Latest Pulp Modern Flash Stories

Singles In My Area by Harris Coverely

I was tired, but couldn’t sleep. Sweating under my sheets in the foetal position, I opened my eyes and saw the time on my bedside clock: just after ten. Cruising hour I realised, and just like that I was horny.

Exhaustion be damned, I got my phone off the side cabinet and opened up fuck.R. I signed my thumbprint and there was already a slit in my immediate vicinity, not a mile away.

Sler face in sler picture was obscured by some stupid, semi-opaque veil, but I was not going to bother looking at any other apps.

I messaged: Where U at?

***

I put on my jacket and decided to walk to where sle was. I had been to Gonzo’s to get laid before, and knew the journey well. It was a cool night, but not bad for the Yukon.

When I got there at nearly half ten the bar was under half full, and was not likely to get any fuller. The place was a shithole, a way station for sex, drugs, and whatever else there was to offer.

Sle was as sle said sle would be: sat in the corner by the jukebox, nursing a G ‘n’ T, wearing a shiny green dress. Sle had long reddish hair and a roughly freckled face, with small green eyes. Sle wasn’t my type, but for a slit sle was cute enough.

I sat in the chair opposite sler and said: “It’s me. Where’d you wanna do this?”

“Oh, easy big boy,” came sler naturally gravelly yet artificially high voice. “Aren’t ya gonna buy a girl a drink first? I’m new in town y’know…”

“You’re no girl,” I said reflexively without thinking.

Sle looked hurt, and, seeing my lay at stake, I quickly apologised and obliged sler request. A lot of slits can get quite tetchy…

***

The plague came out of nowhere six years ago. It wasn’t influenza, or something from the SARS family, but it moved as fast as them, and within a few months it had done its terrible damage. Some men got sick, but most, like me, just got the sniffles, if that. For women it was certain death. There was something about the virus that made it fatal for any simian with no Y chromosome. By the end of the year, despite all the best efforts of governments, corporations, militias, churches, and every other kind of organisation, natural-born women were gone from the face of the Earth. Where it came from, there are many theories—aren’t there always? But any which way, what had happened had happened, and we were royally fucked.

Some men went mad and killed themselves. Many just fought each other over any old stupid shit. The system nearly collapsed—humanity seemed at an end.

It was the older transwomen who came out to offer comfort. Other men, with almost a sense of civic duty, followed suit, and the era of neowomen, slits, ensued.

Men who didn’t like “trans stuff” before quickly got on board when it was the only means of getting any pussy, even if it wasn’t as “wholesome” as they would’ve liked.

The governments of the world re-convened, promoted it, and in the meanwhile got the global male populace set on big projects to distract us from impending extinction. I left England and found myself in Canada, working in a mining operation…

***

Sle had two more G ‘n’ Ts, and I got two drinks myself (bottled lager, I’m not made of money), after which I finally coaxed sler away from the table.

Sle really was new in town, and didn’t even have a room, so we went down the street and found a cheap hotel with a small room at twenty dollars for the night. I didn’t want to take sler back to mine—a slit had robbed me there once with a broken bottle, and being pissed out of my skull had stopped me from putting up a full resistance.

The room was dingy and bleak, but it didn’t matter. We’d fuck on the coversheet and leave.

Sle allowed me to take sler dress off as I kissed sler crimson lips, sler lipstick loose and unctuous, sler purse dropping to the floor. The fake tits were not great, but were at least even and felt good in the hand, even though sler nipples remained soft and unresponsive.

The scars on sler cunt still looked fresh, not six months cut—sle was a new convert to the cause. The honourable man in me felt like thanking sler for sler service.

The sex itself was passable; neither the best nor the worst. I came inside sler after about ten minutes, and sle slid off me; I don’t know what sle got out of it.

Sle lay next to me and put sler hand on my shoulder, but I’m definitely not the cuddling type, so I got straight up and sat on the edge of the bed. There I spied the pamphlet sticking out of sler abandoned purse.

I recognised its symbols and read the cover: Be the MAN you COULD be! FATHER JESUS will show the WAY!

I turned to sler still lying on the bed and roared, “You’re a fucking fisher!”

Sle was terrified, putting sler arms up in protection, babbling about the church and how it had helped sler and all that standard crap.

But I was truly fucked off with it. I didn’t care for any sob stories either. I needed to set an example, and it had to be sler, right then and there.

I fucking hate fishers, especially those from the New Church of Jesus the Father. They ruin the whole game.

 

Harris Coverley has short fiction published or forthcoming in Curiosities, Hypnos, The Periodical, Forlorn, The Centropic Oracle, and Penumbric Speculative Fiction Magazine, amongst many others. A former Rhysling nominee, he also has verse in Polu Texni, California Quarterly, Star*Line, Spectral Realms, Scifaikuest, Corvus Review, Better Than Starbucks, The Oddville Press, and elsewhere. He lives in Manchester, England.

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