They went out on a bridge and dumped my ashes, and then they drove to a little restaurant for brunch. "The last of Ralph," Janet quipped as she sprinkled pepper on her eggs. They shared a chuckle and turned their talk to the latest gossip about Hilary Clinton.
After I was cremated, Janet and Susan drove out to the Guadalupe River. Susan said I'd probably have to come back as a rodent, but Janet said, "No, silly, he's just a bunch of cold ashes now." They were both wrong because I'm a ghost that has to live in Janet's garden shed.
They went out on a bridge and dumped my ashes, and then they drove to a little restaurant for brunch. "The last of Ralph," Janet quipped as she sprinkled pepper on her eggs. They shared a chuckle and turned their talk to the latest gossip about Hilary Clinton. A retelling of an old joke, Friday Pianist yells “You’re on!” Octopus flexes its tentacles, plays “Big Chief.” Pianist peels off five 10 dollar bills. “Fifty bucks he can’t play a saxophone!” Octopus produces a reeded mouthpiece, puts it on the sax, and proceeds to blow a soulful “Skylark.” Another $50. Bartender slaps down some bagpipes. “$100!” Octopus gently examines the bagpipes, which wheeze quietly with each poke. “Come on!” said the man. “100 bucks! Play!” “Play??” said the octopus. “Once I figure how to get her pajamas off, we’re outta here!” The barkeep brought a meatball to our table.
“Anyone who can break this against the wall drinks free all night!” Three of us threw it as hard as we could but it remained intact. When the last guy, Merchant, flung that sucker, it shattered. The barkeep pointed at Merchant. “You drink free all night.” While Merchant quaffed his first free brew, his fiancée appeared. “You have to come home, now.” He groused but quickly capitulated. I had an epiphany about the essence of marriage—Your wife could make you go home even if you were drinking all night for free. “Sure we can talk about it again. Have you tried anything new to solve the problem?”
“I don’t what else TO try. Nothing I do makes any difference. I always end up right back where I started!” “What about support? Are there people in your life who understand what you’re going through?” “Sure — lots. Most of them have experienced the same issue or, like me, are still dealing with it.” “Do the anti-anxiety meds help?” “Not really. I know it’s just going to keep happening again and again and again.” “And LinkedIn can’t find a way to fix it?” Tammy looked at the plumbing bill with despair. This was money going down the drain.
A knock on the door startled her and she went to answer it. The plumber stood there, finger-combing his short dark hair. She looked into his piercing blue eyes for what seemed like a long moment. “I forgot my screwdriver,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Follow me to the bedroom.” She blushed and stammered, “I mean the bathroom.” Embarrassing. His lips curled into a smile. How many more excuses would he have to conjure up before she realised that he’d fallen for her in a big way? They crossed into Goshen County along the Nebraska border in southeast Wyoming. Sagebrush flew by in the dusk. Lucy wondered why she travelled with him. He hadn’t spoken for 100 miles. A wooden sign announced a motel an hour ahead. They hadn’t worked in weeks, so maybe they didn’t have the cash. The motel was closed, anyway. They wouldn’t reach Cheyenne till noon tomorrow so they pulled behind an abandoned gas station to drink warm pop and eat peanut-butter crackers for dinner. Forty-three years old and sleeping in the back of a Lariat crew cab that guzzled the diesel down.
I ran to the post, ready to throw the horse’s reins over.
“Not there – that’s the whipping post,” Bronson said. I slanted him a look. “Like the Allman Brothers song?” His eyes stayed serious. “I told you we don’t have jails on this world.” “And?” “Commit an infraction, and you are tied here and horsewhipped.” “That’s barbaric,” I said. “That’s this world,” he replied. “You live here now.” I was quiet for a moment. “Is tying a horse to the whipping post an infraction?” He eyed the post, and then turned to me. “No, but it might get your horse whipped.” The park at 1901 Spencer Street was exactly where they had agreed to meet. Their first meeting spot. Striking 12 Noon, the Macy's clock told her that he was already an hour late. The red light was flashing on her phone. It had been on silent ever since her first early morning court case. Checking the single message didn't give her clue as to Brad's whereabouts. Only one message... "Laura this is Sue from the dry cleaners. We can't get the wine stain out of your white suit". "Later for that. Where is Brad?" Laura mumbled to herself.
"Surely this is him call now," she said. "Hello, Brad? Where are you? Did you forget our lunch date? Memphis? When did you leave Atlanta? I see. What a story! Grabbing the reader's attention at the outset, it surged through a powerful middle section and culminated in a stunning climax few could have foreseen. Stylishly written, with excellent character portrayal, such was its strength that any who read it would be so overcome that they would immediately seek peace with fellow men (and women). Crucially, it was exactly one hundred words long, qualifying it for LinkedIn's Friday Flash Fiction discussion. It was, in short, the greatest story ever.
The only problem was that every time anyone looked at it, the story simply disappeared. Did it ever exist? Sorry, but I can’t write my second F.F.F. today. What a week it’s been--thank goodness it’s almost over. First, the sky turned green, and a hoard of dragons zoomed down and attacked the frantic passersby. Then the oceans and the land switched places, so that buildings were floating on water and fish were flopping across parking lots. Next, the flying monkeys from Oz appeared, wanting to dominate society. To top it off, a giant sinkhole appeared, into which all previous F.F.F. stories tragically tumbled. But, hey ... life has been far from boring. Better luck next week, I suppose.
Jackie, age seven, stared right at me. “I look so pretty today, in my new pink dress!” She scurried out of the room.
Next was Peter, twelve years old, his eyes focusing into my very center. “Yeah--the guys are going to love this new haircut. I am stylin’.” He sauntered into the hall. Finally, Amy, age sixteen, gave me a withering glare. “I swear if my boyfriend doesn’t get with it, I’ll ... I’ll ...” She turned and stormed out. I’d have liked to have commented. But, that’s tough when you’re a bathroom mirror. About time I was consulted on the nature of my mother’s “handicap”!
In my opinion, Lizzie’s intelligence is over-rated. And Jane’s circumspection is prized above other values. My mother has often told me that I am her favourite daughter, I mean, the daughter most like her. Her “handicaps” must be mine. The disposition to nerves is but a disposition to greater sensitivity (Marianne Dashwood would agree), and I am the SOUL of sensitivity and feeling. Wickham definitely agrees. In fact, he asks regularly after my mother. Strange that he knows about the birth mark on her inner thigh though … The writer dreamed of a wild hunt. But then, like most dreams, when she woke, before she could capture it on paper, it simply melted away.
The general’s wife, pale and shaking, looked even more alluring to Claude.
“Madame Moreau!” As he joined them, the Mayor of Paris stated, “You could have been killed! That runaway carriage… ” Interrupting, she nodded at her companion, “Yes, but for this kind gentleman.” The mayor, thinking to further ingrate himself to Moreau, proclaimed, “You, sir, have earned our eternal thanks, and the key to the city.” As the mayor left, the general’s young wife whispered to her lover, “He has no imagination. The key is one to his home--where I am staying while Jean is in the field.” Larry took a nip. The winter sky was an endless cool blue this morning.
Once, he’d known the chemical make-up of that sky, had been able to conceive infinity. The trick had been not to think of it as stretching eternally away from him, but as a sphere. Now there was a new view. He thought it sounded like a pan-dimensional Venn diagram. He picked up the battered Edda from beside his mattress. Asgard, Hel, Jotunheimr: those universes coexisted, their gods thwarting place and time. Trust a poet to imagine the Multiverse a millennium before any scientist could confirm it. Now, stealth really is sexy, Petra thought. Like a noir film. She imagined shadows cutting her cheekbones. Her eyes felt luminous in the dark.
The warm light from the open door pressed her back against the tree trunk. Eddie kissed his wife and turned. The remote chirruped as he strode to his Alpha. As he settled himself, she smelled the seat leather and his cologne, breathed in the peaty taste of old whisky on his breath. The engine turned over first go. That’s the last time that bastard will fire up, Petra thought, her face flaming in the explosion’s glare. "Hey, Dad, it says here in Sports History Illustrated that dinosaurs played golf." said Josh.
"I'm not surprised," his father huffed. "They always were a stodgy bunch. "Now we dragons -- we try to stay up to date. As new games were introduced, we always gave them a try. But clay tennis courts tended to become brittle high-fired ceramic. In North America, we tried basketball and baseball – baseball was a problem. The announcers kept saying, ‘He flied out to left field.’ And a hot-tempered manager once burned out half a stadium. “Quidditch, now, that seems to suit our temperament better.” And so Greg had settled back into his chair, lips besmirked (not in the SCRABBLE Players Dictionary); the chair creaked from the weight of his great bulk, and he listened to the clock on the kitchen wall tick its tock.
This was going to be sweet. Until click went the “K,” onto the plastic surface of the deluxe SCRABBLE playing board. Barry nodded. “Eke. Five points for the ‘K’ and one each for two ‘Es.’ I guess I managed to eke out this one, 'old friend'.” “I hate you, Barry.” Barry didn’t think Greg sounded at all like William Shatner. The discovery that dinosaurs played golf rocked the world of paleantology to its very core.
Scientists believe that golf became popular in the Jurassic era. Clubs were made of bone; balls were mostly fashioned from lava, although meteorite-balls were all the rage amongst the velociraptor jet-set. Courses rarely featured water, desert was common; almost all championship golf took place near erupting volcanos. Dinosaur golf was dominated by "The Big Three": Diplodocus, Brachiosaurus, and – of course – Tyrannosaurus. Sadly, a catastrophic event – perhaps an asteroid – wiped out all golfing dinosaurs. Nowadays, we only know they existed from fossils found in old clubhouses. “Do you think we’re alone, Justin?”
“’Course.” “I mean in the universe.” “Well, a couple billion people live on earth.” “But don’t you believe there’s life beyond all those stars up there?” “Lucy, I don’t believe a lot of things: what I see on the news, talking animals, knights and dragons, friends who won’t stab you in the back, cops who figure you might be telling the truth, strangers who do something nice without wanting a favor in return. I do believe a few rich people always get over.” Lucy got off the blanket and walked slowly to the car. She only surfaces every now and again. Her main food, sea-haggis, has one fin shorter than the other, forcing it to swim in ever-decreasing circles. Easy prey, even for a giant but clumsy sea-serpent.
Tourists, particularly Americans and Japanese, travel from all points of the compass to see her, calling from the shore in the hope that she'll appear conveniently for their smartphone selfies. She never will, though. Only one little boy, a local, knows her name is really 'Eva-Ann', and she comes to him, when he's alone, at dusk. She might live in Loch Ness, but "Nessie" she ain't. The garden game quickly descended into a squabble about the rules. Minutes later, Mom was there to sort it out.
"He cheated!" the girl said. "That true?" Mom asked. "'Plead the 5th," the boy said. "He's a dirty low-down cheat!" the girl said. Mom said, "Don't speak like – " "I'll say what I like: 1st Amendment." Bear in mind these two kids are six and four. "Well," said Mom, "Mrs Walker's phoned to complain – " "That old witch!" the kids said in unison. That did it. They were over her knee in no time: a cruel but not unusual punishment. Apparently these two stories are based on true events involving a Scot working behind the scenes at a Diana Ross concert.
Supreme Summer Of Love, Rotterdam 8pm The house was secured and the band was loaded. “Stand by Lights, Sound. Give The Boss her 10.” “That means you, Keith—“ Mary Jo prompted. The Scot was nervous. This was his first time. "Miss Ross, Nae, we maight joost naid to gait thais patty gaeing." Everyone within earshot cringed and then braced. “JESUS CHRIST, what did he say Mary?” “He said, ‘Ten minutes Miss Ross!’” “So why didn’t he say ‘Ten Minutes Miss Ross?” “He did.” “Raighto, shoorly.” And thus ended the Production aspirations of a Scot who veered from protocol. Quick Change Booth, Rotterdam 8.30pm Miss Ross was in a flurry of spangles. “ I can't work like this! I broke a nail! Where did they put my hair! Shit! Robin how many times do I have to tell you when I'm on stage and I call for my coffee -- I don't want a fricking cup of coffee. COGNAC! In a cup! “ “Cue The Boss, Lights pick-up stage left.” “Keith!” Mary Jo whispered and nodded towards The Boss. “Ahnd Excoose Mae, Miss Ross…Eh, Raight abooot Nae!” Keith sputtered. “WHAT DID HE SAY, MARY?” “He said, ‘GO!’ Miss Ross.” “So Why – “ And thus ended the Scot’s second chance. Denise stood in the front of her closet tapping her foot. Anyone watching her would think that she expected an outfit to come flying out assembling itself.
“Something appropriate,” she muttered. “Too much black is so obvious, I hate when widows lose all sense of panache -- just because.” She stepped into the closet and pulled out a cream colored blouse and then with definitive resolve she pulled out her navy suit. “Sober but sexy – that’s the ticket.” She eyed her myriad of shoes. “My red pats –“ Denise quietly dressed, accessorized and then grabbed her revolver. It was time. I relish playing God, having the power to give or take life.
From my crèche in an outcropping of rocks, I watch the Viet Cong approach the crossroads. Turn left, I think, centering my crosshair on his chest, and I might let you live. Otherwise you die. He stops a moment, rifle clutched across his torso, glances furtively left and right, and continues straight ahead. I draw a breath, listen to Schreiber’s voice—“Do you like to kill?”—and squeeze the trigger. I feel my weapon recoil. A moment later the VC falls onto his back and lies still. |
"Classic"
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