Up to 900 words. Three times longer than Micro, but who has that kind of paticence?
Gert’s Dilemma
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Gert Grundy had about all she could take of her niece Cassidy Cheyenne and her god damn holier than thou attitude, tossing down a “Two much information” penalty flag with an extra huge box-car load of heavy mascara eye rolling.
Who the heck was she, with her chopped and cropped Motley Crue top and her low gunslinger grimy bottoms, her tramp-stamp tattoos of skeletal hands and Hells own flames climbing climbing up out of her unwashed personal situation.
Just one mention of the old days when Gert played the roadhouse circuit with her exotic dance routine “Ginger And Her Snaps”, one little mention of a twist and a tumble in the double sleeper of a purple Peterbilt with Texas tags and now Cassidy was all crapily disposed and huffy.
I like that, thought Gert, Jesus himself knows I love her, but that girl with her no-account trailer trash unemployed friends, drinking beer and being snippy and rude after what all I done for her, alright,…. for her momma to be truthful (won’t never forget that drunk “Thelma and Louise” summer of ours), and I made her momma a promise before she got sent away to do right by her child, and one way or t’other I will.
From the bottom of the “Farm n’ Family” sized Quaker Oaks container Gert fished out her solution and unwrapping it from the Hoppin’ Rabbit plastic bag while she sorted out the mail, opening one letter of especial particular interest and saw there was a might choice to make, which she pondered as she absentmindedly slipped bullets into her big old Smith & Wesson revolver now free of the bag.
Gert’s mind shifting back and forth between loading the gun and reading that letter, choices, choices what to do? should she just plain shoot Cassidy Cheyenne dead right where slumped on the porch next to the spare washing machine, passed out from smoking cheap weed, or rob another highway package store and get a little money towards an expensive future, a hard hard nut to crack indeed.
Oh, the hell, do the right thing I suppose, wake the kid, tell her the news that she’s going to off to school in the fall, then later on go rob up some money towards tuition, Med School at Yale ain’t gonna come cheap!
by-Doug Mathewson
Filed Under Flash FictionSmartest Man On Earth
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Uncle Art was the smartest man on the planet for sure. He proved it everyday just being wrong. That may sound crazy, but know what? It worked out right. Three seasons he traveled from Maine to Miami and back, working his act on seaside boardwalks. Winters he and Aunt Vera relaxed in their little trailer on Narragansett Bay. He changed his name and his costume fairly often to, as he would say “Keep the act fresh. Be relevant in today’s market.” Well, that seemed a bit much, but like I said, he was the smartest man on earth. Some times he was “Frankie Future” and wore a space suit and a turban. For “Marcello the Mysterious” a tux with his turban. He might be a time traveler, an ancient mystic swami, or a visitor for the mysterious and undefined seventh dimension. But always, always he wore his signature turban.
The act was straight forward. For three dollars (five seemed too high) he would guess anything about you. Your age, gender, race, country of origin, favorite past time – anything. And since he always “Guessed” wrong, you won. You won a prize worth three cents or less. A stick of gum, a miniature pocket-comb, maybe an individual tissues in cellophane labeled in Korean. Net gain $2.97. That’s how it worked with the gents and the kids. They would walk away, chewing their gum, or trying out their new inch long comb, laughing about how they got the better of the “Expert Guesser.” Women, being much smarter, were another situation.
Uncle Art was at his best with the ladies. In the face of all reality and sanity, despite incredibly contrary evidence he told every single woman the same thing. “My dear, you are thirty one years of age, weigh precisely one hundred and twelve pounds. Your family has its roots in south of France, and dare I say… you have a hint of royal blood. That might not have been exactly what you or I would have guessed, but that’s what “Swami Savior-fare” or who ever Uncle Art was at the time told ‘em. And you know what? They all agreed. “Yes” they said, “Francis O’Fourtune was right on all counts, ….. incredibly so! It was absolutely amazing”, they declared, “how anyone, anyone could be so completely, totally, one hundred percent correct.”
And since Uncle Art was “Right”, he kept the whole three bucks. Sometimes
a particularly happy client would slip him a few extra dollars. He would bend to kiss her hand and whisper “Thank you, … your Highness.” That put a smile on a few faces.
Women got the joke, and men just didn’t. Uncle Art might “Guess” for six or seven hundred people on a good day in the summer. He’d have given away some gum, a few factory second pocket protectors. He’d come back tired, with a smile on his face, and couple of grand in singles and fives stuffed in his pockets.
Years latter, when he and Aunt Vera finally retired to Florida, people would
ask “So Artie, tell me, what did you do before your retired?” Aunt Vera would jump in and say, “My husband was in information business.
by-Doug Mathewson
Filed Under Flash FictionFrogz
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About this time of year I move our fish from their inside tank winter camp to their summer home, our outdoor pond. Frogs soon arrive just like hobos from years ago, riding the rails to easier living. They move in with bold ker-plunks and settle for the season. I never really noticed the frogs that much, they swan and sang and so what. They were frogs. I feed the fish when I leave in the morning and again at night when I return. The frogs were okay,
they just hung out, jumped in with a splash when I got too close.
Last year was different. For what ever reason the frogs looked like the Ramones! There were their little (green) faces! Joey, Johnny, Dee Dee, and Marky The resemblance was startling. I tried to explain to people that in my little pond, there were four frogs that looked like big time New York punk legends! People were mostly polite when I told them (well, a few rolled their eyes or even snickered) but nobody was interested enough to go take even a quick peek. All spring and summer long I marveled at them. I knew which one was which, even addressed them by name (they were such distinct individuals). Come fall the Ramones Frogs packed their little froggie guitar cases and moved on. Over the winter I though of them more than a few times. I wondered what they were up to ( could they be on tour in Japan?). I was casually curious if they or some variety decedents, musical or not, might return come spring.
Today I was up early, put out the trash, bring in the paper and I heard very odd croaks! “Great”, I thought “Maybe the frogs are back from CBGB or where-ever.” Cautious and quiet was my approach (really wanted to surprise the boys) and there, right there in my pond where these long and leggy spotted leopard frogs! They took one look at me, and in a beautifully choreographed move somersaulted into the pond, leaving three perfect rippling circles that blossomed into tiny art-deco “Man in the moon” winking faces! – total Cirque du Soleil!! Oh, what a summer this will be!!!
By-Doug Mathewson
Filed Under Flash FictionThe Neighborhood
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Detective Sergeant “Palone” Ortiz bristled with a dark and quiet anger at this latest indignity, this new injustice. Juannie Rodriquez was a little crazy sure, but they had been partners working street crimes for three years with no problems up to him being placed on suspension last week for shooting an asshole who deserved it majorly.
Having a stranger, some “Detective Patrick Michael O’Shawnasea” to watch his back
on the street was not a good feeling, and the Captain was still too pissed off at Juannie,
to hear anything Palone had to say. “Why from way cross town, why him, why a guy so, so white?” muttered Palone, and with a rising voice continued “I swear if he makes one fucking taco joke, one fucking Speedy Gonzales crack, I’ll loose it and won’t be responsible for what happens.”
Next day as the tension in their unmarked car climbing higher and higher till the new guy let out a long slow sigh, shook his head and said “Man, you know…. I could never stand to live around here like you people do, never, just couldn’t deal with it!”
As Palone considered several extremely violent options, O’Shawnasea continued
“I mean, look at these Spanish women, just look, – their eyes, how they smile, and ohmygod how they wear their jeans- I’d never get anything done falling in love, what three times every block”, leaving Detective Sergeant Ortiz to chuckle and reply “Yeah, sure, maybe- it’s just a neighborhood thing I guess ……. I never noticed.”
by-Doug Mathewson
Filed Under Flash FictionBabbage’s Messaging Engine And Problems Arising From It’s Use
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My Dearest Lady Astrid, I find myself most distraught by your message of yester evening; could it have indeed been your intent to click “send”? This recent missive has my heart racing two fold, in anticipation of your intimate embrace of a certainty as well in fear of reprisal at the hands of your exceptionally violent, ill tempered husband (the man our dear Queen referred to as “The Bloodiest of Britain’s Great Berserkers!). You may recall that in addition to being your somewhat hot-headed, fiercely possessive, and rabidly vengeful husband, the Brigadier is also my commanding officer!
Emailing me here in care of the Royal Fusileers is wildly dangerous as I am sure your husband, should he learn of our meetings, our rencontres romantiques may we say,
would hesitate not an instant to spend the coppers of my life’s blood here and now upon these dry desert sands. It was yourself, dear lady, with your ever present sharp cruel wit who mockingly observed that my bold and manly courage faded to mere vapors beyond you chamber doors, so while in theory I would face a thousand deaths with saber in hand, endure any manner of hardship and depravation for but a single kiss from your lovely lips, this is not a good time.
Fervently I wish to continue our conversation which you know I value so reverently, but please my Lady (dare I say, … my Heart) we must be discrete for both our sakes – your womanly good reputation and my very life depend on it, to that end contact me exclusively my love at Foofie.LeFrett@secretsweethearts.com this, I beg of you.
F
Filed Under Flash FictionFast Lane
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Arizona Highway,
Ford Crown Vic coming up fast.
Hair just flying out the window!
Woman’s got a heavy foot.
Passed me better than a hundred,
Oh, ….. it’s the Tribal Police.
Like many of my stories this is accurate and true with only the exceptions being the parts that are pretend. My sister had taken up with some damned fiddle player,and she wanted to got to Tucson early to see his band play in some broke-down bar. More fiddling going on I knew than what he was up to with his Walmart Stradivarius, but that’s none of mine as they say. Now mostly she goes to the farmer’s market next town over. Sells a little produce off back of her old truck. Now there was a problem. A problem for me, her little brother to solve. That thirty year old farm truck won’t make any seventy – eighty miles south to Tucson. So there I was with my Toyota full of her cantaloupes and peppers right up to the roof, just driving along, when this incident took place. Thought they was going to the casino or some fool place.
So like I say, all true. Well all but I never had a Toyota, or them cantaloupes either, or to be honest a sister. Don’t even live out that way to tell the truth. – Doug
Bread Knife
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Our bread knife had been missing for better than a month. Ikea had one with an asymmetrical wood and stainless handle that appealed to my inner Swede for only seven dollars. Where the original bread knife had gotten to was beyond my imagination, and below my cut-off for concern. Time passed, bagels were sliced and toasted, the new knife edged it’s way into our daily lives. The transition was as smooth as buttering toast and we moved on.
On-line sources were not expansive enough for what I required. For reasons peculiar and picayune I decided one afternoon to use our old really big library style dictionary to look something up. “The first clergyman was the first rascal who met the first fool.” was a quote from Voltaire but in what context? Who did he say it to? Was he just being clever, or was he making a point?
I needed the two thousand page dictionary to discover the truth. My discovery was very different. There was our old bread knife! It had been used (I don’t know when) as a book mark. The entry “costumbrismo” was underlined. There was an old photograph (very wrinkled) that had been folded and refolded years ago into quarters there as well. It was a sepia toned image of a chicken pulling a toddler in a little two wheeled wooden cart, and “Havana 1873” written on the back in florid script. Written down the book’s margin in red was “Zarzuela” followed by four exclamation marks.
With my head buzzing full of 18th century French philosophy and 19th century Hispanic art I thought “I can make a cardboard scabbard for the old bread knife and seamlessly join it with gaffers tape to the black wooden block containing the new bread knife. Brilliant!” I was suddenly stunned by my entire lack of imagination. Given this sprawling mash-up of information and concepts in art and the humanities I was still mentally dealing with the bread knife!
Inaction would have been unacceptable. I refilled the errand bread knife under “R” in the dictionary to indicate both “redundant” and “resolved”. I put the folded chicken cart picture in my wallet for another day.
by-Doug Mathewson
Filed Under Flash FictionAnalysis log
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re: “WHAT’S NEW FROM URBAN OUTFITTERS”
-an informative note from Lolita and her disturbing friend Twink-
re: “INVESTMENT OPPORTUNITY OF A LIFETIME “
-they must know something great about my future-
re: “ON-LINE PHARMACY VIAGRA FOR LESS”
-they must know something terrible about my future-
re: “FREE SHIPPING VICTORIA’S SECRET”
-completely disingenuous, how much can a Brazilian cut panties weigh?-
re: “RUSSIAN BRIDES YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL”
-why couldn’t have Ronnie Wood just thought things through?-
re: “SPLIT FOURTEEN MILLION SWISS FRANCS”
-how can I say no to the Fiance Minister of Nigeria, but why does he
have a post office box in Reno Nevada?-
by-Doug Mathewson
Filed Under Flash FictionSpeak Spinoza, Speak!
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Marilyn;
Your endlessly repetitive inquiries if I would be “ok” were so insistent and relentless I was unable to respond. As the kids might well say, “No, I am not good with that.” You going off on some so called “business trip” with your friend “Michael” (who as far as I can tell doesn’t have job at all) is most unseemly. What kind of business trip does an unemployed person go on I ask? I watch enough daytime television while you are out to have a very clear picture of what your “business trip” will consist of.
I understand your not taking me to Las Vegas, and frankly I was just as glad not to go. The very thought of that city at nose level is revolting. What I do find disturbing is the haphazard arrangements you have made for me in your absence. I could stay with your ex for example. Steve was always such a thoughtful and kind man, (unlike this “Michael” you seem to hold in such high and undeserved regard). I am quite sure Steve would be more than willing to have me stay the week. He lives on a farm in Connecticut for God’s sake! We could frolic in the autumn leaves together and dare I say, I might even chase bunnies! But rather you have chosen to board me at “Happy Dale Acres” What a misnomer! Who ever heard of a kennel on the twenty third floor of an office building in mid-town. There are no “dales”, no ”acres”, and I for one am not happy. The overwhelming smell of copy-machine toner, comings and goings at all hours, and elevators that make strange unsettling noises have left me sleepless and unable to eat (not that any dog with a home would eat what is offered here).
When you return I feel it would be in the best interests of our relationship to discuss this and other matters further. We have had many good times together over the years, and these shared memories I hold dear. My desire, my hope, is that we may return to a relationship where in we once again regard each other as “partners and companions” on life’s road. I wish for us to stand on an equal footing, your two to my four, as we share time together mutually interned on this plane of existence.
I await your response;
Spinoza,
Jack-Russell Terrier
Happy Dale Acres Kennel
Musgrave Building
NYC, NY
dictated to Doug Mathewson
Filed Under Flash FictionArt with a Heart
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Dateline Hollywood :
Hollywood ’s A, B, and C lists turned out last night for a gala fund raiser
coinciding with the release of the Mira-Maxx’s production “King Kong VII”.
Many original works of art were donated to benefit Hollywood ’s “Home for
The Visually Unpleasant Program”. Unquestionable the largest piece was an
amazing work donated by Paris Hilton! This three story high installation piece of the
mighty ape was made entirely of underpants Ms. Hilton had lost or discarded
while attending various red-carpet events this fall. With bejeweled thong eyes,
shimmering silk panty teeth, and comic “hello-kitty” flannel fingers this imposing
sight was certainly a crowd pleaser! Paris kindly removed the hot-pink pair of skimpy
boy-shorts she was wearing for photographers, adding them to the sculpture.
Noted Jovian commentator Mumpart Blagghart remarked “for a skinny assed woman, she has such a big heart.”
by-Doug Mathewson
Filed Under Flash Fiction