Pink Snowbunnies in Hell: A Flash Fiction Anthology (3 page)

It Finally Happens…

By Heather Marie Adkins

Satan was busy weeding his potato patch when the first flake hit his nose.

Sitting back on his heels, he brushed off his hands and regarded the black hole pretending to be sky above him.  Soft, delicate, white snowflakes began to fall furiously, coating his crimson body in minutes.  He watched his lawn and white picket fence disappear under a blanket of snow.

His skin began to steam.  Not from anger, however.  Hellish demons had higher body temperatures and the weather was beginning to get quite cold.  He scratched at his face absently, leaving a streak of black dirt across his cheek.

The surprise wasn’t all that great, really, he thought.  People above had been speaking of Hell freezing over for years.  It was only a matter of time before the Big Man made it happen.  Out of spite.  With his stupid sense of humor.

Next door, Hitler stepped through his obnoxiously loud screen door and squinted into the flurries.  His requisite mug was in hand.  It was black and bright red letters stated
I’m a Dictator, Ask Me How!
  Satan had given it to him for Christmas.

“I’ll be damned,” Hitler said, sipping his coffee.

“What else is new?” Satan responded. 

“This is going to kill my daisies,” the evil dictator whined, one fuzzy puppy slipper stamping on the cracked boards of his porch.

With a shrug, Satan gestured at his vegetable patch.  Already, the peppers were wilting.  They wouldn’t be sharing jalapeño poppers together this year.

When the pink snowbunnies began to appear, slowly gliding down the street on perfect pink skis with cute pink caps, Satan headed for the office. 

The paperwork was going to be hell.

Heather Marie Adkins is the author of highly rated paranormal mystery “The Temple” as well as the recently released fantasy “Abigail.”  Find her online at 
http://heather.bishoffs.com
.

Careful What You Wish For

By Barbra Annino

I didn’t have to count the ducks to know that there were one million of them.

Eugene kept his head bent over so it wouldn’t punch through the ceiling of my antique shop, his hands clasped in front of his rippled chest like bent branches on an oak tree. He was frowning at the ocean of porcelain, plastic and rubber ducky knick-knacks. He put a finger to his lip just as it began to quiver.

I tried to reassure him, not so much for his sake as for the sake of the extremely delicate early American settee he was standing near. “They are lovely, Eugene, really.” I came around the display case and patted his elbow. That was as far up as I could reach.

“Oh, George,” he wailed, “I failed again. What will I do?”

Eugene’s pointy gold shoes scraped the floor as I led him away from the eighteenth-century furniture. His short vest waved with each shuffle. He let out a deep breath and I knew what was coming.

“Easy there, big guy, don’t get upset,” I said, a touch too late.

Eugene tossed his head back and let out a wail like a lion’s roar and then the floodgates opened. It was like watching Shaquille O’Neal cry. Most unsettling.

“Of course you wished for a million bucks. Who wants a million ducks?” He sniffled and wiped his nose juice on his bare arm. “I’ll never be a good genie. And there’s only one more chance!” He was bawling then. For some reason, he smelled like cinnamon when he cried.

“What do you mean? What will happen?” I asked, easing him onto an old Persian rug. I handed him a handkerchief.

Eugene looked at me and said, “I don’t know.” He glanced at the vessel that had introduced us, shook his head and blew his nose. “But I think it’s bad.”

I had met Eugene a couple months ago on a trip to India. I was purchasing some tapestries, bargaining with the vendor, and he threw in a vase as an incentive. I thought I was hallucinating when the vase started smoking and Eugene emerged, offering me a wish. Being a bachelor in the middle of the desert (and not truly believing he was a genie), I wished to be surrounded by gorgeous snowbunnies. What I got were evil little creatures on skis, teeth like razors, fur like cotton candy, and practiced in the art of jujitsu. Pink snowbunnies from hell. That’s what they were.

I’ve been saddled with Eugene ever since. Apparently a genie doesn’t move on until the job is complete. And that three-wish myth? That’s not for the wisher to overindulge, but rather so the genie has a chance to get one right. Why there isn’t a training program, I don’t know.

Upstairs in the apartment that night, Eugene was cooking shrimp curry as I confirmed his audiologist appointment. He had been tested for metal toxicity, dyslexia, and a sinus infection so far. We had to figure out why his brain wasn’t processing what his ears were hearing—and soon. There would be a lunar eclipse next month—the day of my last wish.

“You know, George,” Eugene said to me, his mighty arm tensing as he whipped the sauce. He was always cooking, always hungry. “It might not be so bad.” He stooped down to taste his work and slurped.

I hung up the phone and said, “Thursday at one p.m. with Dr. Franklin, Eugene.” I crossed to the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area. “What might not be so bad?”

“You and I as roomies.” He grinned wide, his dark, bald head contrasting with his bright white teeth like a yin-yang symbol.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Why not?” He stomped his foot and it went through the floor. “Oops,” he said.

“You see, right there. That’s why not.” I ran around to peer down the hole. There were a few smashed ducks, but everything else seemed fine. I grabbed another twelve-inch board from the closet. “This apartment was made for human beings. Not genies the size of garbage trucks.”

I grabbed my toolbox from the closet and sifted through the nails. Eugene was standing maddeningly still, pouting.

I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “Stop that.”

“Take it back.”

“Fine, I take it back. Please finish dinner before the sauce burns.”

A door opened downstairs and a voice said, “Hello, anybody here?”

“Didn’t you lock the door?” I asked Eugene.

He shrugged.

I sighed. “Be right down,” I called through the gaping hole.

The man standing in the shop was dressed in a suit I could never afford.

“This your shop?”

I nodded.

“Kitschy.”

“Looking for anything in particular?”

“I’m shooting a coming-of-age, fish-out-of-water film.” He removed his sunglasses, looked around. “I need props for an apartment scene where the—” He stopped, looked at Eugene’s vase. “What a gorgeous hookah.” He picked it up, spun it around in his hands. “It’s missing the pipe, but that can be replaced.”

He must have seen the confusion on my face because he said, “You know what this is, right?”

I shrugged.

He put his fingers to his lips like he was smoking marijuana. “It’s a water pipe, my friend. A bong.” He looked at me. “So how much?”

It hit me then, like an electric shock. “You know, I just remembered, I have an urgent appointment.” I ushered the man out the door saying, “Come back tomorrow and I’ll have put several items aside for you.”

“But I haven’t told you what the scene is.”

“Coming of age, fish out of water, got it. Goodnight.” I gave him a little shove, locked the door and rushed upstairs.

Eugene was digging into the curry with a fork in one hand and flatbread in the other. “I think I’ll turn in right after dinner. Did you leave a light on for me?” Eugene hated the dark.

“You’re not going to sleep in your vessel tonight. I’ll make up the guest room.”

He looked up from his plate. “But why?”

“Because,” I grabbed some sheets from the closet, “you aren’t sick, you aren’t bad at your job.” I tossed the sheets on the bed in the guest room and returned to the kitchen. “You, my giant friend, are stoned.”

***

Twenty-eight days later, on the night of the eclipse, I stood in front of a focused Eugene, ready to make my final wish.

“Do you think I’ll get it right this time, George?”

“Absolutely, Eugene.” Although I was taking no chances this time. We were on a quiet beach, the vessel between us.

He flashed a sheepish grin, a tiny tear in his eye. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, big guy.”

He lunged at me, hugged me so tight my glasses popped off.

“Okay, buddy, that’s enough.” I took a deep breath, looked him in the eye. “I wish you success in all your wishes, Eugene.”

The giant genie contemplated this, then smiled, his gold tooth catching the sunlight. He bowed deeply and said, “As you wish.”

In a split second and a flash of purple smoke, he was gone.

Barbra Annino is the author of the Stacy Justice books, OPAL FIRE and BLOODSTONE—mysteries for your funny bone. Visit
www.barbraannino.com
for more information.

Of Demons and Bunnies

By Nichole Chase

“George, it was just a figure of speech.”  Gary stood gaping at the mountains of snow.

“But you said that pink snowbunnies would ski in Hell before Tom got the promotion.” George shrugged his thick shoulders.

“George, you let
pink snowbunnies
into
Hell
.” Gary scrubbed a hand over his eyes in frustration. “The boss is going to flog us.” His right eye twitched as one of the pink fur-balls flew off of the ski slope and landed in a pot of boiling oil. The hot liquid splashed onto Gary’s horns and he shook it off in disgust.

“I want to know how you managed to get snow down here.” Gary’s friend Matt kicked a black hoof at the fluffy white stuff in curiosity. “It isn’t even melting, Gary. How does snow not melt in Hell?” Matt scratched his temple with a long, black nail before leaning down to poke at the snow.

 “Better question, where did you find pink rabbits?” Gary paced back and forth in front of the snow. “Did the Easter Bunny abandon babies in a park somewhere?”

“Purgatory.” George tossed a snowball from hand to hand, looking smug. “Someone told me there was a store selling pink bunnies that guaranteed promotions.”

Of course it had been purgatory. That place was an endless line of outlet malls that sold random junk to angels and demons.  A stand that sold pink bunnies would likely cater to either Heaven or Hell’s minions. It was probably the only place you could find a store that sold pickled lamb’s liver on one rack and silver linings on another.

Gary sat down on a steaming boulder and covered his eyes. This reeked of heavenly humor. Those stupid, nosy, white vultures must have been eavesdropping again. They would think it was hilarious to show George a bunch of pink bunnies and plant this stupid idea in his mind.  Could he turn this around in their favor before the boss saw all of these damnable happy bunnies? Lost in thought, Gary almost didn’t see the pink critter that sailed through the air and hit his best friend in the back of the head. Unperturbed by the furry projectile, Matt continued to kick at the white fluff, making noises that sounded more and more like giggles.

“I don’t get it. I thought we all wanted Tom to get the open management position.” George’s voice rose plaintively. “I just wanted to help. I like Tom.”

Gary didn’t answer. Instead, he reached back and scratched the scaly spot just above the base of his forked tail. He should have never made that comment in front of a goat demon. They were entirely too literal, and, in George’s case, just plain stupid. Something tickled Gary’s leg. When he realized that it was a bunny sniffing him, he jumped back and curled his lip in disgust. With the kick of one cloven foot, he sent the bunny flying away with a squeak. Feeling a little better, he looked up at the mountain of snow and started formulating a plan.

“Matt, get out of that damned snow!” Gary shouted at the other demon. George walked over to Matt and pulled him out of the white powder. Gary scowled at his longtime friend, repulsed. There was a snow angel with a forked tail and horns outlined where the other demon had been rolling around.

“George, grab the biggest pot you can carry and bring it back here.” Gary looked at the snow and cracked his knuckles.  It was time to get down to business.

Once they had managed to capture the last furry creature, the three demons sat slumped against the giant cauldron, gasping for breath. The dull thuds from inside of the pot rang through their fiery little pit of hell.  

“What are we going to do, Gary?” George asked. “I don’t want to eat the bunnies. I like the bunnies!”

“We’re going to make those angels wish they weren’t so nosy.” George got to his feet and looked at the mountain of snow.  “And maybe mark off some of the names on our Christmas list in the process.”

***

Saint Peter knelt down and poked at the box sitting in front of the gate. The red-and-white striped wrapping paper smelled faintly of sulfur.

“It’s from our neighbors downstairs.” Peter looked over his shoulder at Bob, who shrugged.

“Well, it is Christmas. The perfect time to end a family feud.” Bob leaned over Peter’s shoulder and tugged at the ribbon. “C’mon on, Pete, open the box!”

“What on Earth are those?” Peter stared at the fluffy pink fur that filled the package.

Bob pushed the sleeves of his white robe up to his elbows and reached through the gate, careful not to let his wings get caught. He snagged one of the objects out of the box, holding it up for Peter to see.

“Pink bunny slippers.” They looked at each other in horror, the faint sound of laughter drifting up to their ears.

Nichole Chase is the author of Mortal Obligation, book one of The Dark Betrayal Trilogy. To find out more about Nichole and her projects, check out her website and blog. 
www.nicholechase.com
.