“So… What do you think? Fantastic right?” her eyes sparkling, contemplating the magazine, then facing me.
With nothing better on mind I just throw a “Truly Fantastic!” at her.
Friday Flash Fiction |
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Look at her there, with that ridiculous cord phone to her ear, pretending to talk to who knows who, maybe some dimwit she'll see later at night. Her smile as affected as her flowered blouse, who wears that on the beach nowadays? Or even worse, who has a damn phone on the beach? That’s right, she is on the beach, lying under an umbrella that protects her from the raging sun.
“So… What do you think? Fantastic right?” her eyes sparkling, contemplating the magazine, then facing me. With nothing better on mind I just throw a “Truly Fantastic!” at her. I was at Café-Coffee-Day stewing in my own juices when I couldn’t help overhearing a conversation on weightier matters between two people.
“Working on your survival strategy demands such a heavy price.” “What do you mean?” “I found a way to exorcise the ghost of my hardscrabble childhood by pouring paint on the canvas. But building your skill-set all alone has its fallout.” “Like?” “One’s often taken for a ride here-there-and-elsewhere. At home it’s all eat-drink-and-be-merry. It seems one’s an also-ran both in the art studio and off it.” The moment my eyes fell on the gentleman, he stopped talking. “The wood-chipper, while ordinarily a banal method of disposal, was used in an inspired and unorthodox manner during the assignment. Several participants exhibited dismay, but such is always to be expected from those assigned to less advantageous roles within the happening. Situating the wood-chipper at the bay’s edge was esthetic as well as efficient: the waters roiled with the schools of bait-fish ingesting the ejected chum, and the rising sun reflecting off the otherwise glassy seas provided a marvelous ‘last look’ for those further down the line awaiting their turn. But we were so young, then. Ah, memories of youth!”
The villagers try to avoid the old lady, ‘the witch’, while going on important business. She’s a bad omen, they believe.
As I rush out to catch the bus, there she is, coming right against me. No time go back. I’m just in time. The bus arrives, over-crowded, and speeds away without stopping. The witch wins again. I settle down, waiting for the next bus, an hour hence. I doze off. My cell phone wakes me up. It’s my wife. Frantic. I explain. “Thank God you missed that bus. It met with a serious accident.” “No; thank the witch”. At long last, it was over. The pandemic of a lifetime, a scourge for the ages, hell on Earth. It paralyzed us. It separated us. It ravaged us.
We hadn’t seen it coming. We weren’t ready. When it hit, we scrambled, not knowing what to do. Some panicked. Some ignored it. Some said it would pass quickly. But the virus lingered and took millions. Now, at last, it was over. We began to absorb the tough lessons so that, if something like this were to strike again, we would know what to do. Happily, it was a new year: 1921. Hi Soph, hope you can read my scrawl. Finally living my gypsy dream in a bungalow-on-a budget. Farmers here so friendly, like their sheepdogs. Taking daily dips in the streams and rivers, longer walks along the coastline. Enjoying the break from D, was time, had to be done. I just left. Took my typewriter, kettle, books, but left his precious sandwich-maker (might regret that). Weather not great so far, curiously loving the rain. All so cosy. Come visit. Bring wellies, swimsuit. Summer sure to be fantastic. Send news. Have cut off all other contact. You know where I am. X
It seemed like a peaceful day.
The sun was slowly rising above the mountains, the birds chirping, the flowers blooming. Everything was peaceful, until a single letter changed his life. He looked panicked as he read the letter, hand trembling. Though it was a simple string of words, he knew exactly what it meant. He rushed around the room, getting things he’d need. He knew he wouldn’t be coming back. He ran out the door, not even glancing back at the scenery behind him. The letter was still on his desk, left open. It said three words. “Run. They’re coming.” Scarily, this was submitted almost on the stroke of midnight... The ancient cottage is warm even though it’s close to midnight. A glimmer of a lamp in the corner does little to shed light to my surroundings.
Creak… My head swings around to look at the door. It moves not at all. “Who’s there?” I call. No answer was the stern reply. Must be the beams, settling back as the room cools a little. I return my attention to the even dimmer light in front of me, listening to the tip-tap, tip-tap echoing in the otherwise silent gloom. “Get a grip and write the story,” I mutter. “Flash-fiction deadline awaits.” Alex had been throwing tiny mud balls at her brother's head for quite some time. At this range they were tricky shots but she'd perfected the flick of her wrist that sent pellets skimming towards their target.
“Plonk”, she bit her lip in delight. Right in the brim. He was ignoring her, more fool him, because this could only end one way. It was just a question of how many times she got him before he went absolutely berserk. She grinned, imagining his fists raining down as she shrieked and laughed in victory. Squinting, she took careful, joyous aim. I stopped writing New Year resolutions long ago. Too many ideas sounding promising on the final night of the previous year only to be shattered or forgotten well before January ran its course.
But this year I’ll try again; perhaps inspired by the comment from he-who-sits-in-the-brown-velvet-recliner, who said my scones were ‘doughy’! Admittedly, my scones often resemble bricks, but these were okay, and definitely not doughy. This year I’ll shoot first and ask questions later. Or throw my next batch of bricks at him. I doubt Mr Masterchef will make it through January. Clary’s favourite game was making phrases from letters on licence plates.
Some examples the family produced on recent trips: ABC equals All Bulls Charge BCD is Before Christmas Dinner CAR becomes Customer Always Right During the holidays, they drove to Robe when son Jonathan yelled, “Xylophones You Zap.” Clary glanced in the rear-vision mirror. “What?” “XYZ makes Xylophones You Zap.” Clary conceded that was good. He responded, “XYZ is for Xavier’s Yellow Zebra.” “Who’s seen a yellow zebra?” “I don’t know? Maybe someone painted one.” “Really?” Clary admitted it was a stretch. His son had won. The capers in my chicken piccata tasted suspect after I noticed a rat glaring at my meal from the middle of our dining booth. Shelia, my date, defensively grabbed her steak knife.
“Sir. Can I get you something else?” a passing waiter asked. “Yes, an exterminator!” I replied, pointing at the vermin. “No worries,” he assured. “My pet, knows he shouldn’t leave my apron until closing time.” The rat jumped off my booth, scrambled across Shelia’s plate, and leaped into the waiter’s open pocket. “Your dinners are on me,” he winked, admonishing Stu. “No need to contact the Health Department!” “Well, look what the cat just dragged in! Where have you been the last two days?” Jessica asks.
“The boys and I decided to take a brief timeout. We went hunting.” Paul answers. “I will be right back; I need to empty the truck.” “Did you have any luck?” “No, no luck. But we did have a great time.” Before Paul could walk out to the garage, the doorbell rings. Jessica opens the door and sees two men standing on the porch. “This is the FBI. Is Paul Richards here? We need to talk with him about his trip to DC.” You could disable the automatic garage door opener by pulling on a small cord attached to the main unit. Bryan needed to disable it because the door had malfunctioned.
He stood on his toes to reach the cord and pulled with all his force. The cord snapped and sent him tumbling – on his back – to the floor. Funny how it works, though. During the fall, which lasted less than a second, Bryan had many thoughts: how he could break a bone or worse, who would find him, and even of the crow squawking nearby. The damn bird never shut up. Audrey packs her kids into the Humvee and heads toward the smoke. There’s been a pileup on the freeway. She takes a video game in case the kids get bored by the spectacle of burned flesh. When the excitement is over, she comes home and turns on the TV to learn the latest body count in our perpetual wars. The evening news puts her on the frontlines. Later when the kids are in bed, she watches a Tarantino film on Netflix. And afterwards, a murder mystery helps her fall asleep. It looks to be another quiet evening in the neighborhood.
Blond hair, blue eyes. Perfect, the director decides.
“June, show this young actor around.” As they tour the studio, the actress cast as the 7-year-old’s TV mom whispers, “He likes you.” But this set is different from what the aspiring Timmy saw in the 1950s reruns he watched: Bunkers, no barn. Lots of barbed wire. Inside the house a painting of an X, ends bent at right angles. Also a red flag with a blue X and stars. “I don’t understand,” the boy says. The actress sighs. “A man who once was president bought the studio and show. Everything’s changing.” He had humored her silly theories for years before that afternoon, but the garden incident marked the end of his tolerance.
“It’s simple bio-acoustics,” she said as they weeded the beds. “Sound travels very efficiently through soil, and plants can hear everything around them. Bees buzzing, the wind, even their neighbor plants. Plants thrive with peaceful sounds, while sounds of aggression poison them.” “Like most of your theories,” he said, “that is pure drivel!” Red-faced, huffy and angry, he pushed her aside and walked back into the house. The next day, all her petunias, roses, daisies and violets were dead. “I feel like a real lady walkin’ along wiv a toff in a top hat,” Bertha simpers. “Where’re we goin?” She wonders down which dark alley she’ll earn her fourpenny fuck.
One hand forcefully pins her against a wall, his breath guttural, eyes glittering with anticipation. The other reaches deep into the pocket of his dress coat. “What’s yer name, Mister?” He slices into her words, the razor sharp knife glistening wet in the moonlight before his bloodied hands roam up inside her voluminous skirt. “Jack’s the name Bertha,” he tells her prone body before strolling back down Whitechapel Road. So sad, Nancy thought, watching the two of them interact. In truth, it was just Greg doggedly trying to connect with Horace. When she married Greg ten years ago, Horace was vibrant and alert. But now, most days, poor Horace didn’t recognize either of them. Doc had prescribed a Prozac clone for his anxiety. But Horace still wandered around the house listlessly, seemingly looking for something familiar.
At their last appointment, Doc, the vet, said, “Horace is going on 15 years. That’s pretty old for that breed of dog. Try to protect him like he protected you all those years.” “I didn’t mean to killer her. She wasn’t my prey,” the killer muses. “She burst into my game, uninvited. What was I supposed to do?” The killer paces around the crimson room, candle light flickers against the brick walls. Licking its lips, the killer steps closer to the lifeless woman, “You shouldn’t have come. You should have stayed away.”
Rubbing its hands together, the killer moves closer to the victim’s body, “I tried to let you go.” “Oh, the rush of beating your head in with my hammer,” licking her blood from its fingers, causes tantalizing shivers through him. It is amazing how the mind can impact one’s personality. Not much is known about Perkin Warbeck in the historical sense. This story takes place during the Wars of the Roses, but the actual battle depicted is that between fantasy and reality. The images seen in the mind cannot always be explained. Finally, the white rose represented the House of York, while the red rose connected to the House of Lancaster. Still, it is possible to ask if a red rose, which suggests passion and desire, can overpower the white rose, which symbolizes purity and sense, from a literary standpoint.
He was no thief but his family was hungry; he'd got laid off work months ago--broke with no way out.
The house was unoccupied, the family on vacation. They probably had lots of food put away. An old dog followed him as he broke in. He loaded up in the kitchen, but slipped on something and fell. He was hurting bad, couldn't move at all. The old dog came closer, after the food he dropped. He hollered but nobody came. The dog began to eat: the last thing he would ever see. At least the dog wouldn't go hungry. A tiny room? A cell? I'm scratching at walls marred with cracks.
How long has it been? A day? A week? "Let me out!" I screech. The door swings open. Through long strands of hair, I see what looks like a man. He has something in his hand. He's coming toward me. "No…." I crouch in a corner. Spinning, spinning, the room is spinning. Then silence. Hours later, I awake. Sweat is pouring out of me. The withdrawal is over. Unfurling her ribbons she coils them around a colourless, dried out prune; Planet Earth, abandoned long ago by its human species to the devastation of global warming.
She daubs it in a coat of purple Rains down oceans of dark blue Girdles it with a firmament of pastel blue Plants a dense foliage of green Warms it beneath a sphere of yellow Waits for unborn souls to wonder at sunrise and sunsets of orange and red The rainbow prays her colours will edify the new Planet Earth to seek an alternative pot of gold at her ribbon’s end… environmental awareness. It’s an urban legend, I’m sure.
1982. Beach bum panhandler. Finds an old typewriter in the trash. Trades in the beer cans he picks out of the trash to get cash, gets a cheap ream of paper. Writes the book of the year and Disney options the rights. Suddenly, he’s a Hollywood celebrity of the week. It’s the kind of thing you want to believe happens. Kind of thing that could happen to you. Something to think about as you’re writing in that notebook From the dollar store with the three for a buck pens. Leave all this behind. |
"Classic"
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