Scicoffeepia
Scicoffeepia - The Anthology of Science Fiction and Fantasy Flash Fiction
Fifty-two bite sized stories to sink your mind into while drinking your favorite cup of coffee.
From the weird to the wonderful, the beautiful to the bizarre and everything in between
The following is one of the flash fiction pieces from the anthology.
An Emulsion of Evil
By W. B. Biggs
Mark’s fist tightened around the grip of the hammer. He resolved himself to violence as he stepped into the kitchen. The hairs on his arm raised, and sweat broke out on his brow.
An abomination, the jar, sat on the bar waiting. An aura of malice boiled in the space surrounding it. Since the jar had entered their home, he hadn’t slept well. He could barely eat.
Raising the hammer above his head, Mark prepared to strike.
“What are you doing?” Helan asked.
Mark spun to see his wife standing in the doorway; her eyes filled with concern. He wanted to tell her that the mayonnaise jar was possessed but that sounded crazy. Instead he laughed. "Just being silly." He laughed again, fearing the sound that bubbled out of his throat.
“I’m running to the store. Don’t hurt yourself being silly while I’m gone.”
“Alright,” he mumbled, just hearing that she was leaving.
With his breath held, he waited for the tell-tale click of the front door shutting. He turned back, and the jar waited.
His hammer fell like a judge’s gavel passing judgment on the mayonnaise jar. Shards of mayo-covered glass flew. One such piece cut a fine line across his left cheek.
Globs of mayonnaise covered the counter, the hammer, his hand. It would need to be cleaned before Helan returned. She wouldn’t understand; she couldn’t understand.
Moving to the sink, Mark turned on the water and let it run over his hands.
“What are you doing?” Helan asked.
“You got back fast,” Mark said, not wanting to turn around and see her face as she took in the mess on the counter.
“I was worried about you. I am worried about you.”
Mark turned slowly. His eyes looked at the counter. There sat the jar of mayonnaise, whole and in pristine condition.
“No, no, no,” muttered Mark. “I destroyed you.”
Mark grabbed for the jar and threw it. The jar sailed across the kitchen and hit the wall with a thud where it fell to the floor with a loud clinking sound.
“Let’s get out of the house and go for a ride,” Helan said, her voice shaky.
“Alright, yes,” Mark said, “anywhere but here.”
Mark followed his wife and climbed into the passenger seat. They rode in a tense silence. The outside scenery passed by in a blur.
“Thanks for getting me away from that jar.”
“Mmhmm,” Helan mumbled, her eyes on the road.
Mark gave up on conversation and leaned back; his eyes closed. It had been too long since he could rest, and the rhythm of the car lulled him into a light doze.
“What?” Mark mumbled as they came to a stop.
“We’re here,” his wife said tersely.
Mark opened his eyes to find them in a parking lot. A large older building stretched in front of them. A sign along its front read, “J. R. White Mental Institute.”
“It’s for your own good. I'm sorry,” she added at the end.
“If it keeps me away from that jar, so be it. You’ll see.”
Mark followed his wife inside feeling relieved and abandoned at the same time. He sat on a bench while his wife filled out papers. They got him to sign in several places. Without a doctor’s recommendation, he was committing himself to the hospital.
They shuffled him off to a small room, and his wife left with an awkward goodbye. Mark sat down on the bed and looked out the window at a manicured lawn. It felt peaceful, and a sense of hope bubbled up inside.
There was a gentle knock at the door. A nurse in scrubs stood in the entryway. “Sir, my name is Sara. I’ll be checking in on you today.”
“Thanks.”
“Have you had lunch?”
“No,” Mark said, realizing he was hungry.
“I’ll be right back with a tray.”
Mark nodded. He could see a few other patients walking about on the grounds like stray birds looking for food.
“Sir, I’ll set your tray on the table. A doctor will be by shortly to speak with you.”
“Okay,” Mark said.
He stood and went to check out the tray. A plate with a sandwich and green beans sat next to a fork and butter knife. A jar, the jar of mayonnaise, sat on one end of the tray. Mark’s heart palpitated, and his mouth went dry. He took in deep breaths, finding it hard to breathe. Reaching out, he grabbed the butter knife.
All color drained from his hand as he gripped the handle. How much damage could a butter knife do? A hysterical laugh escaped his throat as he pondered that thought.