Flash Fiction Friday – Slug Dedication

Image courtesy of nibsblog.com

“I am so sorry about your father, Misha,” Gabriel said as he placed a ladder up against the house.  The sky was bright, a wonderful day to help in the garden.

Misha plopped her butt on the damp earth and looked up.  “It’s okay, Gabe.  I’m not terribly upset.”

Gabriel dug the feet of the ladder into the ground and looked down at Misha.  “How could you say that?  Your father loved you.”

Misha laughed raucously. “He always said he wanted me to dedicate something to him.  One of my poems that he scoffed at maybe, I thought.”

Gabriel watched her silently as she did a fine job of controlling the tears.

“But I discovered something better,” she whispered as she pulled back a rotting piece of wood from the garden floor. “Look,” Misha said gesturing to a family of slugs hiding beneath.

Gabriel jumped back.  “Eww,” he said and crinkled his nose.  “Are you going to kill them with salt?”

Misha put her finger to her chin and glanced up to the sky.  “I thought about that.  Sad, you know, slugs get such a bad rap.  They are certainly more useful than my father ever was.”

Misha stood up and brushed the dirt off her butt.

Gabriel squatted to get a good look at one of the slugs, gently poking one with his finger.

Misha watched him and grabbed his arm.

“Don’t touch the slugs, Gabriel.”

Flash Fiction Friday – Reflection

image courtesy of powerfulintentions.org

“I saw you in the window today, you looked good,” Reflection said.
“Really?  I thought I looked like hell myself.”
“Oh, come on, you’re being too hard on yourself,” Reflection said.
“I speak the truth.  I am ugly and I am stupid.  There is no getting around it.  I mean, why else would Daddy leave?” I said.
“Daddy left because he is a loser.  Daddy doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.  He’s a freaking crackhead,” Reflection was starting to piss me off.
“True.  But still.  All my friends have their dads and they are all pretty.”
“You really need to stop this.  You’re being ridiculous. Do you talk like this to other people?  Like, do you tell other people they are ugly or stupid or lazy?” Reflection had a point.
“No.  I am nice to everyone but me.  I laugh at everyone’s jokes.  I tell other people how great they are or how pretty they look.  Sometimes people say nice things to me.”
“I know.  And what do you say?” Reflection was getting angry.
“I brush it off.  I deflect it.  I make excuses.  I feel like I don’t deserve nice stuff, you know?  I don’t deserve compliments or praise.  I’m so dumb.”
“Stop.  Just stop.  Just for today I want you to tell me one nice thing.  Maybe your eyes. You have very pretty eyes.  They have little green flecks in them. Did you know that?”
“Yes.  I did know that.  My eyes are pretty, aren’t they?”
“Be nice to yourself today.  Just for today,” Reflection said.  What else could I do?  I owed it to Reflection.
I owed it to myself to be as nice to me as I was to everyone else. Reflection showed me how pretty I was, how great my hair looked or my happy eyes and I just tore Reflection down.  Every day I looked at Reflection and said nasty mean things.  I would never talk to anyone else like that. How could I talk to Reflection like that when Reflection was a piece of me?
I think if I am nicer to Reflection, I will be nicer to myself.

Yeah, that sounds like a good start.

Flash Fiction Friday – Bullet

image courtesy of zodiacgift.com
Special Bullet

So I sat in a box for the last, oh, I don’t know, seven years?  Just sat there on a shelf with dozens of other boxes on other shelves with the others and I am finally free.
I don’t know who opened the box and put me in the chamber of freedom, but his fingers were fat like crinkled sausages and they smelled like shit. I guess some uprights never wash their hands.
“There you go my pet,” the upright says. “You are such a special little bullet. You were born to do great things.  You are going to change history, my pet.”
The upright talks a lot.
It’s freaking dark in here.  I have waited my entire life to get out of that damn box. I am a special bullet.  I don’t mingle with common bullets.
Seven years I have waited for this.  I don’t know what to expect. I just hear the voice.  I guess the voice thinks I can’t understand, but I can. I hear it talk about me.  It talks about my velocity, my speed and my distance.
It’s weird, you know? I don’t know what any of it means.
I can hear the upright speak as I sit here waiting for my moment of glory. He told me I was going to change history.  I don’t know what that means really…  but it sounds important.
Before the upright put me in here, it held me close to where the voice comes out.  It told me all these things.
“You’re so beautiful,” it says.
“You are the most special bullet ever, little bullet. You are going to make poppa so proud,” the voice cries.
I wanted to concur or validate the voices wishes. But what the hell, I’m just a bullet after all. A special bullet it tells me. But I don’t know what the means.  I don’t even know what my purpose is.
“Oh, special bullet. Be straight and true with your aim, young one.  Guide your soul into the heart of that bastard and save us all,” the voice screams.
The upright put me in something cold and long.  It’s dark in here.
Wait.  I just heard a loud bang and now I am zooming through the air toward another upright.  I don’t understand any of this.
Now I am in something hot, dark and wet. This is so odd.  I was happy in my box with the others.  I don’t feel so special anymore. Where is the voice?
I hear other voices now.  They are making high-pitched noises.  They are screaming, “He’s shot! He’s shot!”
My shell is gone.  I am now a flat piece of metal.
I still don’t feel special.

Friday Flash Fiction – The Coffee Room

electro-maniacs.net
Image courtesy of electro-maniacs.net

I could smell it.  Its perverse odor invaded my nostrils as I sat on the overstuffed, taupe chair that reminded me of over-creamed coffee.

“Bastards,” I mumbled.  The fabric color on the chair was no accident.  Of this, I was sure.  I pretended to ignore the odor. My brow beaded with sweat as I ogled the gurgling contraption on the counter in the corner.  I eyeballed the powdered creamer and the foam cups.  Maybe it would not hurt if I had one cup.

“No,” I said aloud.

A woman with too much eye make-up on snapped her head up to glare at me.  “Excuse me?” she asked in an annoyed tone as she shifted in her dark brown chair.

Go to hell, bitch. And take your laughable eye shadow with you, I thought.

“Sorry, I was talking to myself,” I answered.

“Oh,” she cracked her gum.  “Why are you here?” She kept staring at me.

“Not much of a talker, huh? I get it.  I never was either, but Dr. Pantomime said I need to be more expressive,” she said and motioned to her face.

“I don’t think that’s what he meant, but okay,” I flubbed as the coffee became pungent.  Why would they put fucking coffee in here?  Did they not know why I was here? Did they not get the fucking memo?

“Excuse me, miss?” I said to the receptionist behind the desk. She looked up and slid the glass back.

“Yes?”

“Is there caffeine in that coffee?” I asked.

“I don’t know, sir.  You’ll have to figure it out for yourself.”

The powered creamer fell silently into the six-ounce abyss of coffee that swirled in the foam cup.  I had a fifty-fifty shot. If it was decaf, I was okay.  If not, the clown woman and glass woman would have a free ticket to hell.

“Ready?” I shouted.  The man who just entered the waiting room looked confused.  I chugged the coffee as it caressed my throat, burning on the way down.  My head raced.  My heart palpitated.

I smiled as the beads of sweat dripped into my eyes. “You’re all screwed.”

Vengeful Noodles – Friday Flash Fiction

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picgifs.com

Noodles lived in a decent part of the city.  His wife left him five years ago for a circus clown named Rickety Randy the Rolling Roundhouse.  Noodles couldn’t figure it out.  The ostentatious Rickety.  He would purposely wear a purple beep nose just to show everyone else up at the circus with their plain red noses.  Oh, and that flower that squirted Chardonnay.  What was he thinking?  Frigging loser.  Everyone knew he squirted the flower wine into his own mouth because he was such a drunken lush.  He would beep his nose and squirt the flower at least every twenty-seven seconds.  The clown of clowns was falling down drunk in an hour. Turned out he had a hose to a plastic pack riding his back filled with his juice.

A freaking drunk clown!  Noodles was mortified.  Noodles swore revenge on Randy, but never got the chance.  Rickety Randy had been at a main gig at a two ring circus in Burgboro. His only job was to arm/paw wrestle Turdster the Tiger while simultaneously playing catch with a six hundred pound bear named Scuttles.  Turned out Scuttles and Turdster had a deep-seated hatred for each other and amidst the paw fight between the two, Rickety slipped on Tiger drool and broke his neck.  Turdster and Scuttles took turns eating Rickety much to the absolute horror of the crowd.

To this day Noodles sends his ex-wife a subscription to Circus Animals Weekly each year.

*I am sitting in my office on my lunch at the moment.  Where did the idea for a drunken clown love trio come from?  I couldn’t tell you.  Thank heavens I use writing to get these morbid ideas out!*

HAPPY FRIDAY!