Flash Fiction

I read here somewhere where a person asked if fanfiction is art.

It is most definitely art, but people should understand some distinction.

Fanfiction is derivative art, as it uses existing characters, worlds, etc.

Something created originally, from scratch so to speak, such as Lord of the Rings would be primary, or canonical art. And yes, it can also be called generative art. (No reference to AI).

My two cents.

In the corner booth, the couple sat in near silence. Their stillness refused to yield to the ubiquitous song pouring from the restaurant speakers overhead.

The singer’s voice was everywhere. All the time.

On subway billboards, in earbuds, on late-night talk shows. On podcasts, streaming commercial interruptions. Her songs weren’t just melodies; they were icy pop-culture demands.

“Be like me,” she whispered between verses, and millions obeyed.

First came the little colored tablets, swallowed like communion wafers, then the monthly injections. Hunger and digestive distress became martyrdom; thinness was salvation. Her Iron Fans shrank themselves into silhouette shadows, their bodies sculpted into edicts by devotion.

The Following

Then came the surgeons—not only fly-by-day, but fly-by-night.

They were the wealthiest of the butchers, said the news feeds.

Air travel to Seoul doubled, then tripled, until the city’s pop-up clinics pulsed like hive chambers—a growth industry for reduction chic.

Praise to the Scalpel. Silicone became a sacrament.

Cheekbones sharpened into iconic angles, eyes widened into angelic halos, jaws narrowed into holy geometric relics.

Soon, the streets filled with her living reflections. A million singers, carbon copies, humming the same refrain.

Young women applied makeup to faces that weren’t their own. Lovers reached out to hold hands that weren’t familiar. Men kissed strangers who looked exactly like their girlfriends or boyfriends, only to recoil when the voice wasn’t quite right. Mothers could not recognize their daughters. DMV offices made errors around the clock trying to keep up with new driver’s license photos.

Identity dissolved into tribal ritual, individuality sacrificed on the altar of divine resemblance.

Babies were next in line when the singer herself vanished.

Online, some said she had melted away on stage, her body dissolving under the lights. A few even claimed tearfully that they had witnessed it firsthand. Others whispered she had been consumed by her fans after falling from the stage, poring over video recordings frame by frame, searching for her absorption into the endless chorus of gnawing mouths that once sang along.

No one could say for certain what really happened. Only a frightened silence remained, heavy and holy, as if a goddess of beauty had finally ascended, leaving only the song behind.

Under the fluorescent lighting inside the fast-food restaurant, the older blended couple sat in the same booth as before. He was Western Caucasian, she Eastern Asian; their virgin faces untouched by the surgeon’s blade or laser scalpels. They sipped hot, steaming green tea from paper cups, gazing out the plate-glass window.

On their phones laid out in front of them, breaking news scrolled: “Fans disoriented…” after the disappearance. “Mass confusion” was reported in major cities for a second day—while tractors in France sprayed manure.

Outside, on the sidewalk by the building, one or two devotees stumbled aimlessly down the street. Then they became a small group, running in circles—a vortex of flesh—their identical faces twisted with panic at the sight of each other. Some flailed their spindly arms, bumping into one another, searching for someone they once knew, who was now unrecognizable and seen only as *her*. Others in silver sequined dresses mewed like frightened cats, their previous wondrous melody obscenely morphed into a feral feline chant.

The man returned to the counter and faced the staff member at the cash register.

“Our croissants are cold,” he said flatly. “You didn’t even toast them.”

The young server—her face a near-perfect replica of the vanished singer—blinked blankly at him for several seconds.

“I have worse problems to deal with,” she murmured, eyes tearing up as she darted out through the back door—only to reappear lost and void, joining the growing chaos outside at a full run.

An older thirty-something manager approached, clipboard in hand. He too looked exactly like the singer—the same jawline, the same eyes, the same rehearsed smile—but with a mustache.

“You’re the ones who complained, right, on the app?” he asked, voice calm at first, almost rehearsed, then sharpening. “Why would you complain in the app? Why would someone even do that?”

“Because your staff wouldn’t help us,” the man replied evenly. “And it’s your company’s survey, so that’s why I filled it out. You’re basically criticizing me for asking them to toast the croissant again, and then when they refused, I’m supposed to just eat it cold? It’s called a toasted croissant sandwich for a reason, isn’t it?”

Suddenly, a figure outside caught their attention: a man with a thick red beard and waist-length red hair, his features stretched and warped by failed surgery—another grotesque attempt to become her. His cheekbones were uneven, his lips swollen into a rictus of obsession, his eyes wide and crossing but mismatched. He sprinted headlong toward the window where the couple sat.

The thick plate-glass shuddered but did not break as he collided face-first with the surface.

He bounced backward like a broken toy, sprawling against the nearby concrete trash can and down to the pavement, limbs flapping like a puppet bird with cut strings.

For a moment, he lay there, stunned, before scrambling back to his feet and rejoining the ravenous-looking crowd, his red, wet, distorted face nearly matching his beard as another visible echo in the endless chorus.

Fans often said everything she did was smashing.

The chaos outside swelled—dozens, then hundreds—running without direction, across boulevards and roads, stopping traffic, their identical faces searching for guidance. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it died down to almost nothing. The street fell quiet as the crowds thinned out, a nameless fear stirring the seagulls across the sky over the restaurant.

They appeared to be looking for somewhere to hide while covering their faces.

Inside, the employees had almost vanished. Only a few customers remained, scattered in booths, staring at their phones or the empty counter, largely oblivious to the event outside.

The couple sat in silence, facing one another.

“Do you think we should order anything else before we go home?” she asked softly.

He glanced at her, then at the empty counter.

“No. But I’m sending an email to the corporate office about the shitty service and food. Let’s head home,” he repeated, testing the word. “Home.”

Their house was up for sale, and some unknown agent had just finished showing it to some unknown buyers. They were leaving for good, but where to, neither of them really knew. Where could you go anymore?

Outside, the quiet breathed into the twilight, heavy as a stone lyric.

End

Copyright 2026 All Rights Reserved

Buried in a mountain bunker, she becomes both prisoner and myth.

This story is the next in a series of entries from my upcoming micro and flash fiction collection, Codex of Ruin — a cycle of strange returns, cosmic echoes, and some very uncanny artifacts. Each piece is a fragment of a larger book, released here as a glimpse of what’s to come.

SUSIE CUTE

Susie Cute never laughed the way others did. There was no sound, no breath, no instant release. Instead, even while smiling in her cute way, her body would shake in a silent, muddled convulsion, as if something mad was trying to escape but couldn’t.

At first, it was just glasses vibrating, then shattering, and nearby streetlights dimming brown or flickering off completely. Her husband blamed her nerves, and her children learned to avoid jokes in Mom’s presence.

Hair stylists put up closed signs when she approached their doors.

Doctors refused her request for appointments outright.

Then came the tremors. First deep inside her, then one day a sitcom rerun on YouTube triggered a 3.2 earthquake in Jakarta. A pun at a dinner party cracked some newly laid pavement in suburban Lisbon. A Chinese stand-up comedy special she watched alone caused a 6.7 off the coast of Chile. Scientists traced the epicenters, mapped the timing, and confirmed the impossible: her laughter, internal and silent, was seismic.

They stopped calling her Susie or Mrs. Cute. They called her the Fault.

She was relocated to an experimental government containment zone deep in the mountains with no screens, no books, no visitors — only silence. Governments issued global mandates: no comedy, no satire, no laughter anywhere. Humor became contraband. Clowns were arrested, memes were erased, and children were taught to smile politely and never giggle, or risk arrest. The world internalized its joy, just as she had, for survival. And the new global watcher overlords watched everyone, everywhere.

She lived alone in a soundproof chamber beneath the Alps, monitored, routinely medicated, and muted. Still, the tremors came. A guard’s whispered joke, a bird’s unexpected dance, a memory of a cat-fart video — and each time, the earth shook.

Then, one day, a young, dumb, tired, and reckless technician forgot protocol — or ignored it. He dropped a shiny chrome wrench, and it clanged against the floor.

She flinched.

He laughed — a short, sharp burst, uncontrolled.

She felt it: the joy, the absurdity, the release. Her body shook harder than ever before. The technician kept laughing; he couldn’t stop.

Could you?

Others joined in — guards, scientists, the world.

Something broke, something deeply ancient, nameless, and buried. People laughed, not politely, not quietly. They howled, they roared, and they wept with tears of joy. And the planet split. This was no hyperbolic shift due to a mythical climate catastrophe. The traditional fault lines finally erupted; oceans literally — not figuratively — boiled; and skies steamed then cracked into a form never witnessed since life was created.

She laughed too, for the first time in an eternity, out loud, as she always imagined, always prayed for. It was so beautiful. It was unbearable.

And then, there was nothing.

Silence.

Joy had destroyed the world.

But in that final moment, it was worth it.

END

Copyright 2026

上一次我写的是现实世界，以及我将回归虚构。而这篇原创作品，则想象当现实开始弯曲时会发生什么。欢迎来到我《回声法典》（Codex of Speculative Echoes）中的第一则闪小说遗物。

睡吧，乖乖睡（Beddy Bye Bye）

也许，家才是最奇怪的地方。

他们以七名成年人离开地球——经过筛选、训练、纪律严明，并为前往火星、开启一个尚未实现的新文明奇迹的漫长旅程做好准备。去程十个月，在红色尘土上驻留数月，作为一个新时代的开端，再用十个看似无尽的月返回。这不过是距离与职责的简单方程。

当他们终于穿越地球大气层，在两年多后回到家园时，他们已经准备好迎接那些常被厌恶的游行、政策简报，以及历史性头条所带来的庄严重量。在每位宇航员的内心深处，也隐藏着一种渴望——渴望关注、渴望接触、渴望回归记忆中的正常生活。

然而，他们踏入的，却是一间婴儿房。

太空港——曾经那座由钢铁与伦理规范构成的巨型大教堂——如今被改造成柔软、梦幻的粉彩空间。互锁的安全垫铺满地面。所有看似尖锐的边角都被打磨、包裹。远处墙壁上，是一位著名幼儿园画家的壁画，描绘着微笑的卡通行星。

而前来迎接他们的官员——穿着印有NASA标志的围兜。

起初，机组成员以为这只是个恶作剧，也许是终极玩笑。但随后，“官员们”开始用押韵的歌谣说话，就像那些印在甜腻麦片盒上的文字——“适合所有年龄”。

议员们蹒跚走动，披着或抱着毯子，向父母讨要零花钱。说客们摇摇晃晃地靠近，偷走一些午餐钱。士兵们驾驶着粉彩塑料电动车飞驰而过，在由游乐场木屑构成的“欧洲战场”上发射泡沫飞镖，直到电池耗尽、泪水滑落。

宗教场所变成了嘉年华。奥运体育场如今是滚草坡比赛的草地，领奖台上摆着披萨。餐厅只供应手指食物，用塑料杯盛装，由机器人厨师准备；毕竟刀具“太危险”，早已根据政府的社会法令被收起锁好。

这并不是社会混乱，而是乌托邦政策。在他们离开的期间，安全文化发生了病态扩张——迅速而彻底。每一种风险被消除，每一处锋利被磨平，每一项责任被外包给机器。一旦“成年”本身被认定为不安全，社会便干脆选择将其抹去。

但宇航员们很快发现了更奇怪的事：人们不仅在表现得像孩子——他们还在庆祝这一点。

时尚变成了幼儿风。公寓被改造成充气游乐场。流行歌手用押韵的欢叫表演，他们的小丑演唱会像学龄前儿童的挥手儿歌。名字如“脏干净（Dirty Clean）”、“车车（Car Car）”、“便便（Poo Poo）”的明星统治着排行榜，供那些啃蜡笔、吃浆糊的“新成人”追捧。

一种围绕“退化”的狂热粉丝文化形成了，规模与热情丝毫不逊于任何大片系列。只不过，这里的信仰对象，是永久的婴儿状态。

有一个瞬间，将这种荒诞凝固下来。一位母亲蹲下，与她犯错的孩子平视。她穿着鲜艳的背带裤、卡通运动鞋，头发上夹着塑料发卡。她没有责骂孩子，而是倾泻出一连串复杂的成人词汇——密集、抽象的语句，对这个发展阶段的孩子来说根本无法理解。孩子茫然地看着她。而她却露出满意的笑容，确信自己尽了责任。这是没有意义的纪律，没有成长的引导。

后来，七位宇航员被邀请参加一场为他们举行的正式晚宴。乍看之下，这像是一场真正的宴会：长桌、餐具摆设、仪式般的安静。但白色桌布被换成了印有气球图案的防洒塑料布。酒杯消失了，取而代之的是色彩鲜艳的学饮杯。餐盘是分格的大号塑料托盘，像极了监狱里的配餐。

用餐过半，一位宇航员靠近另一位，低声问：“你为什么用手吃？”

她愣住了。黏稠的酱汁从她手指滴落。周围的人也都如此——用手抓取食物，狼吞虎咽，满嘴笑声。

她的眼中涌出泪水。她试图镇定自己，但泪珠还是滴落，落进她的字母汤里。细小的水花让其他人爆发出窃笑，然后是大笑，仿佛这是一个笑话的笑点。笑声在桌边回荡，气球图案在灯光下闪动。她愈发绝望，肩膀颤抖，几近啜泣。

那个提出问题的宇航员，也感到笑意在喉咙里升起——本能的、无法控制的。他在笑声出口前勉强止住，只剩下一声窒息般的呼吸。羞耻感涌上心头。他意识到，这种退化正在侵蚀他们，不仅是用餐方式，还有精神本身。

一阵寒意掠过众人，冻结了思绪。他们并非免疫。席卷地球的一切，正悄然侵入他们的心智。

他们意识到，必须返回火星——那是最后一个仍保有“成人”的地方。

但地球上已无人有能力将他们送回。每一位官员、技术人员、领导者，如今都成了精神上的孩子，永远停留在“该睡觉了”的状态。

至少，看起来是这样。

在发射设施中，隐藏在软垫门和粉彩标识之后，还有一个人。不是政客，也不是科学家，而是一个孩子——一个真正的孩子。她看着他们走来，眼神庄重低垂，带着一种远超年龄的阴郁与悲伤。

这个孩子不同。她的双腿由金属支架支撑，每一步都艰难而坚定。她的目光稳定，心智清醒，尽管身体脆弱。她残疾、易受伤害，却没有被席卷世界的幼态浪潮所腐蚀。

宇航员们在她身上，看到了脆弱，也看到了救赎的可能。在这个新世界里，只有孩子被信任承担责任。而只有一个曾经历如此困难的孩子，才能理解并承受选择的重量。

他们恳求逃离。

孩子倾听着。

然后微笑——温柔，几乎带着善意——仿佛在决定，是放他们离开……还是把他们永远哄入睡眠。

毕竟，这个世界如今如此温暖。如此柔软。如此舒适。

这个故事是我即将推出的闪小说集《毁灭法典》（Codex of Ruin）中的第一篇——一个关于奇异回归、宇宙回声，以及诡异遗物的循环合集。每一篇都是整本书中的碎片，在这里发布，作为即将到来的预览。

Home might be the strangest place of all. They left Earth as seven adults—vetted, trained, disciplined, and prepared for the long arc toward the as-yet-unrealized wonders of a new civilization on Mars. Ten months out, a few months on the red dust as the beginning of an epoch, then ten seemingly interminable months back. A simple equation of distance and duty.

When they finally descended through Earth’s atmosphere and returned home a little more than two years later, they braced for the often-loathed parades, policy briefings, and the solemn weight of historical headlines. Inside each of the astronauts, there was also a secret longing for the attention, the contact, and the return to their remembered normalcy.

Instead, they stepped into a nursery.

The spaceport, once a mega-cathedral of steel and ethical protocol, had been remade into something soft and dreamy in pastel. Interlocking safety mats covered the floors. All perceived sharp corners had been rounded and padded. A mural from a famous kindergarten artist of smiling cartoon planets stretched across the far wall.

And the officials waiting to greet them wore NASA bibs.

At first, the crew thought it was a prank. Maybe the ultimate joke. But then the “officials” began speaking in sing-song rhymes, the kind printed on candy-sweet cereal boxes labeled “safe for all ages.”

Parliamentarians toddled about, blankets around their shoulders or clutched in their arms, begging their parents for snack money. Lobbyists toddled over to steal some of the lunch money. Soldiers zoomed past in pastel plastic electric cars, firing foam darts across an imagined European battlefield of playground mulch until their batteries died and tears flowed.

Places of worship had become carnivals. Olympic stadiums were now grassy hills for rolling contests, with pizza on the podiums. Restaurants served only finger food with plastic cups prepared by robot chefs; knives, after all, were “too dangerous” and had been locked away as per governmental social edict.

It wasn’t societal chaos. It was utopian policy. Somewhere during their absence, safety culture had metastasized—swiftly, completely. Every risk eliminated, every sharp edge dulled, every responsibility outsourced to machines. And once adulthood itself was deemed unsafe, society simply chose to erase it.

But the astronauts soon noticed something far stranger. People weren’t just behaving like children—they were celebrating it.

Fashion had become toddler chic. Apartments were redesigned as bouncy air playlands. Pop stars squealed in rhyming delight, their clown concerts choreographed like preschool hand-waving sing-alongs. Stars with names like Dirty Clean, Car Car, and Poo Poo reigned the charts for crayon-chewing and paste-eating neo ‘dults.

A fandom had formed around regression itself, as fervent and sprawling as any built around a blockbuster franchise. Only here, the devotion was to permanent infancy.

One moment crystallized the absurdity. A mother crouched to her toddler’s level after he misbehaved. She wore bright overalls, cartoon sneakers, and plastic barrettes in her hair. Instead of scolding him, she unleashed a torrent of complex adult vocabulary—dense, abstract phrases the boy could never understand at his level of development. He stared blankly. She beamed, convinced she had acted responsibly. It was discipline without meaning, guidance without growth.

Later, the seven astronauts were invited to a formal dinner in their honor. At first glance, it resembled a true banquet: long tables, place settings, a ceremonial hush. But the white tablecloths had been replaced with plastic spill-proof covers patterned with balloons. Wine goblets were gone, replaced by brightly colored sippy cups. Plates were oversized plastic trays divided into compartments, much like those served in a penitentiary.

Halfway through the meal, one astronaut leaned toward another. “Why are you eating with your hands?” he whispered.

She froze. Sticky sauce dripped from her fingers. Around them, the others were doing the same, scooping food messily, laughing with mouths full.

The astronaut’s eyes filled with tears. She tried to steady herself, but the tears spilled, plinking into her alphabet soup. The tiny splashes made the others erupt in snickers, then laughter, as if it were the punchline to a joke. Their giggles echoed across the table, balloon patterns shimmering under the lights. She grew more desolate, shoulders trembling with the beginnings of a sob.

The astronaut who had whispered the question felt laughter rising in his own throat—instantive, helpless. He caught himself just as it escaped his mouth, the sound dying into a strangled breath. Shame washed over him. He felt the regression taking hold, not just in dining habits but in spirit.

A chill passed through the group that froze thought. They were not immune. Whatever had overtaken Earth was creeping into their own minds.

They realized they had to return to Mars, the last place where adulthood still existed.

But no one on Earth was capable of sending them back anymore. Every official, every technician, every leader was now a child in spirit, trapped in a permanent state of ready-for-bedtime.

Or so it seemed.

In the launch facility, hidden behind padded doors and pastel signage, one figure remained. Not a politician. Not a scientist. A child—an actual child—watching them approach with solemn eyes, lowered in a dark and mournful sadness that should be beyond a child’s years.

This child was different. Her legs were braced in metal supports, each step deliberate, hard-won. Her gaze was steady, her mind stable despite a fragile body. Disabled, vulnerable, yet uncorrupted by the infantile tide that had washed over the world.

The astronauts saw in this child both weakness and a hint of salvation. In this new world, only children were trusted with responsibility. And only a child who had already lived with such difficulty could understand and withstand the weight of choice.

They pleaded for escape.

The child listened.

Then smiled—softly, almost kindly—as if deciding whether to let them go… or tuck them in forever.

After all, the world was so warm now. So soft. So comfy.

____

This story is the first of several entries from my upcoming flash fiction collection, Codex of Ruin - a cycle of strange returns, cosmic echoes, and some very uncanny artifacts. Each piece is a fragment of a larger book, released here as a glimpse of what’s to come.

The Codex opens soon...