Tag Archives: historical fiction

Return of Jet Pack Chipmunk

Her name was Babette, and Jet Pack Chipmunk was done with her.

“You’re kicking me out?”

“I need my sleep, baby.”

Babette reached back to slap him, but Jet Pack Chipmunk caught her paw and threw her to the ground. She lay there, crying. “You’re just like them. You’re just like the humans!”

Jet Pack Chipmunk massaged his temples, trying to work the guilt out of his brain. He’d worked with humans, but he never wanted to be associated with them. “Just… just. Stay the night.”


“Yeah. But just for tonight. Us chipmunks gotta stick together. Right, babe?”

When Jet Pack Chipmunk woke up, she was gone. Along with everything else. The only thing left in the tiny loft was some shelves and his jet pack, all of which would probably have made too much noise for her to take. Jet Pack Chipmunk leaned over his nightstand, and put the rest of a bottle of cheap wine to his lips. Where would he go now? Even France had been taken over while he was gone and England was just as safe as Germany now. Was there any place free of war, violence, poverty, or deceit? Europe was a Hellhole and Jet Pack Chipmunk couldn’t help but feel like he could have done more.

He threw the empty wine bottle against the wall. It didn’t even shatter. He was tiny and weak. These fragile paws couldn’t do anything anymore. But they used to. He used to soar through the air like an eagle and gnaw out the eyeballs of discontent. “A chipmunk never runs with his tail between his legs,” he used to say, “mostly because his tail isn’t long enough!” What happened to him? Where did all that youth and cheek go?

Jet Pack Chipmunk looked at his jet pack, dusty from the months of disuse. He strapped it on his back, feeling the weight of it again. He braced his knees as if he could take off again, to feel that heat and weightlessness and the freedom of it all. But there wasn’t any jet fuel left, and there hadn’t been for some time. Jet Pack Chipmunk slumped to the ground, rubbing his paws over his eyes. There was a German military base close by, but it would be suicide to try to siphon fuel from the Blitzkrieg. Jet Pack Chipmunk finished rubbing his eyes and looked around the stripped room. He reached back and felt the cool steel of the jet pack. There wasn’t anything left for him here. The way Jet Pack Chipmunk saw it, there was only one choice from here on out.


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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XXII

Jet Pack Chipmunk

Jet Pack Chipmunk soared through the air like the fiery phoenix of lore, his goggles condensating from the cold of the upper atmosphere. Many years ago, a young Josef Mengele enjoyed experimenting on and dissecting small animals. Jet Pack Chipmunk’s entire family was killed and only he managed to escape. So, Jet Pack Chipmunk used his small body and jet pack propulsion to fly through the air, fighting the evils of the world.

Jet Pack Chipmunk hovered over a group of SS officers inspecting the Ravensbruck concentration camp, a Hellish place for women prisoners. Just in a week’s surveillance alone, he’d seen terrifying sights. Women worked to death like horses, newborn babies drowned in front of their mothers. Jet Pack Chipmunk had been hired by French intelligence to survey the place as a spy. After seeing what was being done here, Jet Pack Chipmunk couldn’t abide by just spying on the Nazis. He wanted to kill them.

It was a difficult plan for Jet Pack Chipmunk to carry out. He was small and could carry very little gelignite. As a result, he would have to make the placement of the explosive material count, and he would have to do it carefully. He would line the gel under the doorjambs so that they would explode when the doors were shut. In addition, he had individually wrapped gelignite and detonators to stick in the tail pipes. It wasn’t much, but it would likely do some damage. Merit points if he could get Dr. Rosenthal in the process.

Although it made him uncomfortable, Jet Pack Chipmunk had to tie the explosives to his chest, away from the jet pack itself. He had to fly low and quiet for this mission. He reached the vehicles, guarded by a few high-rank SS soldiers. He hid his jet pack in a nearby tree so he could come for it later. First, he began pushing the explosives into the tailpipes, using weaving under the cars for cover. The difficulty came in applying the gelignite to the doors without being detected. He had chewed a tongue depressor in half to apply the volatile jelly. He put a clump at the top, but the job took a meticulous amount of time and effort. He heard voices. He had planned for more time, but this would have to do.

Jet Pack Chipmunk scampered under the car, lighting his small, hand-rolled cigarette. He took a hit before moving on to the tailpipes. One of the SS soldiers smelled the air, looking around him. Jet Pack Chipmunk tried to hide behind a wheel, but the man must have seen the source of the smoke. His boots clumped against the ground toward the chipmunk. He leaned over gun pointed under the car. Just in time, Jet Pack Chipmunk had scurried around the wheel to avoid sight. He ran toward the next car for cover, dropping his cigarette on the ground.

Jet Pack Chipmunk smacked himself in the head. He darted back out to grab the cigarette and met eyes with the soldier.

“Die Backenhornchen!” the man shouted, pointing his rifle and firing at him.

Jet Pack Chipmunk knew he had to abandon the mission. He had set the jelly on one car and lit that and one other, but even worse he had alerted the Nazis as to his presence. He ran for the tree, bullets chasing his feet. Diving for the tree, he managed to escape the gunfire.

Jet Pack Chipmunk strapped on his jet pack and shot into the air, looking back to see the two small explosions. It was hard enough getting humans to trust him, being as he was only a chipmunk. Now, he wondered if the French would even rely on him at all for future missions. Jet Pack Chipmunk decided it would be best to lay low for a while, though it would be difficult with the deaths of those women and children weighing on his mind. One day, Jet Pack Chipmunk thought, he would avenge their deaths and the deaths of his family. But not today.

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XXII

Lord Reginald

“I appreciate your candor,” Reginald said, moving effortlessly with the gait of his prized stallion.

Juniper was still getting the hang of horseback riding, bouncing up and down on her mare. She was a little frightened when Reginald invited her out for a ride, but who was she to turn down the lord of the manor?

“I’m honored, Lord Reginald,” Juniper stammered. “I never found that Geoffrey to be a very trustworthy man. Why, the nerve of him to think that you are anything but a noble, upstanding and God-fearin’ man.”

“Don’t concern yourself with Geoffrey any longer. He’ll be leaving my services shortly. I cannot trust him with my accounts after hearing what you’ve had to say. What about you, Juniper? The garden looks lovely as always. So many delicate flowers, I almost feel remorse to pluck and smell one so immaculately cared for.”

“Oh, Lord Reginald,” Juniper giggled, “Ye needn’t worry about it. You can, um, pluck at any flowers that catch your fancy, being as they belong to you and all.”

Reginald smiled slyly. “When you put it that way, Juniper, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if you made an elegant centerpiece for dinner with the minister and his wife this Sunday. It would be a feather in my cap for the church to know I have such beautiful things in my manor.”

“Oh, but of course, my lord! I’ll have it ready by and by!”

Reginald laughed, sounding out his “ha”s and “hm”s. “No need to rush, though I will need to see a sample of the arrangement this evening after supper.”

“Of course, m’lord,” Juniper’s voice turned into an abashed whisper.

The two rounded up their steeds, Reginald’s white stallion and Juniper’s diminutive palomino, to the┬ástable boy. Juniper curtsied to Reginald and took her leave.

Reginald walked directly to Geoffrey’s office, not bothering to take the courtesy and knock on his door. He found the head butler, Peyton, who gladly used his master key to open Geoffrey’s office.

“Thank you, Peyton. If you would kindly wait outside until my business with Mr. Gibbs is completed?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Close the door behind me, good man.”

Reginald did not bother to see Peyton’s nod or subsequent closing of the door. Peyton was loyal and Reginald had more urgent business with Geoffrey Gibbs.

“Oh, Reginald! I’m quite busy right now, if you’d like to return…”

“Geoffrey, you know that door is not supposed to be locked until after you have left the office, eh, my good chap?”

“Oh, was it? I must be tired, lately. I seem to be forgetting myself.” Geoffrey’s forehead had the very base habit of sweating more than necessary.

“May I see your quill, Geoffrey?”

“Excuse me?” Geoffrey asked.

“The little feather on your desk? You dip it in ink and use it to write?” Reginald made a writing gesture with his hand.

“Oh. Of course, my lord,” Geoffrey said, offering the quill pen to Reginald, who plucked it from Geoffrey’s sweaty palms.

Reginald smoothed the ridges of the feather with his fingertips. “Such a fine tool, the quill. One can build empires with a quill these days. And this one, so sharp. I admire a man who takes care of his tools. You know that, Geoffrey?”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Reginal seized the tip of the quill and pried open Geoffrey’s right eyelid, ramming the pen into Geoffrey’s eyeball. Reginald pulled the chair so it turned perpendicular to the desk and tossed Geoffrey backwards onto the floor. Throwing the bloody feather aside, Reginald began kicking and stomping the man’s wounded head.

“How dare you? How dare you slander my good name and plan to leave with my money and my employee! You, you onerous cur!”

Though the sole of Reginald’s boot was leaving Geoffrey’s face rather bloody, it wasn’t quite doing the job, not to mention squashing a man’s head took much more energy than squishing a cricket. Reginald looked to the desk and saw the brass candelabra Geoffrey used to work late at night. He seized it and turned to the bloodied Geoffrey, now trying to crawl across the floor. It only took a few more good whacks before Reginald had caved in Geoffrey’s low brow. He threw aside the candelabra, collected himself and walked back to the door.

“Peyton,” he panted.

“Yes, Lord Reginald?”

“Geoffrey will no longer be under my employment. See that he leaves without making a large fuss.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Oh, and Peyton. I’ll be needing a replacement pair of boots as well. There’s a good chap.”

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XXII