flash fiction | Blaine Arcade

Don’t Strike the Platform

Blaine Arcade

Cupcakes awaited in the break room; the scent was clear as he’d passed by. His coworkers figured he couldn’t smell through the hood, but it was much thinner than people thought. Black as night, yet clear as a bell. All his senses were needed to get his swing right.

And by the reaper he had gotten it right, every time, every year, up to today. His final swing: the 733^rd. One strike. If it took two his record was ruined. Retirement would sour. Cupcakes would taste like ash.

The swinger made his way up the five steps to his black platform, sealed slats ready for runoff. Closed audience. Two television cameras. Everyone around the country knew him, but none knew his face, just the expert swing. The block was locked in with the basket. Clean, but not slippery. Good job Phil. Phil was on rags and mops. Good guy, No perfect record though.

Up came the squirmer with his handlers. They marched him up, bent him, and locked him on the block. Squirming couldn’t do any good now, but most kept going like live bait. Continue reading →

(reading time: 5 minutes)

I Thought it was the Cat

Blaine Arcade

Demoted for a raise. Strange I know, but it’s the only way to put it. They wanted me out of the building after the ‘softball incident’. I won’t go into detail about it other than to say they’re all sore losers.

It was mutual. I get an extra five K a year and I use it to pay the price of being near all our distribution centers on the East coast. Being equidistant from three truck stops in the middle of nowhere puts you, you guessed it, in the forgotten rusty storage shed of nowhere’s overgrown backyard.

No partner. Had one, but they also didn’t care for my gloating after the softball incident. So when I got there, town called Cracklebranch, my roommates were a pair of suitcases. Got a tiny house on the cheap. Couldn’t hear anything at night. No crickets. No birds in the morning either. Continue reading →