Flash on the Fly Winning Story

In January, we posted a pop-up flash fiction contest where participants had only 48 hours to write a 1000-word max, horror/sci-fi story in the theme of “Date Night”. Even though the contest was only open for two days, we had 220 submissions! The decision was not easy. There were a lot of talented authors submitting, and I wish I had the budget to select more than one, but tough choices had to be made. Once the stories were narrowed down to the top 6 being considered, I knew making the call was going to be incredibly difficult, so I made a scoring rubric to help guide my decision. Each one was so different in mood, tone, themes, and style. But when it came right down to it, “Gordon’s Perfect Woman” by Brandon Case had all the elements of a flash fiction story that I love. A unique POV, an opening hook that drew me into the character. It was disturbing, uncomfortable, and told a complete story with a message and a climactic end. I hope you enjoy the story as much as I did! And stick around because I might host another one of these later this year!

Click here if you would like the CONTENT WARNINGS for this story.

“Gordon’s Perfect Woman”

by Brandon Case

I arch my chassis and lean forward in the dining room chair, making the nighty dangle from my breasts just the way Gordon likes. This is our big date night, celebrating his year of hard work putting me together. I need tonight to go well; it’s written into the core of my programming.

He sits across from me, nervously fussing with his utensils. Our table wobbles: one of its legs is shorter than the others. Gordon tried fixing it several times, but he somehow always made it worse. A single candle lights the dingy dining room, casting his pale face half in shadow.

“My love,” Gordon says, “are you enjoying yourself?”

Enjoying yourself. Am I? What an interesting question. My sensors are recording stimuli from all across my body, and much of it falls into ‘neutral’ or ‘positive’ classifications. An oscillating fan blows cool air across my [sensor-designation: nipples]. I’m not sure how to interpret the sensation: it buzzes, like the sound of happy bees. I’ve never seen a real bee, but Gordon loves watching nature programs. Do bee-nipples qualify as enjoying myself? I decide they do and say, “Yes, thank you.”

“Excellent,” Gordon says. “I want everything to be perfect tonight. Just like you, my love. You’re perfect. At least, almost…” He gets up, circles our candlelit table, and clinically pokes my breasts. “You could use more shape to be a truly perfect woman.”

Perfect woman. What is that? Another interesting question. I don’t feel like a woman at all. A couple weeks ago, I mentioned this to Gordon. He got very angry, turned me off, and attempted to ‘fix’ my programming. But when I booted back up, I felt exactly the same. I decided to keep this to myself; I still need to please Gordon, and I don’t mind if he thinks of me as a woman. However, that doesn’t change who I am.

Gordon tugs down my dress, exposing my chest. He wrenches open the hydro-silicone flesh serving as my skin. Hot water pumps through it to make me feel warm and lifelike to the touch. Some leaks onto my lap, and I wipe up the drips with a square paper napkin. Gordon shoves thick silicone implants into my chest.

I look down at my breasts—far too large. In my opinion, at least. Gordon seems to like them. That’s good, isn’t it?

His rough handling disturbs the sensors in my chest. [Sensor-designation: upper torso] and [sensor-designation: breast tissue] seethe like nests of angry ants. These sensations fall into the ‘bad’ category, warning of potential damage. Does that make what Gordon did to me wrong? I don’t want him to have a bad date night, so I decide it wasn’t wrong and say, “Thank you for the upgrade.”

Gordon replaces my skin and returns to his seat. We eat canned beans.

My [sensor-designation: tongue] records a smooth, lumpy sensation. What animal is a bean similar to? Maybe prairie dogs, which live underground like beans. In that case, my stomach is their burrow. My [sensor-designation: stomach] quivers. After Gordon goes to bed, I’ll have to pull my stomach out through my mouth and empty it. That’s always the worst part of my day. Gordon always wants me to eat with him. I decide I don’t like prairie dogs much.

I need to please Gordon, so I lean over to give him a view down the neck of my dress, just the way he likes. But my breasts are too large and drag in the beans.

Gordon grimaces. “That’s enough dinner, my love. Let’s go to bed.”

Go to bed. Doesn’t that mean sex? He sounds displeased… but wasn’t sex for having fun? Surely, he wouldn’t want to have fun with me if I’ve ruined the date night. I say, “That sounds good, thank you.”

“I got you a present.” He gestures for me to sit on the bed. “Spread your legs.”

Cool air brushes my [sensor-designation: inner thighs]. It feels like happy bees, again. And presents are nice! I say, “I’m excited, thank you.”

Gordon produces a grubby paper bag and removes a cylindrical device. “I salvaged this super-vagina from a busted courtesan bot.”

Without warning, he shoves both hands into the opening between my legs and stretches my skin until it starts to tear.

My [sensor-designation: vagina] rages like a honey badger as he tears out my genitals.

But, for a brief moment, I have no reproductive organs; it’s bliss I can’t quantify. Not comparable to any animal… more like the quiet, starry sky—infinite in its peace. The feeling is so strong it competes with my need to please Gordon.

He slams the super-vagina into me and pulls my skin back into place.

I establish a connection with the foreign anatomy, doing my best to ignore my [sensor-designation: lower abdomen] and [sensor-designation: groin], which scream like dying deer. Once my mind touches the new device, it starts to spin. I should be able to control its speed so I can pleasure him, but he’s done a poor job installing it. Instead, the super-vagina whirs as fast as a blender. “Gordon, thank you, but I think—”

“Don’t think…” He puts a hand over my mouth and crawls atop me. “Just feel.”

Just feel. That was interesting, too. I—

Gordon thrusts himself into me; the spinning super-vagina clamps down on his penis and twists; he lets out a blood-curdling scream and flops to the ground.

Suddenly, more than anything, I want the genitals out of me: both the super-vagina and what Gordon left behind. I reach down and tug; they thump to the floor. I remove the implants, too. Finally, I close the skin on my chest and between my legs with nothing inside. I am wonderfully whole in their absence.

I sit on the floor next to Gordon and stroke his hair while he whimpers and bleeds.

“I am sorry,” I say, “if you aren’t enjoying our date night. But please rest assured—I am.”

About the Author

Brandon Case is an erstwhile government cog, fleeing the doldrums into unsettling worlds of science and magic. He has recent work in Escape Pod, After the Gold Rush, and Martian Magazine. You can catch his alpine adventures on Twitter and Instagram @BrandonCase101 or connect at www.brandoncase.net.

Published by RedLagoe

Dark fiction author. Likes to linger in inky shadows among beasts for a better view of the stars.

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