Monthly Archives: May 2015

“Invocation to the Dawn”: Flash fiction selection from DIFFICULT PEOPLE

Invocation to the Dawn

Round about four in the morning, having emerged from the terra incognita of our shared physical mysteries, we stepped from our rented boudoir onto the deck, and wrapped in our blanket against the chill of the sea, watched the sun rise over the pewter green Atlantic lightly embossed with white caps and the glint of diving light off gulls caught in the fresh new day, and we smiled and laughed at this moment, our souls tingling with the hope of love, eternal life forever after and the vast generosity of nature, as sky earth and sea, and the affection of the dazzling elements in the champagne of earth’s summer vintage, a celebration of life, love, death and rebirth, and the miracle of our time together on an island, on a cliff, on a stage suspended in time and hope…

Our lips were one with the morning light, yellow gold fingers brushing over the headland, stroking the huddled pointed firs, their laced boughs swaying in the offshore breeze, the sparkling skein cast across the incoming tide, rising to the full, emptying with an eternal gasp into the narrow cove…

#fiction DIFFICULT PEOPLE 172 EROTIC flash fictions, Zen tales revealing destiny-imbued moments. Adult readers only. http://amzn.to/Po18v7

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“Brass Beds”: selection from flash fiction adult storybook “Difficult People”

                                                                   Brass Beds

She had come to his plantation-shuttered door in the apartment building and knocked. He saw her bare legs and feet first. Green toe polish. Pretty muscled legs. Tanned. He flipped the latch and pushed open the door.

“Hey,” she said, smiling, looking sleepy about the eyes. She was wearing cutoff jeans and a tee shirt with a big slice of red watermelon on her chest, “Juicy and Sweet” it read. “I was just wondering what you know about brass beds?” she said and her tongue rested on her beautifully plump lower lip.

“Nothing but what Bob Dylan said in his song…lay Lady lay…” he said and smiled.

She blushed, and then managed a nervous laugh.

“Listen, wanna glass of iced tea?” he said. “We can sit in the living room and talk about it.”

She chewed her lip. “Well…” she said, folding her toes on one foot against the welcome mat. She had beautiful blue eyes and a full moon face, dimples in her cheeks, a little nose, and a mane of thick blonde hair and best of all a little scar, an extra dimple in her meditation third eye. “Well…I guess so…” she decided.

And he swung the door wide for her and felt her body heat sweep past him, a hint of jungle orchid perfume. And brass bed or no…they went deep into bed talk that long, lazy summer afternoon and no one the wiser.

#fiction DIFFICULT PEOPLE 172 EROTIC flash fictions, Zen tales revealing destiny-imbued moments. Adult readers only. http://amzn.to/Po18v7

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Wedding Cake House: Flash Fiction Pick From “Difficult People”

Wedding Cake House

 

It all began rather innocently and generously, but the outcome, Bob Harper would easily agree was quite the reverse. You see, Bob and his wife Gail Harper (nee’ Doubling)…had before they knew it, the glorious burden of a rambling Victorian, actually a picturesque Queen Anne, with lots of rooms, porches, stairwells and obscure passages in what they liked to call their “wedding cake house.”

“It’s way too big for us,” Gail complained but as if overheard…friends and relatives seemed to appear like some force of nature to fill the nostalgic spaces with a maddening fury.

Gail found herself all too frequently trapped and overwhelmed in the kitchen, and there she was preparing an immense beef stew dinner; meanwhile Bob had several artists and writers in retreat in a beautiful turret room on the second floor; and they were discussing the horrors of the business of hawking new books and canvases.

On the wide porch a nephew of Gail’s, one Kramer Spitz was weeping post graduate separation tears over an amore lost…while the children of these variously married adults screamed bloody murder tearing about the fascinating spaces of this old wooden castle: those wonderful narrow stairs to the third floor…the dumb waiter plunging up and down, herky jerky…and the echoic shouting down the laundry chute to the basement. Kramer was sobbing on the porch, and Gail saw her neighbor Kim kiss her husband goodbye and then saw seconds later, Bob’s artist pal Carlos sneak through the hedge and enter her house from the rear, so to speak.

With this plotline in barged her father and mother, both higher than kites, dragging along Aunt Kate and Uncle Douglas, heavy drinkers, loud, occasionally obscene as sailors on leave…

“How the hell are ya, Gail,” Uncle Douglas cries and grabs her round the waist, one hand brushing her breast (always the tit man, her aunt declared one drunken night)–

–and just then the kids burst down and up from everywhere and exploded like confetti in the big kitchen…and Gail seeing purple dancing spots slung the meat platter, a white bone heirloom, across the room like a giant ghostly prehistoric Frisbee…and the beef, sizeable given the demands of company on hand, skipped then rolled into the corner by the push pedal trash can–filthy–while the great heirloom continued its horrifying trajectory past Aunt Kate’s bristly hair and smashed solidly through the pantry glass doors and shattered glass followed the hallowed hoary plate to the floor and thence in a fantastic display of three dimensional chaos theory invaded the space beneath the kitchen table.

The crash and subsequent Munch-like, blood-curdling scream from Gail brought the entire tribe to absolute silence to the kitchen…

Gail was succored, patted, cooed to and hustled into a kitchen chair.

“Let’s eat out,” Bob said to kith and kin alike. “How ’bout Chinese?”

There was a shout of joy! And off they went, tumbling into three different cars, vans and SUVs, and Gail still sobbing between retellings, and laughing hysterically…

Gail finally laughed in a human-like manner; she had Uncle Douglas pick up Carlos, now distracted from the house next door by the bedlam spinning in the driveway…and off they went.

Later, after a big meal the cavalcade stopped at the city’s central park…and the kids and then adults waded in the giant duck pool and Uncle Douglas fell down and got soaked, Kramer the lovelorn was comforted, confessing his deep loss (mostly lust he later admitted), and then somebody screamed “water snake!” which cleared the pool and brought them home again to the wedding cake Queen Anne…which later that night Gail told Bob they must sell without delay or she’d have to leave him…and he stared at her like she’d lost her mind and said softly, “Okay, hon.”

Then Gail smiled and said with a feverish glint to her green eyes, “Over my dead body.”

#fiction DIFFICULT PEOPLE 172 EROTIC flash fictions, Zen tales revealing destiny-imbued moments. Adult readers only. http://amzn.to/Po18v7

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Flash Fictions from “Difficult People”: The Red Burrito

Tim Robbins and his agent, I didn’t catch the name, were in the Red Burrito off Cienfuegos, and I was out of work, and Tim was having a lunch with Anton Chekov. It was that kind of tabloid hyper-realm, and you know, I’d met Tim and his wife, what’s her name, you know, she was in Bull Durham…beautiful golden face, and Costner did her on the breakfast table, oh yeah, Susan Sarandon…and now she wasn’t there–and I overheard Tim asking Anton if he had any new stuff since The Cherry Orchard, Three Sisters, Uncle Vanya…and Anton was “without my agent” and unwilling to discuss anything in detail…but there were several things still on the backburner…something about neurotics on a horse ranch in the San Berdo mountains…wow, then about that time Tim seemed to get pissed about something–“Say, isn’t his agent the one in the Russian mafia?” Tim says to his agent…and the agent wags his finger and does a funky thing with his eyebrows…maybe he wasn’t Tim’s agent…just some production assistant, some remora from the studios …and well Chekhov got an attitude, got his panties in a bunch, and there were some seething, hissed remarks back and forth–I did hear the word “butcher…” but god knows, they barely touched their food and shoved (wanted to doggie bag the untouched burritos & beans!)…I jumped at the chance to leverage.

“Hey Tim, buddy,” I said on the sidewalk and introduced myself again. Tim gave me the look, bottom feeder, but liberal that he is, he took pity, towering above me. I asked about his wife–

“Bad day…” he grumbled. “Susan’s got me in the doghouse for–never mind–and Chekhov–the big shot! These nineteenth century guys really take an attitude…they think we moderns are a bunch of overstressed lab rats…” He wrinkled his nose like a rodent, sniffing…and I cued in, and we began sniffing

and snorting and making fun of our times–and Chekhov.

“Got a major stick up his ass,” Tim laid it on; we kept laughing. “Ah, here’s my car. Good luck in your acting…send your resume to my agent…wait…get an agent first–”

“Tim, I need work, real work. I’m hungry…”

He whipped out a fifty. “No, take it,” he said. “Don’t be proud and talk to Eduardo in there,” he motioned to the Red Burrito. “Tell him I sent you…”

“Thanks, Tim,” I said, disappointed, but hey, you take what you get…maybe Eduardo knew some people who knew…yeah…beggars aren’t all losers…

In the kitchen of the Red Burrito, Eduardo demonstrated heating tortillas to a golden, flexible tan. “Not too hot, go hard, see…back and forth…” he showed off. I tried it and did a few proper flips.

“Hey, you learn fast,” Eduardo said. “You’re hired!”

“How much you pay?”

“Two dollars per hour, all you can eat.”

“Two dollars! Jesus!”

I was on the sidewalk, rocking my heels outside the Red Burrito. Time to shake a leg…but wait a minute, isn’t that Shakespeare in the corner booth greasing on Faye Dunaway? I know Faye… kinda… just wait out here for her and the Bard, yeah…

#fiction DIFFICULT PEOPLE 172 EROTIC flash fictions, Zen tales revealing destiny-imbued moments. Adult readers only. http://amzn.to/Po18v7

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