Tag Archive for: Chris Clemens

Extreme Cooking Elimination Challenge

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by Chris Clemens

I’ve been here before. Chloroformed. Abducted. Shivering in a mystery kitchen, somewhere without extradition laws. Chopping peppers with shaky hands. Serving up inventive dishes using shark steak, canned cat food, polystyrene bricks. Watched by millions on encrypted livestream, probably because the losing chef gets beheaded.

Finals. Blindfold off. It’s infamous Chef Miko, twirling her knives. Michelin stars disgraced. She’s roasted seal pups. Fried human livers.

Miko smirks, but I chose the secret ingredient this time. No limits.

Silver cloches rise. Miko’s eyes widen at the plattered heads and desiccated flesh. She sobs once, softly. Our secret ingredient:

My opponent’s family.

 

Chris Clemens

Chris Clemens lives in Toronto, surrounded by raccoons. His stories have appeared in Invisible City Lit, Apex Magazine, and elsewhere.

Immortal Investment

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by Chris Clemens

“Last chance. Are we completely sure he’d want this?”

“His will is clear: immediate resurrection. Mr Kocher spent a fortune on this nekronomi-whatever book. Careful, the cover’s falling apart.”

“It’s just… LOOK at him.”

“I won’t. It’s gross. Now start chanting!”

Hissing forbidden syllables, the assistants shuffled around concentric pentagrams they’d etched on the runway tarmac. Dark energy sizzled through the private jet, converging beneath the dripping turbofan engine where the regrettable fatality had occurred.

Deep within the crimson pile of shredded slurry that had once been billionaire Reginald Kocher, a wet orifice resembling a mouth began to scream.

 

Chris Clemens

Chris Clemens lives in Toronto, surrounded by raccoons. His stories have appeared in Invisible City Lit, Apex Magazine, and elsewhere.

Spores on the Wind

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by Chris Clemens

When the mushroom sickness takes over, you’re conscious for a while. Awake. Paralysed. There’s a frantic back-and-forth while it seizes control of your muscles, puppeting limbs like an unfamiliar vehicle. Convulsions on the kitchen floor. If you’re lucky, loved ones will find and kill you.

If not, you might watch yourself vomiting fungal mould into your toddler’s Cheerios, stirring in the mess before anyone wakes up. Bones snapping, you’ll contort impossibly through neighbours’ crawlspaces and vents, retching out cinereous spores. You’ll shudder at the cunning of this alien intelligence dominating your body. At least the mushrooms can’t stop your tears.

 

Chris Clemens

Chris Clemens teaches courses about popular/digital culture in Toronto, where he lives with his wonderful family. His flash fiction has appeared in Invisible City Lit, Apex Magazine, and elsewhere.

YEAR FIVE

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