THE FAN (flash fiction)

Don Drysdale walked into the dugout and smiled at Maury Wills and rookie Charlie Neal, before throwing his mitt on the bench and giving everyone that smug smile.

The night before, a bunch of fellas from the team were out sucking down bourbans at Toot’s Shor’s joint in Manhattan and made a little bet about that bouncy little fan with the cute overbite.

Drysdale pulled out a torn cocktail napkin from his satin jacket and bragged, “You all owe me a finske because she gave me her phone number.”

Wills snatched it away to inspect and said, “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, I thought you owed me five bucks.”

Charlie Neal leaned over and piped in, dejected, “Whoa, whoa, whoa... she told me dark meat was her thing.”

After deciding which one would call her first, the boys from Ebbets Field looked at one another and decided where tonight's challenge would be.

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THE BEAST WITHIN (flash fiction)

He took their million dollar advance but now he owed them a book. Problem was that he was plum out of ideas and moreover, drier than August in Death Valley.

So out came the scotch - used to work in the past - but this time it only made him angry and suspicious. Even the clickity-clack of his vintage Underwood and dopey trip to the cabin where he wrote the first one didn't spark the juices.

When he saw his face on the cover of Entertainment Weekly, the mania grew worse and only after barricading for days in the back of a dark closet did the inspiration to type arrive:

"Despite writing well over 60 novels and countless short stories, Hank knew the beast he'd have to slay in his next adventure would be the one buried deep within the bowels of his demented soul."

---

This is the original challenge post

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RECOGNITION (micro flash fiction)

18 words. That's all we had to use to create a story on the latest Six Sentences challenge. 3 words per sentences. Six Sentences. This is what popped out.

She didn't say.
I didn't ask
Didn't matter, though.
We both knew.
She loved him.
I didn't care.

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FROZEN IN THE KINGDOM (flash fiction)

Recently at Six Sentences, there was a challenge posted that had entrants use the concept of cryogenics. This is what I came up with...

The Magic Kingdom was obviously filled way with too much sword and sorcery for Little Sally not to wander off at closing time.

Intuitive and knowing full well her parents would find her eventually, she took a quick left turn at Captain Jack Sparrow's wooden knife sculpture (a new logo for the "Pirates of the Caribbean" ride) which led to a secret winding cement path.

Yup, if only the 'Mouse House' geeks knew that finding the infamous Disney tunnels was that simple.

Funny enough, in the brightly-lit labyrinth of corridors, no one seemed to question the little girl with the Cinderella wand who seemed like just another prop after hours.


Six left turns led to a drippy stairwell where she found him behind a plexiglass enclosure -- frozen and blue -- surrounded by duplicated liquid nitrogen canisters and refrigerated at minus 180 degrees.


Just barely able to read and staring at his blank smile, she was able to muster out the four letters on the brass nameplate into one full-sounding word, "WWwwwalt..."

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AUTHORS WHO CRAPPED OUT MASTERPIECES

Via Cracked.com: So what does it feel like to write something that will inspire audiences for generations? Apparently it feels like another day at the office, as it turns out some of the greatest works of all time weren't intended to be classics... and often were just dashed off for the hell of it.

To read the entire list, click HERE.

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WAITING FOR THEIR HUSBANDS (flash fiction)

My latest piece is once again inspired by the work of the great artist Edward Hopper is 1929's "Chop Suey."

Tuesday, Oct. 29, 1929

Agnes and Edna met at Chop Suey, the first upscale Asian eatery to open up shop in the greater Wall Street area, and chatted as if they they didn't have a care in the world - and they didn't.

Even though their financier husbands have been irritable of late, three Gin Rickeys were all it took to reaffirm their excitement for The Jazz Age.

Agnes went on and on about this new radio show called "Amos and Andy" and Edna just couldn't understand why that new comic strip - the one where the cockeyed sailor eats spinach - was so funny.

When Edna debated whether Henry Ford should've accepted Stalin's invitation to build an auto plant in Russia, Agnes changed the subject to riding the Grand Trunk Express through India.

As the first ruined tycoon hit the pavement, they both knew the Roaring Twenties were over and, amid chaos, quickly ran outside hoping their husbands wouldn't be late for dinner.

---

If you liked this, my other two Hopper Sixes can be found here and here.

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THE BEACH GIRL (flash fiction)

Somewhere around 5 a.m. Davina left the Vanity Fair party and completely blew off Elton's bash because something didn't feel quite right.

She told the limo driver to head up the Pacific Coast Highway until he saw Paco's Taco's, an all-night gourmet stand smack dab in the middle of Malibu. For all the hoopla of winning her first Oscar - which she aptly tossed into the Pacific - she knew deep down nothing would change.

It would only magnify only what was. Oh sure, the phone will ring louder now off the hook, the meatier roles will come and a better class of men will never seem to leave.

But for all those absolutes, though, the only thing Davina questioned slumped at 6 a.m. was: 'Will people only remember that god damned sex tape?'

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THE LAST MOMENTS OF PAPA H (flash fiction)

July 2, 1961 at the Finca Vigia, San Francisco de Paula, Cuba.

In one breath he thought "Cubans -- how I love these people..."

And in the next, Hemingway contemplated an act so very indiscreet.

Even with his Pulitzer and Nobel Prizes and a life so accomplished, he felt abandoned by almost everything and everyone around him.

Wanting a farewell drink, his nervous elbow knocked the last bottle of whiskey to the ground, shattering it into a beautiful jigsaw puzzle of glass.

Almost time, he stared at a lifetime of photographs, kissing the photos of his kids and wife.

He then turned to the Boss & Co. shotgun he bought at Abercrombie & Fitch and before he pulled the trigger, noticed what an elegant weapon it was.

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REAL DRINKS FOR REAL MEN

VIA REGRETFUL MORNING: Real men drink beer and whiskey. 'Nuff said. When you go to a bar, however, beer all the time can get a bit boring, and you may be looking for something like a strong mixed drink. However, being the manly man you are, you’ve never ordered a mixed drink before, and don’t actually know what drinks are safe to order without risking penile deflation. Worry not, here's a few drinks the manly man.

Click HERE.

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THE USHERETTE (flash fiction)

Lately, I've been inspired by artist Edward Hopper and after writing a Six for his "Automat" painting, I figured I would try my hand at this amazing painting as well.

The pictures were changing and the cigar-chomping studio chief told Sally she was yesterday's goods and they wouldn't be needing her on-screen anymore.

In a daze, she wandered down Hollywood Boulevard to Grauman's and after crying her eyes out, manager Sully Blizter offered her an ushering gig.

"Don't thank me, kid," he said chomping some Sen-Sen. "Thank the dead grunt who ain't comin' back..."

When Japan surrendered a day or so later, it dawned on her that the only job she could get was wearing a dead man's pants.

As she waited for each flicker to end, Sally found it agonizing to listen to the echoes of those starlets - many of whom she'd known - tango with the likes of Bogie, Clift and Raft.

After eight years of listening to hundreds if not thousands of pictures, her crackerjack ear for dialogue had been perfected and as a result, Sally got hired (by the same cigar-chomper) to write on a team for some new medium called television.

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FAKER: MAYOR OF NOWEHERE (flash fiction)

Geread was tired of faking it any longer.

Somehow he had managed to get himself elected mayor because, of all things, he'd won the grand prize on Jeopardy's Tournament of Champions so, at the time, people thought he was pretty damn smart.

Unfortunately, his local community was having a hard time believing him.

So here he was, holed up in his office, consumed by unnecessary knowledge of foliage, rare birds and Elizabethan poetry as he paced day in and day out without a frikkin clue.

Geread leaned against the glass and looked out.

A year and change after the election, he knew he'd failed and the only thing that would make him feel better was filling out an online application to Wheel of Fortune.

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WOULD-BE WIDOW (flash fiction)

I have a cold. Massive insomnia. Can't breathe, Stuffed. On stupid meds that are keeping me up... This is the result.

Josephine and her husband Bill Cummings were married only a year before Uncle Sam tapped his shoulder.

The morning he shipped out for basic training, he walked the plank in 'Ra-Ra' fashion and told her, "No matter what happens, keep going... We don't wanna speak German."

After two numb years, her daily routine had become almost commonplace - at work by 7 a.m. and in bed 13 hours later, six days a week.

One night after another laborious day at the textile mill there was certified note from the U.S. War Department stapled to her tenement door instead of a monthly love letter from Bill.

It said they would be back at 9 a.m. the next morning.

Hours later at the Automat, Josephine stared down at her coffee fighting to stay awake because she couldn't come to terms with the fact that she would wake up a widow.

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THE RIGHT PLACE AT THE RIGHT TIME (flash fiction)

The Drama Critic hopped aboard his 5 p.m. Manhattan-bound bus just as he did for the past 17 years. This time, though, his usually-boring trip home was different because ousted mayor Julio Taft was sitting next to him.

The guy seated in back of the Drama Critic leaned forward and with just enough spittle to make the day more annoying said, “Yo bub, that’s Julio Taft…”

The Drama Critic nodded and not thinking much of it, decided to chat up the former politico who was currently awaiting sentencing for a slew of corruption and graft charges.

Between doozy proclamations like, “They can’t prove that I did what they say I did” and “You’ll never see Julio Taft behind bars,” the Drama Critic started taking mental notes – a talent perfected after hundreds of long performances in dark theaters.

As the ol’ mayor hopped off of the creaky 71 muttering proudly, the Drama Critic stared at him and wondered how Taft would feel reading about this on Page One tomorrow morning.

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HERE’S HOPING GIZMO WON’T BECOME MINCEMEAT (poem)

HERE’S HOPING GIZMO
WON’T BECOME MINCEMEAT

Walking in, I noticed
the sign. The sad sign.
A desperate plea.
And sort of hopeless.
But off all places,
I thought. A bar?
My bar? This bar.
Who would post a lost
dog notice on the door?
Fuckers in this joint
wouldn't know nothing
from a lost dog.
Take a look inside:
We’re three or four rungs
above skid row.
But forget all that.
Out of respect
for this Xeroxed
'lil guy staring
at me, I read the
post; got
the lowdown.
Squishy face;
Answers to 'Gizmo';
frantic owners
begging to help
them ‘find our
little guy please’;
the whole nine;
But God, this dog looked
so douchey. Sort of like
he prance around with a
ribbon and a little bell.
Wandering alone
around here, he'd be a
goner for sure.
Mincemeat. But,
like everything else,
life goes on.
Three hours, two shots,
four beers and one slice
later I leave and
make my way home.
As I walk inside, I hear
a dog bark somewhere
and I swear to Jesus
I think of Gizmo. And
then I think
he’s a goner.
Mincemeat for sure.

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