Doug Koziol is a Flash in the Pan

This is a home for my daily flash fiction.

Questionable Tinder “About Me”s:

  • If you can’t cite Hegel’s influence on the oeuvre of Ingmar Bergman, swipe left!
  • I’ve already told you: the only way to a woman’s heart is along the path of torment. I know none other as sure.” - Marquis de Sade
  • DeVry ‘18
  • Instagram: @philspector_superfan
  • If you have a picture with any sort of carcass, I’m guaranteed to swipe right!
  • 8======D~
  • Settlers of Catan players only!
  • Lover of travel … magazines
  • I’ve watched Antichrist a million times lol
  • I’m REALLY into horses

The Catman

*Several weeks back, I entered a writing contest in which the subject was “kissing.” So I wrote a short story about Peter Criss of KISS. It probably won’t win (I’m not saying it’s not a good story though), so here it is:

The Catman surveys his audience as he has done countless times before. For once, they are not obfuscated by a blinding, artificial light but rather adorned with the amber glint of the mid-afternoon sun that was able to sneak through the flimsy plastic blinds. Cross-legged on the rainbow rug; leaning forward, backs at a 70° angle; hands knotted together; mouths slightly agape; eyes wide like boulder marbles, scanning him and his kit but mostly him—they demonstrate an unadulterated willingness to listen that only a child between the ages of six and ten can possess, a willingness that he can’t for the life of him remember having.

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The End is Built Into the Beginning


I wrote something about Philip Seymour Hoffman. I know it sounds maudlin, but I am still struggling with his death and writing about it helped a little bit. 

A Rant Against the Police (Rejected Thought Catalog Submission)

(Periodically, I come up with bits that I find funny for all of 20 minutes. Naturally, I send every asinine one to Thought Catalog. One even got published. This one didn’t for reasons beyond me.)

A Rant Against the Police

As the title implies, this is a rant, and as is the nature of such things, it is slightly all over the place. If you are feeling up to it, continue on, but please don’t say I didn’t warn you. Some will view this as controversial, but most important pieces of writing are. This is something that has got me heated up, and I think the world needs to hear about it.

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‘I assume you nodding is a signal to begin? If we’re being completely candid here, I would not be opposed to another glass of water. Am I pushing my luck? I take it I’m pushing my luck.

‘Sorry. Was clearing my throat bad form? I know it’s somewhat cliché, but I honest-to-god had something tickling back there, which I do think the aforementioned glass of water might have remedied but no worries.

Where to begin? Where to begin? I swear to you on my first dog’s grave that I am not stalling; I genuinely do not know where to begin.

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An Interview with Antoine Woodrow

This interview was conducted by Timothy Page for the November 2008 issue of Movie Magazine.

Your three previous films—Real Cold, Ships and Lights, I Dare You—seem to follow the same kind of internal logic. And now I get the impression you have arrived at a new destination with Ghost Cat. And while it does in fact deal with cats, it also has a lot to say about us as people, as well.

Honestly, it’s a little too soon for me to talk about the film. It’s still so fresh in my mind that I can’t look back at it with any kind of objective lens. But I will say that with this film, I was much more concerned with finding my way toward a truly detached point of view. Yes, the protagonist does find herself haunted by the ghost of her last pet, but I think it’s a little too easy to say that this creature is inherently evil. I think there’s a kind of beauty in the way it attaches itself, often times literally, to it’s former owner, and you can sense that in the way I shot the ghost cat’s movements.

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A.M. Monster

Hood pulled tight over matted fur, fanged teeth chattering at a rapid clip in the November chill, tail writhing and rubbed raw tucked inside jeans, clawed feet puncturing rubber soles with each step, he, or IT rather, makes its way through city streets packed with hopefully unsuspecting pedestrians toward its personal Mecca, the home of that bitter elixir that can shatter this wretched form.

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The Truth

“Here, lift your head up … mostly because you’re getting snot all over my sweatshirt.”

Grotesque sniffling.

“That’s better. Now, which would you prefer: hot fudge sundaes or nachos?”

Indiscernible moaning.

“That’s what I thought. Sundaes it is then. We don’t have any actual hot fudge; that was kind of a lie. But we do have Hershey’s syrup, and it’s pretty close. Are you going to want sprinkles? You know what, I’ll just go ahead and load them on because you’ve had a rough day.”

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The Evolution of the Eyes

            The Arthur Miller Middle School Projection Room is usually always empty, as little-to-no 10-12 year-olds voluntarily spend any more time after school than necessary. John is of course an exception and clocks in on average about 20 hours a week watching footage of last week’s game. The only two items he brings are a mechanical pencil and a Mead notebook, which’s binding has been coming undone for the past month but is so crammed with important notes that he can’t begin to think about replacing it.

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