Sunday Night 7:03 PM
I’m having a Krispy Kreme Decaf K-Cup before I have three fingers x three of Basil Haden. Cause I wanna flash fiction, but I’m chicken. And I haven’t found a dark academia playlist that would help tone that undertaking…a crisp and clipped, this then that, ephemeral narrative.
Let’s begone that lo-fi hip hop trance and Ultra-Lounge some Big Town.
our thoughts go out to
The ad guy didn’t have a good year. His wife divorced him. His mistress dismissed him, and his only child returned from “The Front” in parts.
Unable to compose a pithy prayer or suicide note, and unable to laugh or get liquored up, he informed his clients that he was closing his agency.
He designs and writes sympathy cards now. The more maudlin, the merrier. He makes good money. He lives and drinks alone, excepting every Saturday night when the service sends over a woman. And they share snort after snort, and hoot after holler, as she sits bare-assed naked, riotously reading the very best of his past week’s work.
Now Clue The P.I.
The golf hustler ghosted during the high heat of 83. His fiancé, having handed over some folding money, moved me to reconnoiter those beach front dives that divot the boardwalk of Ocean City.
The barkeeps held their tongue, and the cops didn’t give a sand trap about some gone missing former felon with a rap-sheet the length of a par five tee-shot. In fact, any ex-con also labeled a legitimate scratch golfer had the boys in blue seeing green.
It took the turn to the off-season, but I found our missing Mr.Twigs. In parts, buried amongst the new construction of the, “Afraid Of The Dark” miniature golf course. One Y.A. Duffer, being the principal owner.
Seems Mr. Duffer didn’t want his daughter, my client, to nest build with a jail-bird, irrespective of his future son-in-laws golf shot acumen.
My client cried for a week. But my remuneration came on time, and included a hefty bonus.
And sometime my Flash Fiction hints at a backstory.
Avifauna: A Flash Fiction
I was hoodwinked into a blind date the Saturday night of my second full week in the orphanage.
My entourage of fellow left behinds awaited my fetching of the lass from the warmth of her home.
And now all coupled, the eight of us walked three short blocks to the bungalow hosting the soiree.
It started in a basement den with soft drinks, large tins of potato chips, and Cross Town Traffic on the stereo. The house smelled of permanence, and well lived lives, with a new current of intruding happy hormones, and all spiced, ever so slightly, with an occasional whiff of marijuana, barely a buzz.
My date was easy on the eyes. A quietly attractive, buddingly confident, bookish, but playfully serious sixteen year old.
We bantered a bit. And boogied a bit, and shared one or two 3.2 beers.
And then out of the blue, she said, “ Know what I’m really interested in…don’t laugh… Ornithology”
“Hmmm,” I paused a beat,” So you, just might be… interested in the mating habits of the young jail-bird.”
Her eyes went wide, and she blushed the red of the Marlboro pack in my shirt pocket. Then she smiled, and pulled me towards her and we danced to the Temptations’ My Girl.
All of these were repost. Sorry ‘bout that. Seems pretty much a crime here. Just ginnin’ up and maybe, just maybe, jump starting.