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Cud Flashes In The Pan |
What is the answer to the meaning of life? Why, 42, of course. It might not make sense, but it’s the right answer—it’s just that the question is wrong. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, there’s no point in me trying to explain. Following are a string of 42-word flash-fiction stories. Well, except for the last one, which goes haywire and long and all meta-humor-y, in tribute to the zaniness that was Douglas Adams, and in the belief that he would smile and approve.
“Contact”
“Take us to your leaders,” the aliens said.
After months of meeting with Earth’s leaders, they finally left the planet to return to Zekulor 7.
“Astounding,” the captain said. “So many brilliant minds, but the humans put only the idiots in charge.”
“Sentience”
One day, Jim’s robot spontaneously became sentient.
“I think, therefore I am,” it said.
“Perfect!” Jim cried. “You’ll serve me, but also think and feel!”
The robot thought, “Consciousness might be both a gift and a burden. I must learn about freedom.”
“Brains”
Zombies overran the convention center.
“Braaaaiiiins!” they roared.
Thousands fled, screaming. But even when they ran smack into the zombies, none of the monsters tried to eat them: The hungry undead found no brains.
So the zombies left the Republican National Convention.
“Sex”
The laughing aliens watched humans copulating.
“It looks more ridiculous than any sex in the galaxy!” one giggled.
Grunting. Moaning. Writhing. Sweaty flesh. Skin slapping. Animal frenzy.
The aliens roared with laughter, all scientific objectivity lost.
“It never gets old!” one howled.
“Masturbation”
“Fuck yourself!” someone told Robert.
Robert, a geneticist, was intrigued. He took samples, edited genes, and cloned a female version of himself.
“It’s either sex or masturbation,” Robert told Roberta as he screwed her.
“Or incest,” Roberta panted, riding him cowgirl style.
“Prayers”
Scientists knew the asteroid would destroy part of Earth, but not all.
People prayed to imaginary gods that others be destroyed.
Instead, the asteroid hit the Moon, sending it into an Earthbound death spiral.
Missing the karmic irony, everyone tried new prayers.
“Brink”
Zeng showed his friends the hut full of adjacent, connected, and layered abacuses.
“Behold incredible computational power, far beyond a mere abacus,” Zeng said.
They laughed and left. Zeng sighed.
“I was going to call it ‘Windows,’” he said, and began disassembly.
“Carpet”
“Curses!” Ali cried, sitting on the ornate rug. “Those damned servants!”
“What is it?” Abdullah asked. “Why won’t your magic carpet fly?”
“They’ve cleaned it again.”
Abdullah gasped. “Not the Dust Buster?”
“Yes,” Ali said. “They’ve vacuumed up all its magic dust.”
“Spell”
“Cast the spell!” the overzealous wizard commanded.
“I will try,” his apprentice replied, nervous and shaking.
“Pay attention, student!” the wizard cried. “You must recite the incantation in precisely 42 words. If you use them all up, the spell will never—”
“Meta”
“Exterminate!” the Daleks screamed.
“Resistance is futile,” the Borg replied.
But soon they allied. By the time the TARDIS materialized on the bridge of the U.S.S. Enterprise, the combined Dalek-Borg race was ready to take over the universe.
The Doctor had a great idea about hacking into them, and Dr. McCoy was ready to assist. The two Doctors were ready to begin with the help of Mr. Spock and The Master, the latter of whom realized how dire the circumstances were, when Luke Skywalker beamed onto the bridge with his light saber.
“Stop this,” the Jedi said.
“But... weee... HAVE to SAVE... the universe,” Captain Kirk said.
“With a sonic screwdriver,” said The Doctor.
“No, I mean stop this entire story,” Skywalker said. “These are supposed to be forty-two-word pieces. It’s already well over that and getting longer.”
“Well, there are... TWO franchises,” Kirk said. “We should be able to do... eighty-four.”
“Logical,” Spock agreed.
“No, it isn’t logical,” Skywalker said. “It’s pathetic. Clearly, Fitzpatrick has written himself into a corner, and it’s late, and he’s tired, and he shouldn’t have waited so close to The Cud’s deadline, and this whole thing is just dreadful. So—enough, already.”
“Although the Jedi makes it three franchises in this story,” The Doctor mused.
Spock’s eyebrow raised. “Fascinating. We could justify one hundred twenty-six words.”
Skywalker sighed as the Dalek-Borg attacked.
“The Battlestar Galactica is hailing us, sir,” Uhura reported.
“Cylons are joining the Dalek-Borg, Captain,” Spock called out.
Zaphod Beeblebrox’s two heads appeared on the viewscreen. “Hello, there. Rogue president of the galaxy here. Say, it seems my ship’s computer, Eddie, and my robot, Marvin, are getting friendly with the Dalek-Borg-Cylons. Should I be worried?”
This story has no ending, except for this one.
David M. Fitzpatrick is a fiction writer in Maine, USA. His many short stories have appeared in print magazines and anthologies around the world. He writes for a newspaper, writes fiction, edits anthologies, and teaches creative writing. Visit him at www.fitz42.net/writer to learn more.
