Sunday, February 19, 2012

Flash Fiction: Yeah, But It Really Happened

Yeah, but it happened.

My friend, Philip, was a dullard. He was my best friend, and I loved the guy, but he was a dullard. He was the kind of guy who’d gulp down a scalding cup of coffee, scream to High Heaven that his insides were scorched, and then immediately gulp down another cup of hot coffee.

One day, he was as excited as a science fiction nerd who’d kidnapped Marina Sirtis and had her chained up in his attic, next to his collection of mint-in-box Will Riker and Deanna Troy action figures, and an autographed copy of Bill Shatner’s LP, The Transformed Man.

“You’ve gotta see something, man!” Philip said. His eyes were full of fire and he had seemed less like a dullard. He actually appeared intelligent. “I want to show you something f--king amazing.”

He rarely employed the use of hyperbole and profanity, so I was intrigued.

We hopped into my old jalopy. Yes, I said jalopy, got a problem with that? And no, this did not occur during the 1950s. So, sit on it, Potsy.

We raced through Grover’s Corner. Philip was full of anxiety, shaking and sweating like a gamer awaiting the new Olivia Munn swimsuit calendar.

We were on the old side of Grovers Corner. We’d raced past the abandoned, derelict single story buildings that once housed ma and pa hardware and grocery stores, and into the dusty, quiet part of town that makes you feel like you’re on the far side of the moon.

“Calm down,” I said. “What is this ‘thing’? What are we going to see?”

Philip smiled. “Oh,” he whispered, “you’ll just have to wait.”

I wheeled the jalopy onto Turner Lane and slammed on brakes.

“Holy, s--t!” I said.

And that’s when we saw “it”, the thing that encapsulates your entire knowledge of who you are and how you fit into the vast cosmos; the thing that reminds you that you are but a dried booger on the handkerchief of the universe.


Saturday, February 11, 2012

Flash Fiction: The Guitarist's Dream

Okay, this is more like flash poetry...

Andrea tried in vain 
To sing her songs of love and pain
But her guitarist was untalented and quite lame
Andrea grew so mad that she grabbed his guitar
And broke it over the poor guy’s head
The guitar exploded into wooden shrapnel
And the guitar player ended up oh so dead.