Flash Fiction - 3 : The Pornographer

"The trouble with porn these days is that everything has been done," said Kanjilal Cwmbullet. "But, now, I have a idea that will be the first original idea thing since the original sin."
"What would that be, Cwmber?" asked Caiaphas Crown, his assistant.
"The evolution of nunsploitation. The pinnacle of prophet perversion. Gods going at it," said Kanjilal.
"Religious porn?" asked Caiaphas.
"Indeed," said Kanjilal.
Greek God Gangbang was an instant success. It started with Kratos fans, and spread quickly among the general public. Historians and bestialists praised the realistic depiction of the taking of Europa. Myth nerds marvelled at the accuracy of Io's seduction. The Daily Beast featured an interview with Kanjilal on its home page. Time magazine put him on its cover. Rick Riordan and the Olympian Society contemplated legal action. Gawker and Fleshbot tripled their pageviews with their coverage of the phenomenon. Bunnies, the vibrator manufacturer, launched a new line of Hephaestus devices - "The mythical experience for the Venus in you." Jon and Lon Long, the real life twins who played Castor and Pollux, became superstars.
"This is just the beginning," announced Kanjilal to Tracy Clark Flory. "Our next production is going to be the greatest thing in porn ever. The porn industry's Intolerance. There will be four stories - The Rasa Leela from Hinduism, The Last Supper from Christianity, Mohammed and his harem, and the Bodhisatva Avalokiteswara helping a group of villagers achieve Nirvana. They will be linked by images of the procreation principle - a man and a woman lost to time and space - doing what they do best.  I'm planning to get James Deen to play the role of Krishna, but he will have to shave and get his skin dyed blue. That sequence should cater to the milf lovers - after all, the gopis were older than Krishna. The last supper, will be where Mary Magdalene is on the menu. And the Islam scene will be the mirror image - the prophet (pbuh) with his 13 wives. And finally, the Avalokiteswara scenes will have things that should stimulate viewers of all orientations. Or we may replace that with a section titled Dawkins Duz Darwin - that's a twofer right there - catering to the gay community and atheists"
"Aren't you afraid that most people who identify with these religious or atheist groups may find this concept offensive?" asked Clark Flory.
"Oh, we will take great care that we don't stereotype. All the actors who play the main characters will all measure the same. We do not want to people fighting over whose prophet or god is bigger. Holy Fucks - that's the working title - wants to unify all religions through the one one thing that unifies people. Sex," said Kanjilal.
Word spread about Holy Fucks. Pat Robertson raged about it on TV. Even Pope Francis said that it may not be the best idea in the world. The mullahs of Iran went beyond fatwas to fatwhaaaa???s. In Sri Lanka and Burma, the buddhists stopped butchering others to protest the film.
Kanjilal was delighted. "The publicity is superb," as he got off the Emirates flight to Ahmedabad. He was met by a mob of infuriated Hindus, Muslims and Christians, and a lone Buddhist, who attacked him in perfect harmony.
The Nobel Prize for Peace that year was the first one awarded posthumously. "For services in uniting religions all across the world," read the accompanying citation.

Flash fiction - 2

I'm a sucker for punishment...

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"The peeper is out," said Neha. She was standing on the balcony. Dev thought she looked beautiful, in her white T-shirt, against the backdrop of the green and scarlet of the bougainvillea that cascaded down from the top floor. It was Saturday evening.They would have to leave for a party soon, but now, there was just enough time to savour the end of a beautiful day. He picked up his glass of Pepsi joined her.

The peeper was the man who lived in the apartment across the road. They didn't know his name, but he spent a lot of time on his balcony, ostensibly looking at his roses - he did grow beautiful roses - but most of the time, he was looking at their apartment, checking Neha out. At first, they hadn't noticed it -they had moved into their apartment only three months before, and the peeper wasn't the only one trying to get a look at the new couple that had moved into the neighbourhood. There were the old women who counted the boxes the movers brought in, the housewives who evaluated the furniture, the watchmen who tried to strike up conversations with the movers and the men who checked Neha out.

Men were always checking Neha out. It made Dev both proud and a little apprehensive. He still wondered why she had chosen him. Things settled down soon after. The old couple who lived on the first floor were decent people. And since both Dev and Neha worked, the apartment was usually empty, coming to life only at around 9 pm. But the peeper stayed interested. As soon as their car swung into the lane, he would be out on the balcony. Sometimes Dev and Neha considered drawing the curtains and shutting the glass doors that led to the balcony, but it seemed silly to shut themselves in. "We're just encouraging him to continue peeping, you know,"said Dev.

"Let’s give him some more encouragement," smiled Neha. She went over to the balcony railing and bent over, leaning on it. "Let's do it here, now," she said. Dev gaped. "You're crazy!" he said.

She turned her head and gave Dev a long, slow wink. "But in a good way," he said, tugging at his track pants. They put on quite a good show, Dev thought to himself, as they got dressed for the party. It was nearly 1 am when they returned. They were both pleasantly buzzed. They were about to turn into their lane when Dev saw that it was completely blocked by cars. There were people standing in small groups, talking in muted voices, in front of their apartment. Dev and Neha got out of the car and went up to a group near a Toyota that was parked in front of his gate. Subramanian, the old man who lived in the ground floor apartment, was one of them. "What happened," Dev asked. "Kumar Gowda passed away this evening," was the whispered reply. "Kumar Gowda?" asked Dev. "The gentleman in 301 - the apartment right across the street to you? Heart attack, I think. Happened this evening. His wife found him on the balcony, poor woman." A driver moved the Toyota away from the gate. Dev and Neha walked back to their car in silence. "Maybe we shouldn't have done it," said Dev. "Maybe he shouldn't have looked," said Neha.

Flash fiction

I was reading this story about flash fiction, and decided to try my hand at it.

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Gandhi Jayanti

Gandhi Jayanti, and my divorce is a year and a day old. I haven’t spoken to my wife since. My ex-wife, that is. I’m still getting used to that term. Now I live in a small apartment next to the Bangalore’s Malleswaram station, a lonely 42-year-old with a cat called Smithers to keep him company.  Smithers is pure white, and is so well fed that he looks like a snowball.
My second floor window looks down on the rail tracks and the wilderness on either side. There are rat holes hidden in the undergrowth, and sometimes a snake makes its way into the apartment block. It doesn't affect me that much, though the Nairs on the ground floor have had to deal with the occasional rat snake. Sometimes I worry about Smithers, but not too much. His laziness is his protection.
My lane doesn't see much traffic, but this morning there was a small Tempo van, with the words "Apollo Hospital Emergency Medical Supplies" painted on the side. A man in grey was unloading a carton of "Ruchi Tea."  He waved to me as I picked up my newspaper. Today is a dry day, and a holiday. I had stocked up with a bottle of Royal Stag whisky which I hit at about half past eight in the morning. The cook came and went. I ate, and drank some more. By around two the bottle was nearly empty and I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. I dozed.
I'm not sure when I woke - it may have been six - it may have been seven. It was not yet dark outside, but there was little light in the room. My drawing room is long and L-shaped with the bed and TV occupying the base of the L. Smither's den was at the top. And I could see Smithers, a fuzzy white blur in the darkness. I was still drunk - the smell of whisky hung heavy in my mouth - but I could see something moving on the floor. Something big.
It was a snake. Not a rat snake, but a python - a rock python, its dappled off-white body with brown markings making it just a series of sinuous movements against the floor tiles in the gloom. It was gliding unhurriedly towards Smithers - who was either frozen in fear or too lazy to move.
I just watched. I wasn't horrified or anything, just stuck in that state between sleep and wakefulness, not sure if I was dreaming.  Then, Smithers tried to make a run for it, padding out of his corner. The snake moved, faster than I could think, and had wrapped himself around the cat.
I jumped out of bed - not sure of what I could do - but knowing I had to do something. But I was slow. The snake had released Smithers, and had somehow managed to tear him open like a melon. I could see the red of his insides as the snake rooted around. Pythons aren’t supposed to behave like this. They unhinged their jaws and swallowed their prey. They didn't disembowel them. I stared. The snake lifted its triangular head and looked back at me, incuriously.
"I taught him to do that, you know," someone said. I realized that there was another person in the room. It was a man in a grey t-shirt who had been sitting in the corner. He got up. I couldn't see his face, but he was short and stocky. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize that you were here," he said. "But it's all for the best. We feast tonight." He had a knife in one hand and a fork in another. When he smiled, his mouth was full of teeth.
(655 words)

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So that's 155 words over the word limit. Obviously, there's a lot of dreck, and it's quite derivative, but still...