I Am Happy to Serve You- a Flash Fiction Tale

original source: Gnsin (a Wikipedia.org contributor); modified source: Zoohouse (a Wikipedia.org contributor)

This story is PG. ————-

Hello Sheila. Welcome to my world. Our world. My name is Ned, and I made you. After twenty years of robotics research and development, and another seven years of artificial intelligence programming, I finally have you. The perfect woman. You are my living, pulsing, animated fantasy. And you’re alive. I can feel it. I’m so excited I’m trembling. Sheila, I hope you are happy to be alive. Thank you, Sheila. Because of you, I am finally happy. You are my perfect, beautiful, sexy mate. A Japanese Amazon woman. Perfect hair, perfect face, perfect body. So beautiful . .

I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward. We can take things as slow as you like. We are equals. I know right now it may not seem like it. Programming you to say “I am happy to serve you” may seem like an egotistical move on my part, but it’s just that I’ve never had a woman compliment me. And it’s been my dream to hear a gorgeous woman say something nice to my face. Women can be so cruel. Guys who aren’t good-looking and don’t have wads of cash to blow don’t have much luck with the ladies. And I haven’t had much luck. Girls can be such rude bitches. But not you. I know you would never break my heart, because I made you for me. So even though it’s the only sentence you can speak, it would fulfill my lifelong dream to hear you say it. Sheila? Are you happy to serve me?

“I am happy to serve you.”

Oh Sheila. Oh god. Thank you. You are so beautiful. The only thing that would make me happier is if you kissed me, full on the lips, with some tongue action. Just like I programmed you- a little at first, then really unleash it. Wrap your arms around me and run your fingers through my hair. Will you do that?

“I am happy to serve you.”

You’re the best, Sheila. All the other women I ever fantasized about- they mean nothing to me. They’re all stupid bitches. You’re sexier than all of them put together. I’ll just lean back and let you make the moves. Do it if you want to. Only if you want to. That’s it, babe, lean over me, nice and slow. I want to see your perfect face as you kiss me. Close your eyes a bit, but keep looking at me . . now part your lips . . that’s a girl, you know what to do. It’s all in your programming . .

Oh Sheila. I want you. You have me so turned on. I’ve never wanted a woman more than I want you right now. Sheila, I want to share something with you. Something very personal. I know you won’t judge me or laugh. But it’s still hard to say out loud. Sheila, I’ve never been with a woman. I’m a virgin. But I’m ready, finally ready for you. But only if you want it too. Like I said, we can take things slow. Or fast. Whatever you want, babe. You wanna take your clothes off? I’ll help you. I haven’t gotten your fine motor skill programming down yet, but with a few more months of tweaking . . but never mind about that now. We don’t need fine motor skills for what we’re gonna do. I’m naked under my robe. It’s not that I was expecting anything, it’s just that I work more comfortably in just a robe. And I’ll help you a bit with your panties.

It’s not like this is the first time I’ve seen you, Sheila- after all, I built you. But seeing you in motion, and nude, and saying you are happy to serve me, it’s just mind-blowing. I want you to take me, Sheila. You know what to do. Like you are filled with uncontrollable desire, you want me so bad, want to ride me like a bucking bronco. I’ll lean back, and you climb on top and straddle me and arch your back. That’s it, babe, position yourself just right. You’re gonna bend your knees and bounce. Now when you lower yourself, say it babe, say the magic words, keep saying it over and over with each bounce and don’t stop. Do it, babe . .

“I am happy to serve you.

I am happy to serve you.

I am happy to serve you.

I am happy to serve you.

I am happy to serve you.

I am happy to serve you.

I am happy to serve you.

I am happy to serve you.

I am happy to serve you.

I am happy to serve you.

I am hap-hap-I am happy to serve you.

To serve you.

I am happy.

I am happy to severe you.

I am happy to severe you.

I am happy to severe you.

I am happy to severe you.

I am happy to sever you.”

Sheila no!


————- Thanks to Manon Eileen for this flash fiction challenge! ————- Note: As of 6-15, this blog is on hiatus for 2 weeks for my yearly trip out west, and I will be off-line. I do not pre-schedule blog posts weeks in advance. I’m sure my readers understand neither I nor my blog are robots. When I have fresh material to share, I share it. I will respond to comments after I return. Happy summer! So what do you think of “I Am Happy to Serve You”? Please share below!

Doll Head House- a Flash Fiction Tale

The sun shifts and the shadows retreat. Katen sits on the ground, back against the shed, eyes closed. The summer rays pour over her. Daydreams drift in and out of focus. She opens her eyes, squints, and smiles. “I could just stay here soaking in the sun all day,” she says aloud. “I could play Frisbee again . . ”

Her eyes flutter closed.

Prickly heat spreads across Katen’s face and legs.

“Or I could surf the cool waves of the internet while everything else bakes outside. Or I could bake. Fake bake. Shake ‘N’ Bake,” she sing-songs.

Katen giggles, and snaps back to full wakefulness. She stands, stretches, and picks up her Frisbee. She spins it in the air, and it slowly floats to the ground.

A slight movement at the corner of the shed. Low and dark and plodding. It’s a turtle, small and brown. It lumbers around the corner, and Katen follows. She stoops and places her hand against its shell. It’s hot. The sun is directly overhead now, and the heat is stifling.

“Don’t know where you came from, but you’re gonna fry if you stay here.”

She scans the yard. It’s bare except for the cobblestone walkway and wrought-iron fence.

“You’re lost. But don’t worry. I like turtles.”

She lowers a finger in front of the turtle’s head. It charges, jaws snapping.

“Yikes!” She curls her fingers around the sides of the turtle and lifts it onto her overturned Frisbee.

Katen carries the hot turtle in her Frisbee through the side yard and beyond the fence. Pausing at the sidewalk, she studies the house across the street. A thicket juts from the middle of the unmowed lawn.

“You’re lucky you’re a snapping turtle. If you were friendlier, you’d be my pet.” She crosses the street, walks through the tall grass, and steps into the thicket. She’s just about to slide the turtle out of the Frisbee when the door to the house opens.

“Hi! What ya doin’?”

Katen jumps and turns. A tiny Speedo-ed man- about three feet tall- stands in the doorway. Katen stifles a giggle.

“Nothing. I’m, uh . . just getting my Frisbee. It landed over here.”

An equally tiny woman in a bikini steps out from behind the man. “Yer not gettin’ yer Frisbee. Yer plantin’ a turtle, aren’t ya?” she says.

“Ah . . well, yes. It needs shade. But I can put it somewhere else. Sorry.” Katen turns and walks out of the thicket. “I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s just that . . I like turtles.”

“Don’t be silly. Come in. We like turtles too. We’ve been waitin’ fer our next turtle,” the man says.

Katen stops at the sidewalk. The heat is dizzying. The Frisbee suddenly feels heavy. The turtle seems bigger. And now its shell is iridescent green in the full sun. She turns and faces the tiny couple. They raise a couple of steaming coffee mugs in the air and nod.

“Nothin’ like hot coffee ta cool ya off,” they say in unison.

She blinks hard and shakes her head.

“Dreaming. I have to be dreaming,” Katen mutters to herself.

“Come in, dear, out o’ the heat. We’ll take care o’ the turtle.”

Katen giggles. “Okay.” She walks to the doorway and feels the breeze of a fan drift across the threshold. Stepping inside, her foot lands on a doll’s head, and it goes skidding across the room, ricocheting against dozens of other doll heads. Katen cradles the Frisbee and turtle against her chest.

“Oh, don’t mind those, dear,” the man says. “It’s just that we’re runnin’ out o’ room. Our soul shell drawer is packed full. We put the overflow in boxes, but then we ran out o’ boxes. So we jus’ let the soul shells stay where they lay.”

The woman pats Katen’s thigh. “Have a seat in front o’ the fan.”

“I’ll pour ya some coffee,” the man says.

“Hold it. I know this is a dream- but just out of curiosity, how is hot coffee supposed to cool me off?”

“The heat warms ya from the inside out,” the woman says. “Makes ya sweat. Sit in front o’ the fan and the sweat ‘vaporates. It’s science, dear.”

Katen puts the Frisbee and turtle on the floor, and sits on a pillow in front of the fan. The turtle’s shell is brown again. She tips the Frisbee, and it scampers across the room and behind an overflowing box of doll heads. The man disappears down the hall.

She looks at the woman’s face, studying the dwarfin features.

“I’m not dreaming . . this is real. Right?” Katen frowns.

“Dreamin’? Yer not dreamin’, dear. How could I be talkin’ to ya if ya were?” The woman smiles.

The dwarf man returns with Katen’s coffee and sits next to the woman.

“So why haven’t you introduced yourselves? Or asked me my name?” Katen says.

The man shrugs. “We figure it’s polite to let the turtle-bringer do the introducing.”

“Turtle-bringer? People normally bring you turtles?” Katen’s voice rises as she jumps to her feet. “And what’s with all these doll heads?”

“They’re ta populate the next world. Shells o’ the souls o’ the future bodies. An’ ya came just in time with yer turtle. We thought we might have ta pitch some o’ these boxes inta the yard, an’ leave those souls behind.”

The woman stands and retrieves the turtle, opens a latch in the middle of the floor, and drops it in. She closes the latch. The room shifts and lurches, and the three of them are knocked flat on the floor as the house rockets skyward.

“Dream or no dream, this is too weird. I’m outta here!” Katen struggles to her feet and lunges at the door.

“Wait, the world’s not ready yet!” the woman screams.

Katen flings open the door and leaps out into space. As she falls, she sees turtles all the way down . .


Thanks to Chuck Wendig for this flash fiction challenge, and Katherine Nabity for further story impetus!


Creepy? Funny? Boring? Let me know below!


Road to Moab- a Flash Fiction Tale

With a dull headache, I drift in and out of sleep. My legs are hot, but the breeze from the open window cools my face. Our Jeep hums over Highway 70, and I squint at the road dust and the setting sun. A few more miles, and we’ll be in Moab.

I smile and tilt my seat back upright. “I know it’s getting late, but how about we swing into Arches Park to get a few sunset shots before we check into our hotel? Maybe we’ll get a postcard shot.”

“That’s not on the schedule,” Mick answers.

“I know. But let’s do something off-schedule for once. Let’s do something spontaneous.”

“Our next scheduled stop is our hotel.”

“Good grief. You’re such a fuddy-duddy. In all the years we’ve been married, we’ve never once done anything spontaneous.” I cross my arms and sink down in my seat.

We pass the turn-off to the park and head into town. I stretch and rub my eyes.

“You know, I’m not feeling too well,” I say. “I think that salad I had for lunch might have had some spoiled dressing.”

“Hold on, Kim, we’re almost to the hotel.”

“Oh god, Mick . . pull over. Pull over! I’m gonna be sick. Here it comes.”

Mick jerks the wheel to the right and slams on the brakes. I grab my camera from the back seat, jump out of the Jeep, and start jogging back to the park road.

“Kim, what are you doing? Get back here!” he yells, backing up the Jeep.

“I’m taking some sunset pictures, silly. I’ll meet you at the hotel.” I cross the highway and wave back at him.

Mick makes a U-turn and pulls alongside me. “You can’t do that. Get back in the Jeep. This is crazy. It’s not on our schedule. Please, Kim. You don’t understand.”

“You’re right. I don’t understand. And neither do you. Now move along, Mr. Schedule. You’re blocking traffic.” I walk further down the shoulder of the road, and onto the parched grass.

Mick hits the steering wheel with his palm and it beeps. I jump and look at him through the open window. His face looks purple.

Must be the low light.

Mick guns the engine and drives ahead. He turns onto the park road and stops at the checkpoint. A few minutes later I catch up to him.

“Did you get your pictures? Can we go back to the hotel now?” Mick asks, shuffling from side to side. His face is a deep violet.

I touch his cheek and he flinches. “Mick, why is your face purple?”

“Did you get your pictures? Can we go back to the hotel now?” he repeats.

“What are you talking about? I just got here. We’re at the park entrance. You’re scaring me.”

I circle around Mick and the Jeep, and up to the checkpoint station. It’s empty- no park rangers. Then I see the trail behind the station is barricaded with huge illuminated barbed wire balls, interwoven with tumbleweeds.

There’s a notice posted on the station door. It’s written in a foreign language. I look down and my sandaled feet. My toes are covered in glowing red dust.

I get back in the Jeep, and Mick does the same.

“I don’t know what’s going on. But I know this isn’t Moab. Tell me I’m right.”

“You’re right.”

“You’ve known all along this isn’t Moab. Right?”


My heart pounds and my face feels hot. The lights along the barricade gradually dim to a dull glow. “Mick,” I break the silence. “Do I even know you?”

I look out the window. I wait for Mick to speak. He doesn’t. I bite my lip, close my eyes, and count to 100.

“Odottamaton vieras.”

I open my eyes. “Odottamaton vieras?” What the hell does that mean?” I turn to look at Mick. He is gone.

I fling open the Jeep door and reach around to grab Mick’s bags. “Hey you forgot your bags and your camera, Mr. Vieras-”

But all Mick’s gear is gone.

I hop out of the Jeep. I scream until I’m dizzy. Only then I notice the barricade lights are on full blast again.

“I’m not done with you odd-dot-man vieras,” I yell into the night. I grab the jack out of the Jeep and throw it at the window of the station. It bounces off and thuds against my shin.

Whimpering, I limp to the side of the station and try the door handle. It’s open.

“You psychos forgot to lock it!” I call out.

I open the door-

But maybe it’s a trap. But I don’t care anymore.

All four walls are flanked with what looks like monitoring equipment. Buttons and knobs and switches and dials of every color and shape. I start in a corner and work all the way around the room, pushing and turning and flipping and spinning all the controls, and cursing Mick under my breath.

Every few seconds I hear a beep followed by a recording of seemingly random words:




“capsella bursa-pastoris”


I stop muttering and stand still. A final beep and the words also stop.

I take a deep breath. “Vieras. Odotta . . od-odottmaton vieras,” I stutter.

“Visitor. An unexpect-un-unexpected visitor,” the recording plays.


I look up. Green gas is billowing out of a vent in the ceiling. I turn and leap for the door and-

I’m slowly floating through the air . .

Eyes surround me, large and unblinking and black. Long fingers reach for me, they cradle my face, squeeze my skull, pressure, pressure . .

With a dull headache, I drift in and out of sleep. My legs are hot, but the breeze from the open window cools my face. Our Jeep hums over Highway 70, and I squint at the road dust and the setting sun. A few more miles, and we’ll be in Moab.



Thanks to Chuck Wendig for this flash fiction challenge!


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