Thimple and Wimple looked at the gaping wounds left on the long-limbed Aloe. Four of her eight robust branches had been slashed, broken, and left to dangle as they bled out. Thin wisps of transparent gel hung low just above the dry earth. All the edges were crumpled now and tinged with rotted brown. 

“I’m so sorry,” Thimple said as he cupped underside of a wounded branch. He could feel its pain. “I don’t understand why they do it.”

Wimple sighed. “It is how they reason.”

Thimple shook his head. “Old Oak says they’re into self-annihilation. Imagine that! It’s insane.”

The engine droned and insects hit the truck’s windshield in the dark. Lucy had fallen asleep two hours back but woke up as the sun began rising somewhere over the South Dakota side of the two lane. Justin kept it at the speed limit even though they were all alone, surrounded by a rolling sandy expanse with no fences, trees, or houses in sight—no indication anyone owned any of it. 

“Lucy, do you read a lot?”

“Yeah, how come?”

“My sister reads; she wears glasses, too.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister. I’m hungry.”

“Next town’s forty-fifty miles.”

The doctors and nurses have all been led outside the tent by the Japanese; we, the wounded, are left to wonder inside.

Suddenly there's a long burst of machine-gun fire, followed by a silence, then some Japanese shouting.

Then another brief silence.

Suddenly the machine gun is strafing our tent we dive below most of us too late but not me thank God.

Silence.

A Japanese soldier enters the tent, searching for the living. Bullet to the head each time. I play dead.

Six of us escape under cover of darkness later.

I suppose our side does bad stuff too. 

I watched him lope into Pierrot’s. Tall, good shoulders, trim hips, the beginning of a nice little belly. Liked what I saw! Hoped he would, too.

Approaching my table, he quirked a smile.

“Samantha?” he said.

I looked around quickly, before my face could fall.

Sure enough, there was Sama, along the wall.

“No, you want my twin,” I said. “Back there.”

He had the grace to flush slightly. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

“That’s all right – one of the downsides of being a twin,” I said.

“I know,” he smiled, as he glanced at the door. “Here’s mine now.” 

Exasperated, Len let off some steam by writing a sudden rush of flash fiction stories, each of which took the form of converations with his children or grandchildren. We've grouped them all together here.

I

“Sorry kids, tonight’s story will be fiery, because I’ve just received an Email from the publisher saying he is no longer going to publish our stories.”
“What, didn’t he say he’d already printed them and would present them at book meetings,” said Pete? “
“Does that mean no story tonight,” said Andy?
“Yes, to you P and no to your A.”
“Goody, then Claudia and I haven’t come over for nothing,” said Audrey.
“Remember, you promised to tell us a naughty one based on Eric’s FFF, Mom’s out tonight so won’t know,” piped Henry
“Good idea H, but where’s Hannah and Dani?”

II

“Kids, Johnson must be crazy because I really enjoyed my time with those women for hire. They were a group of delightful girls busy with a variety of different projects.”
“Projects - what do you mean?”
“Lassie M comes from a wealthy family, now in hard times. Her dad fell into the trap of internet swindlers, and since she had not finished her studies at the University of Edinburgh she joined this group of women-for-hire so that she could finish these. It pays well.”
“Doesn’t that make her a prostitute?”
“You decide, your sister might have to join the group.” 

III

“Dad, here’s another Email from Al Gore about joining Climate Reality.”
“Same ole same, I suppose.”
“Dad! According to Neil deGrasse Tyson in ‘Cosmos’ the build-up of carbon dioxide in our atmosphere caused by heavy use of fossil fuels is real.”
‘My dear daughter you might be right but life is so easy for us oldies using fossils it’s hard for us to change. What about those circulating Emails telling us that more comes from one spouting volcano than we produce using fossil fuels.”
“Come on Dad, you a scientist knows better. Think of your great-grandchildren if not us and our kids.” 

“I’m very sorry, sir,” said the librarian, “but you can’t actually borrow books unless you upgrade your members’ status to Premium…”

I stared at her blankly. She stared at me, but with something like contrition filtering out from behind her glasses.

“I’m afraid it’s the new policy, sir.”

It wasn’t her fault, of course, I understood, and I wondered how many times she’d had this selfsame conversation that day.

“Well, okay,” I said, “I suppose I can still read here, can’t I?”

She smiled.

“Of course, sir…”

Her glasses glinted apologetically.

“But you’ll have to upgrade to Reader status first.”

The rain drops splashed against the closed window pane, demanding to be let in. "We've come a long way," they seemed to be saying, "let us in."

Lucy sighed as she watched each drop. There had to be a way. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind an idea slowly formed. "What if...?"

A harsh voice interrupted her thoughts, "Get down here right this minute, you lazy child! Your mother must be turning in her grave."

Lucy didn't answer but she knew it was time. Climbing onto the stool she reached up, opened the window and felt the rain.

We three little boys, age 7, 5 and 3 were roguishly alone at the fun-fare on the Durban beach-front, South Africa, with Mom sick in bed. We were somewhat startled by a screeching siren and lights out followed by shouts of get down there’s a German sub at harbor entrance as depth charges made rumbling noises out to sea. In the chaos Age 7 disappeared into the darkness leaving Age 3 and me alone. We held hands and wandered in the direction we thought right, not scared, but an adventure. We were farmers kids and didn’t know what real war was; only that in stories.

Rapper Jay B hired me because I'm the best in the business . . .

If you've got a super yacht, I’m your man. Yachting skills aside, there are other qualifications you need for this job. If the ladies are out on deck in their bikinis, you want to ensure they have their privacy. What if they want an all-over tan?

Then there is storage. The super rich like their champagne perfect and they will never settle for warm booze.

Finally, the rich need to shit too. Too much champagne can do that to a body, so you definitely need to know the best ways of getting rid of poop and loads of it.


*Thanks to Ed Robinson for the title of this story, and thanks to Wikipedia for the pic. In the interests of full disclosure, I admit this story is longer than 100 words. Tsk!

It looked like a turtle.

It might, she thought, even be a turtle.

But turtles’ shells didn’t glow around the edges.

The turtle turned its head toward her. A small head appeared in the turtle’s right eye. The head turned to look behind itself. A tiny hand waved. A second head popped into the left eye. The heads turned toward each other. The hands gestured.
The turtle’s head and tail disappeared. Its legs went stiff. The glow intensified; blue mist shot from the feet. The turtle angled into the air and disappeared. But on the ground there was an egg 

They each made up a one-person team. 

Larry was faded, undernourished and fond of whisky. He usually ran last. One night, he shocked everyone by winning a bonus round based on the periodic table. 

Louise wore cork heels, skimpy sarongs and a different wig every week. She started the night brandishing her Tom Collins at the screen showing the dogs running at Dapto. In the flash karaoke round, she sang like Julie London.

For five weeks they pooled resources, huddled and giggling like kids. It was sweet.

Last Wednesday, Larry sat alone. No one felt like asking what had happened.

“Welcome to Camp Asteroid! I’m your counselor, John. Ready to go?”

Tony sighed. “You mean a week of hearing people blab about planets and meteors?” he asked sarcastically. “Ooh--hold me back.”

John smiled, gesturing over his shoulder.

Tony saw a sign saying “Space shuttle boarding this way” down the hall. He looked questioningly at his counselor.

“That’s right,” John said. “Forget planet Earth. You’ll be traveling through space for a week.”

Tony’s eyes popped. Then he broke into a devilish grin. “Not enough postcards in the world,” he thought.

In his teens and early twenties, Johnson had several impersonal encounters with women for hire without any desire or satisfaction being generated. But later, after reading Walt Whitman and Henry Miller, he began regarding prostitutes as people with personalities and problems like everyone else. He’d always avoided viewing them as such—perhaps stemming from an incident where he paid more than the price agreed to, including all the money in his wallet. One feels no guilt or hypocrisy making an everyday purchase while failing to contemplate the cashier’s personhood still, with prostitutes it differs—or so he’d come to believe. 

One day, Dorothy, a scarecrow, a lion, a tiger, a dragon, a bear, a serpent, a robot, a monkey and an ocelot were skipping down the Yellow Brick Road. The “Welcome to Oz” sign stopped them short. Round the next bend was a tumbledown shack, its weathered “Wizard’s Bar” sign hanging askew.

Dorothy looked at her little band. They looked decidedly thirsty.

So Dorothy, the scarecrow, the lion, the tiger, the dragon, the bear, the serpent, the robot, the monkey and the ocelot the all walked into the bar.

The bartender, looking up at them, said: “Is this a joke?”

Exhausted, Lori put the last of the blue plastic containers in the old 4-drawer night stand. Bare essentials. Admissions had been careful to answer all the family's 100 questions. Yet with all the questions and great sounding answers they knew it would only amount to rehab, 3 meals a day, comfortable bedding and the sun streaming in the window each morning. They kissed and hugged. Using her weak hand, Myrna, Lori' sister, waved goodbye. "Do all they say. Work hard. Keep a stiff upper lip and I'll call later," Lori said. All was forgiven. Each reconciled that the day had finally come when the family had to leave Myrna in the Nursing Home. 

Mr. Jones repaired to the drawing room after dinner to read the Wall Street Journal when squealing noise began emanating from the laundry room. As the decibels increased, he called to Mrs. Jones in alarm. 

“Helen, what the hell is that noise?”

Just as he uttered this crude interrogatory, the noise stopped and Mrs. Jones stood before him.

“Let’s get two things straight, Bill. First, my name isn’t Helen; second, your filthy language isn’t appreciated.”

The husband scanned his memory to ascertain his mistakes and miscues. 

“Aha,” he thought, as her records popped up, “there seems to be a problem.”

His wife’s death changed Johnson's outlook. He chewed but didn't taste his food, and he stared balefully and too long into the eyes of strangers on buses. Alternately, he looked at the floor or at his hands—are these hands mine, am I me, am I alive? His work didn’t suffer, although, some colleagues noted that his attitude seemed less upbeat than before, which is to say that what was once a melancholy love song had become a dirge. Why, he wondered, does the period of mourning approximate the period of courtship—symmetrical time buffers surrounding the marriage itself?

“Tell your side before the lawyer gets here. We can still do something for you.”

Justin stared. No cop’d ever done anything for him. He’d assaulted the trailer park manager right enough, but they weren't interested in that. Now they wanted to hang some store holdup on him.

“I have coffee and maybe some jerky?” They brought him coffee burnt up with sludge in the bottom.

“Brewed fresh last Monday.” The Sherriff laughed.

Justin couldn’t help himself. “No jerky? I ever settle down here, you just lost my vote, Sherriff.”

The troopers closed in, making sure he was still cuffed. 

More on the golfing theme...

Two down and two to play, and I too smiled when my opponent faded his ball to the right. Not into the bunker but over it into the water. We were playing a medal game, so at the end of that hole we were all square. That pleasant happening though was short lived. On the last hole, both our drives were down and on the fairway. He played first and was just off the green. I again smiled and steered my shot towards the green; well only in my mind, it was a shank - that dreaded word, I lost.


Later, he added this slightly longer one, which he maintains is true. Perhaps the names have been changed...

Len was on the putting green early, because his partners were turning their heads when he putted. Yet practicing for a whole hour was no cure. He had a game with his Oz mates and Gordon, the Scot, in Australia. Sadly every practice putt was one - in 'serf efrica' it's called 'the yips' - the "nice'"Ozzies just say don't Len putt. The game was on and by the time the 18th came Len already had 49 putts. Len had told the others about the Scot's word's for the forbidden word. Gordon was leading and had a 7 iron to the18th, The "nice" Ozzies in unison said - Hey Gordon, I hear you call it "sh-sh-short slice". Gorden did. One "nice" Ozzzie then had a 5-foot putt to win. Gordon chirped - don't do a Len. He did, and they tied the game. Two tie all tie. Len's 52 putts put him last and cost him the first round at the 19th. No guys we don't stop at one in Oz

She had stalked from the outpatient surgery center, one-size-fits-none gown flapping in back, in disgust at their repeated tries to insert an IV in her “difficult” veins.

Now she was going back. Taking a proactive approach, she called the day before to speak with the anesthesiologist.

She told a cheerful, friendly woman named Sally Lee about the unsuccessful attempts, asking that an expert be assigned and equipped with the proper materials.
“Oh, I’ll do it myself,” said Sally Lee. “I love to do IVs.”

The patient shuddered. Could that mean Sally Lee likes to repeat them? 

The talisman Jo had given him that morning seemed to be working. Mitch was two up, and standing on the 16th had a chance to close out the game. 

He withdrew his club, gave the head cover a rub and took his honour. It was a long par 3, with a gully to the left and a deep bunker to the right. His ball soared to the green, pretty close. His opponent’s ball faded into the trap.

He smiled as he slipped the bright purple dragon’s head back onto his driver. Its silken tongue of flame waved in the breeze.

Arlene gazes at the skies. "It's going to be a beautiful day," she says.

Her boyfriend Rab, a dour Scot, grunts, "Aye, right."

Arlene's confused. "Isn't that an oxymoron, Robert? You said 'yes' twice." She's not Scottish and understands neither it's people nor its language.

"No, it's just an oxy, it's not a moron. 'Aye right' means no."

Suddenly the heavens open. Arlene seems sure to get soaked, but miraculously Rab produces an umbrella big enough for them both.

"I love you," she says, gazing at him, "but I'll never understand you."

"You'll never understand the weather either, will you?" 

The pupil waited. The moment had not yet come to ask questions. Eventually, the guru looked up: a signal.

"Guru," the pupil intoned, "I seek guidance. Can you foretell the future?"

"I see two things," the guru replied.

"What are they?"

"It."

"It? You said 'two'."

"I see two, but I see them one at a time," the guru explained. "Firstly, I see that it'll rain." Dark clouds rolled overhead.

"Ah," said the pupil. "Guru, you're so wise. What's the second thing?"

There was a bolt of lightning; end of guru.

"Ah," said the pupil, "that was the second thing." 

This poem by Marlene may be neither fiction nor in the normal prose form, but so what...

My hubby I call grizzly
He growls a lot but means well
He likes a tidy house
I could care less
He does the dishes
Lately without complaining
Even if they’re piling high
I do the laundry
No damage there to manicure.
He loves to drive
So he takes me to the bus to work
Or when I return, carries my heavy bags.
How he reminds me of my late Dad
Both never got a degree.
So I have more than two degrees, big deal, they’re not much help financially.
I could’ve married a teacher
I’d have been much poorer. 

The Master heaved a sigh and favoured the boy with a long-suffering look. This boy could be very tiresome sometimes, he thought.

“If it looks like a duck, sounds like a duck, and walks like a duck, then it most probably is a duck, don’t you agree?”

The boy considered this idea for a moment. What had ducks got to do with anything? Grown-ups could be very tiresome sometimes, he thought. He raised his eyes to the Master.

“But what about if it’s a robot duck?” he said without any apparent guile.

“Go back to your place,” sighed the Master.