Flash Fiction Honorable Mentions
The Only Reich We Can Swallow
By Steven Gusano
Heinrich Alderman, the former mayor of Berlin, dangles lifeless underneath a cobblestone bridge. A chain of bratwurst holds the portly politician twenty-feet in the air. Tourists and residents record the body swinging slowly while vomit leaks out of the corners of their mouths. The fire engine arrives, and the firemen hoist the ladder to reach their leader. A bullet knocks off the top step. The present police search the surrounding area for the source of the gunfire. Half of the crows flees in panic; the other half stands frozen in surrender. Captain Dreyer spots a trio wearing gas masks and overcoats walking under the bridge.
“Halt!” Dreyer orders the cloaked figures.
“You will not shoot any of us,” the man in the middle chants in a deep-metallic voice. “We are with the Order of the Holy Linguiça.” Smoke trails from a suppressed pistol in his right hand. “Mayor Alderman has damaged the sanctity of the sausage.”
“Stay where you are!” Dreyer charges after the spokesman and pins him on the concrete. “You are under arrest for the murder of—” His cell phone rings.
Chancellor Angela Merkel answers with a shivering voice, “Captain Dreyer. This is the Chancellor. You must stand down against these men. That’s an order! You will be tried in the highest court if you take any further action!” The call ends as quickly as it begins.
Dreyer pulls the masked figure upright and takes his weapon away.
“Who the hell are you?”
The masked men hand Dreyer laminated forms. They chant the written message simultaneously, “Bratwurst shall not be declared superior to linguiça. If this nonsense is perpetuated. Nuclear War shall induce between Germany and Portugal.” They lift their masks just high enough to take quick bites from pieces of sausage. Foam froths from their mouths, and they collapse with no pulse.
Master Of Meats
By Ben Fitts
I am a master of meats. Blindfold me, give me any cut of animal and after only seconds of feeling it over on my calloused tongue, I’ll be like, “It’s ham, bitch.”
And I’ll be right, every damn time.
Before long, I realized that I should go professional with my carnivorous talents. Keeping them to myself was just inconsiderate and cruel. I set up a little table on 58th Street, blindfolded myself and declared, “Feed me your meats! If I can guess what it is, you’ll give me a dollar!”
“If I can’t guess it, you can eat me instead” I added as a joke.
I figure that there are currently 8.538 million people in New York City, and every one of them is going to want to see my talents. I’ll make millions.
It was going great.
“Crab!”
“Brisket!”
“West african crocodile leg!”
I was raking in the cash. Then, I ate something strange.
“What the hell is this?” I shouted, ripping off the blindfold.
“It’s a very esoteric sausage, made from human flesh,” said the little man before me. “Now I get to eat you,” he concluded, revealing a set of sharp teeth.
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