Flash fiction AI can't imitate.
“So you wish for more dead children? More destruction? Endless misery? There is such a thing as sacrifices that must be made.”
“What I wish, my dear, is that humans weren’t so.”
— Bastian Espada
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“And what’s the point of the world without me in it? When I die, feel free to burn the whole thing down.”
— Bastian Espada
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“And here before you, is the brightest lamp in the world,” the guide whispered.
“Truly fascinating. Why are we whispering though?” a man asked.
“The mightiest moth has good hearing.”
— Bastian Espada
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“Are you saying that even when it comes to revenge, you’re just that much more sophisticated than me?!”
She smirked. “Well, the ways of the world are many, and I’m privy to a number of them.”
The man glowered.
She snapped her fingers.
A servant brought a young boy into the room
“Papa?”
— Bastian Espada
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“So would you rather have the last thing you see on this earth be an Excel spreadsheet? Or perhaps an endless row of cars stretching beyond your dashboard?”
“Nah, I’d rather it be the face of a trusted friend”
Both men smiled, held hands, then pulled the trigger at the same time.
— Bastian Espada
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“Only I can save you from that other dude that convinced you that only he could save you!” the aspiring dictator said.
Everybody clapped.
— Bastian Espada
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*Ding dong*
Trick or treat! She heard for the hundredth time that night.
The woman threw the half-finished bottle of whiskey on the couch and shambled towards the entrance. She grabbed the candy bowl from the foyer and opened the door.
Standing at her doorstep, was herself. The woman stared into her own eyes. She cried out, and hurled the red porcelain bowl at her face, shattering it in a burst of glass.
Little Edgar — who on that Halloween night had decided to dress up as a tall mirror — ended up receiving several stitches.
— Bastian Espada
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“Baaa! I beat my lip!” The toddler screamed, her open mouth filled with halfway chewed eggs.
“It happens to the best of us honey. It happens to the best of us.”
— Bastian Espada
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“Well, death is nothing but another journey,” the man said, staring at the ground below.
“Bah! Another journey.” The old lady reclined back, making the chairlift rock to-and-fro. “There's no journey, not here not after. There's nothing.”
“But Nana, how can you be so sure?”
The old woman pushed herself off the lift and glided beyond the edge of the snowy slope. “ 'Cause Ronny my dear, if you had a little bit of empathy, you'd realize this entire universe is one big joke, and humanity is the punchline.”
— Bastian Espada
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“So, how may I help you today?” the manager asked.
The man stuck his chest out, pushed his glasses up and adjusted his belt. “I'm here to exercise my right — in accordance to the eighteen forty-seven exception to the federal statute on dueling and the recent supreme court's decision to regard First Capital Bank as a person under the law — to challenge this institution to a sword fight, over which the fate of my mortgage shall be decided.”
The bank manager pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “We got another one!” he yelled.
A few feet away, a barely visible door creaked open.
Vladislav Fyodorov, disgraced former fencing world champion and two times Olympic gold medalist, emerged.
— Bastian Espada
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