Flash Fiction: I knew I was in trouble when my fingers started smoking.

Chuck Wendig writes the most raunchy, brutal, and hilarious things I’ve ever read. He’s that naughty mentor everyone needs to get their creative brains thinking, so when I came across this challenge I had to do it.

Pick an opener, write a 1,000-word entry on it, then link back to his blog about it to enter into the running of being one of his top three favs. Yes, I said favs in the hope he reads this and it makes his nose curl. I’m normally against lazy “shorts” for words (“tots” instead of totally, “def” instead of definitely), but I’m curious if he’ll comment on disliking the usage of such words in something other than a specific character’s vocabulary.

I chose RDDuncan’s one-liner ’cause it gives me a reason to write this nonsense.

I knew I was in trouble when my fingers started smoking.

Normally when I tripped on shrooms, I went on intergalactic joyrides complete with that badass black mechanical horse from Rainbow Brite and Chuck Wendig as my imaginary narrator. We’d go frolicking through waterfalls—my neighbors called them “sprinklers”—my hands outreached to the conglomeration of neon clouds we’d give chase to. They’d most often end in alien orgies, always with plenty of real-life My Little Ponies for my equestrian companion to mount.

I guess even robots need to get freaky.

This time though, there was none of that vibrant, make-believe place where I loved to escape to. This time, my frickin’ fingers were melting, burning, charring to the bone. My mind wasn’t keeping up, or more accurately was blocking my nerves from feeling a thing. I flapped my arms as soon as the flames refused to go out, creating sidelines of orange in my peripherals. Panic never settled into my heart, yet I knew these flames would bring harm and needed to die.

But it never hurt; my fingertips never felt pain. Instead the motion of my lame attempt at extinguishing the heat created something more. The lines of the movement stapled to my vision, puckering up a swollen sphere of light. Maybe this time I was getting dropped right into space, a wormhole encircling the gateway I had just opened. The insides of my thighs quaked as I took a step forward, my legs wobbling with my feather-heavy weight.

Half an ear could hear Susanne in the background, but her words came out guttural and low. It was disgusting, an abomination of pretty vernacular. I could get away from her with one, two, three more steps. And a fourth to jump through—

Smack dab onto my face.

A lullaby of strings plucked themselves, screeching to their own melodrama. I slowly blinked my eyes, pushing off the ground and sitting back on my legs. It felt colder. I pressed my hazy fingers to my lips where I waited to breathe. Where did the light escape to? I sighed at last, sputtering droplets in front of me. I extended my fingers away from my body, curling them towards me.

Blood was smeared on them. The longer I stared, the more bulbous the surface became. The rivulets teamed together like Inque from Batman Beyond, twirling and swirling into a giant entity. The orb rippled as it stood tall, taller, forever the tallest in my palm. I felt so small, the cross-hair target of a nuclear missile. I mouthed the words before I knew what I was doing.


An increasing dread occupied my lungs, and again I didn’t breathe. The viscous blob vibrated, and soon sliced itself in the middle. As intimidating as this thing was, my compassion chose to move past the unknown and touched the bottom of the open wound.

A deluge of clear and flowing liquid poured out and all over me. There was so much of it a pool was filled, the darkness of my surroundings molding a small area to form a deep well with me and my blood’s offspring, encircling us close. My feet didn’t touch the bottom but I didn’t need to struggle to stay afloat. I moved my hands around me, cupping the juice. In my hands it was beautiful, reflective and accurate in showing my reflection.

Aside from my half-shaved, half-dreaded mane of a mohawk, blood was still smeared from my nostrils over my lips and in my teeth and gums. I puckered my lips squarely, inspecting the inside of my mouth and tongue. A drop of saliva fell from it, mingling with whatever it was seeping through my fingers. I didn’t blink, yet my reflection did a couple of times, until a look of self-awareness was obvious in those brown eyes.

She screamed. And screamed. And screamed some more. And I couldn’t bring myself to release the rest of her.

She is me, isn’t she? I can’t release myself.

A final scream echoed in the emptiness around us, and she looked attentively at me. Sincerity, that was how she gazed up at me. A longing, a mutual understanding, a primal bond. She drew away from the surface, seeming to swim away.

Without warning she shot out of the little body of water in my hands, diving into the air and flipping down into the small pool with me. She could have been my twin. Her blonde and robin hair was on the left side instead of the right, dreadlocks free of the side braid I wore. The only other difference was her nakedness and the tattoo on her right shoulder, creeping and crawling off the edges of her skin. The ink bobbed closer to me. Her calm face let me trust her without a spoken word.

It’s stuck in my imagination.

I couldn’t tell whose words those were, hers or mine, if they were spoken or mentally conjured up. It was enough of a distraction that the ink bleeding towards me ensnared the space around my neck, and it tightened quicker than a noose. The grip grew firm, and we were no longer floating in the birthing liquid. My toes struggled on their tips as the ink held me barely above ground, and she smiled with such sensuality and warmth that I was far from feeling threatened.

Her feet padded closer to me in silence, my heart increasing as I continued surveying the rest of her. Curves and appealing muscle in all the right places, I truly believed she was a part of me. As I thought that, her eyes perked up and she licked her lips, pressing her hand up and under the thigh of my skirt.

Sexuality and what I knew of myself vanished as her other hand did the same thing. The inky shackle tightened around my throat, creating spots in my vision.

Then my fingers burst into flames. I stabbed them into the back of her hands.


3 thoughts on “Flash Fiction: I knew I was in trouble when my fingers started smoking.

  1. I was this to using the same opening line. I think I like better what you did with it than what I would have done with it. Mind bending.

    • I really liked that line too! I’ve actually never tripped on shrooms so I suppose trying to conjure up what someone goes through during a psychedelic experience was the challenge I created for myself. Glad you took the time to read and enjoy it!

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