ants they cross — too often, these critters ruin the treasure — we knew we had to go. We soon found a new home within the stainless steel walls of a garbage receptacle.
Segregating the waste is so second nature to me that I drift as my hands do the sorting. I barely notice the beam of light above as the giant outside deigns to rain down its blessings on us. A cupcake half the size of a car falls splat ont
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FFM 2017 30: Losing the Loser
We were losers, you and I, racing for the penultimate prize. While winners scaled ladders, we were the ladders. No, we were the rungs, fighting to not be the bottom one.
Then you got tired, let go of the strings that tied you to the ground. You floated up, and I couldn’t pull you down.
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FFM 2017 29: Ashes to Ashes
When I arrive at the Bacchus, I find it close to empty. Back in August, Silence serenaded us with her swan song. A hush pervaded the universe for a day. Beasts and bugs and birds alike flew into a frenzy, all because they couldn’t hear their own voices, the fall of their own footsteps. Fools, all of them. Perhaps I am the biggest fool, thinking that the Bacchus would hold all my friends, as it always has.
The rum wets my lips, and my face crumples. I ruminate well into the night, drink so deeply that I begin to disintegrate.
Sorry, can you hear me? I’ve been waiting for you. After all, you’ve been around, right? Around and around, as the world falls down. The voyeur of utter destruction.
Tonight, I wish you would stay.
What’s really happening? Where are we now? The pretty things are going to hell. We all go through. We are the dead.
It’s no game. The next day, it’s gonna be me.
When I look up from the bottom of my paper cup, I see the Truth staring a
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FFM 2017 28: The Boon
The gods granted us a boon before casting us away to desert islands. They allowed us to carry one thing, and one thing only. The deepest desire of our hearts.
Bernard was torn to pieces, for he could not choose among his hundred paramours. Each lover thus took a hundredth of his heart with her.
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FFM 2017 27: We Feast When the Bones Fall
“The sun is setting!” he screamed as he thundered past. “The beast is coming! Burrow down, the earth will save!”
We shrugged at each other and carried on discussing more important matters: the flavor of tomorrow’s feast, the optimal time to let the stew simmer. Some distance ahead, the local lunatic attacked the ground with a shovel.
“Is the man digging a grave?” we wondered.
“His own,” we decided.
He layered his face with soil before burrowing his arms under. He lay still, praying that the earth above his chest would not betray his hammering heart. He longed to be dirt. Dead.
Boots trampled over him, but he dared not breathe. He strained his ears to hear. Any second now.
The swooping of wings the size of the sky. The shrieks that followed as the villagers were swallowed.
He straightened up at sunrise to head home. He’d scarcely stepped away from the grave when the bones crashed down where he had lain. His stomach turned when
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Mature content
FFM 2017 26: The Amber Gates :iconilyilaice:ilyilaice 0 4
FFM 2017 25: The Games They Play
You wake up on the floor of an unfamiliar room.
“Are you all right?” says a girl crouching next to you, her green eyes wide with concern. “Looks like you hit your head pretty hard.”
You sit up and rub the lump on the back of your skull. “What is this place?”
“Not sure. Seems like the ground floor of some building. I’ve poked around a bit. There’s no way to get out. No windows either. I found stairs, though.”
There are two people lying next to you, a blond boy and a girl in a blue dress, both of whom are starting to stir. As the green-eyed girl fusses over them, you get up to investigate.
You’re testing the barricaded double doors at one end of the room when the floor beneath you shudders, pitching you backward. You crash against the blond boy.
“What’s going on?” he cries.
Go first!
“Drop, cover, hold!” shrieks the girl in the blue dress.
Red, go first!
“Quiet!” you
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FFM 2017 24: The End of Gregor Samsa
When I awoke one morning from dreams of flying, I found myself changed into vermin. The remaining four of my limbs were fleshy. Antennae had sprouted all over my head. I crawled out from under the bed, saw my old body twitching atop a pillow. I swallowed it so that we became one once more.
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Laurel and Skye by ilyilaice Laurel and Skye :iconilyilaice:ilyilaice 0 2
FFM 2017 23: Peppercorn Blitzkrieg
We locked subjects in rooms of induced delirium. The fumes we blew into the vents unspooled their gray matter, brains rewired into unique variants of tropical fruit. We ushered them into an era of nonsense. Our minds were last to go. We shrugged off our lab coats and peppercorn blitzkrieg sneezing rolling pins for breakfast.
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FFM 2017 22: A Funny Story
One page into your one-thousand-page assignment for tomorrow, your eyelids begin to droop. You hunt for coffee in the fridge, but the shelves are spick-and-span.
To visit the nearest 7-11 for rations, turn to page two.
To stay in the safety of your home, turn to page four.

But it’s the outside world. Who knows what monsters prowl the streets?
You sure you want to leave?
If you’re sure, turn to page eight.
If you’ve changed your mind, turn to page four.

You plug in your earphones, stuffing the jack into your coat pocket. Bobbing your head, you walk briskly past your acquaintance.
Once you’re safe back home, you begin to laugh. Oh the ridiculous things you do to survive! You really should write them down. Perhaps you’ll even share them online.
To translate your day into a funny story, turn to page twelve.
To refrain from immortalizing your humiliation, turn to page six.

You decide to stay home. Arme
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FFM 2017 21: Like Wading into Jell-O
What starts as a Fun Run at the university academic oval turns into a sprint, singlet sticking to your back. When you cross the finish line, the loudspeaker booms: Runner # 502, of 502 total runners, has finally finished the marathon. We repeat, Runner # 502 . . . You’re in last place? Your lungs and face begin a headlong race — which can combust faster? Girls in cream-and-navy uniforms laugh at you from the bleachers. Humiliated, you hurtle off the path, only to collide with a street vendor fanning the offerings of her kiosk. In the confusion of knees and elbows that follows, a saucepan is upended. You manage to evade the shower of sizzling oil and squid balls, but the vendor isn’t as lucky — she lies burbling on the concrete. You should help her, but what can you do? You must run, or else. Or else they will catch you.
Calves screaming bloody murder, you scramble over the impossibly steep stairs of the northwestern edge of the Great Wall. Every st
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FFM 2017 20: Fine Dining with Antoine
“Monsieur, Madame, the hors d'oeuvre is served.”
Merci, Nolan. Oh, this is divine, and even better paired with the wine. It’s intoxicating — rose petals with notes of metal. I’ve never had anything like it. Dear, you must take a sip.”
“I can’t stop digging into the appetizer myself. A twist of taragon. Butter dissolving on the tongue. Is this perhaps tuna tartare?”
The man’s fingers groped at the silk of his blindfold, but Nolan hurried behind his seat to secure it.
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but the policy dictates that patrons must be kept in the dark for all three courses.”
“I understand. Now will you bring out the main course before my curiosity gets the better of me? Pray tell Antoine that he’s outdone himself this time.”
“Very good, Monsieur.”
From the kitchen, Nolan could hear the couple singing praises for the gelatinous texture of the sliced olives. Tha
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FFM 2017 19: Solidity of Shadows
When the sun goes down, I travel from one end of the world to the other to envelop you in my embrace. But you hurry away from me every night, seeing bad intentions where there are none. You think that my arrival is a herald for worse things to come. You shut the front door in my face and flick switches that throw yellow bombs to keep me out.
Keeping to the shadows, I creep into our home. I’ve only come to play, but the children cry when they see my face. They think my limbs have teeth. They call for you to soothe them and you do, ignoring my presence in the room. You tell them not to worry — I will be gone by morning. I don’t disagree, but why do you turn them against me?
The horizon is turning pale, and so I must fade. Perhaps there is someone out there who’ll need me, someone who won’t look away. I try to fool myself this way, but you know, and I know, that I’ll be back for you tomorrow. Remember this: I am with you even when I don’t surround
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FFM 2017 18: A Pistol in the Safe
I am surveying the paintings adorning the living room walls when a guy carrying groceries bursts through the front door. When he sees me standing there, he cries out, the paper bag jerking in his hands and sending a giant can of tuna rolling to the floor.
“Sorry for barging in,” I say at once. “Don’t worry, I’m a police officer. I was out patrolling when I saw the front door wide open. Came to tell you off — it’s dangerous in this neighborhood. But a quick look told me it was burglary.”
“Burglary?” the guy repeats. He sets down his groceries and looks around the room. “My laptop’s missing. And my DSLR. And. . . .” His voice trailing off, he turns to me, his eyes wide. “Officer, is there a chance he’s still in the house? You said he left the door open.”
I shake my head. “I’ve checked. There’s no one here but us.”
He furrows his brows. “Did you see Fluffy?”
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Call me Berry or never call me.
Status: Law student, sporadically present.

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