“Good China” – Flash Fiction

 

 

     He latched onto my nipple.

     The way newborn sons latch onto nipples-only distant.  And the scenario takes me

back to a place of pubescent butterflies and crimson donuts sprinkled in Christmas glitter gold. 

     I sigh, and run my fingers through his hair-short, refined, tousled.  The gold of the calico blond strands shimmer beneath the sunlight probing into our little secret affair.

     From amidst his suckling, he glances up at me, my reflection stares back.  I look down at my white dress.  The eyelets on my dress are like the windows of my soul, missing threads.

     I sweep an anxious eye across the nightstand.  Divorce papers unsigned, yet lay perfectly folded beside a pen tempting me to sign the mistake you’ve made. 

     My mind drifts back to that hot August afternoon.  A sticky note posted to you from me on our front door:  Dear John, Your girlfriend called.  I forgot to buy Kleenex at the store.  You moved out, and he was to move in, your best friend who didn’t know you had moved out prior to him knocking on what used to be “our” front door, on a late September morning. 

     He leaves me a sticky note on my front door:  X O, X O, empty boxes.

     I am guilty to say we now share in this room, no longer sacred or abide by or united in our matrimony.  Not even my nipple knows no boundaries as my tears slip through the sand of decaying bones; your mother’s ring.  It no longer resides on my left hand. 

     My nipple grows raw, not with sensation, but with sentiment.

     Because the open range echoes the sound of death’s love aging gracefully near.  I thank you for the memories of when my heart was broken next to my good China.

 

 

A Mexican Stand-Off – flash fiction

 

 

The boss.  The drug lord.  The drug dealer.  The dope runner.  The drug pusher.  The bagman.  The hit-man.  The assassin.  The fuck up.  The innocent bystander.  The lover.  The mistress.  The wife.  The children.  Guns drawn.  A really big shoot out.  Everyone dies.  Silence.  Blood is flowing.  Flies buzz around.  The bullet riddled piñata donkey hangs by a swinging limb.  Candy is scattered everywhere.  The Federales bullshit about the massacre and help themselves to cake and ice cream.

“ROCKET” – flash fiction

 

 

     I have a rocket inside of me.  They put it inside me some odd years ago when I was young, maybe younger, or younger than youngest.  The rocket is white or maybe black or maybe even red?  The rocket does have a color only I’ve forgotten what that color is from years having passed.  I figured the color of the rocket must’ve faded or maybe I must’ve smeared it like paint across a canvas due to water, rain, tears.  I’ll just say for now the rocket is colorless.  The rocket is big.  It’s the length of my torso.  The tip of the rocket peeks at the crest of my chest; the bowel of the rocket peeks at the base of my cervix.  The rocket wants to fly, somewhere, anywhere.  Perhaps to the end of the world and back?  Perhaps to heaven and hell and back?  Perhaps from the north end of the pole to the south end of the pole and back?  Wherever the rocket can fly it wants to fly there.  In a general store, I am fourteen.  I am tall for fourteen.  Kids at school call me names like “daddy long legs” and  “Amazon woman”.  I don’t think it’s funny, but they do.  Their adolescence pose jealousy because I can touch the sky and they can’t.  In the store, my ash brown hair is split down the middle and braided in two.  I’m chewing gum and browsing the magazine rack regarding anything on rockets.  I want to be an astronaut woman but I don’t tell my mom.  My mom wants me to be something but she’s not sure what because she thinks I’m not sure what.  I pop my gum.  Please don’t do that! the boy who had been standing at a near distance casing through muscle car magazines snaps at me.  He doesn’t look at me as I look at him.  He’s got messy hair.  It’s blond.  Looks dirty but smells clean.  He looks eighteen.  Black t-shirt worn down jeans vintage combat boots.  I pop my gum louder and the guy, no longer the boy, purses sturdy lips and cringes in his athletically built body.  I’m amused, and so I pop my gum again just to amuse myself some more.  The guy furiously slams the magazine against the rack.  I know I should be scared but the guy reminds me of my dead dad.  He was always furious.  He liked to slam things against things and call names just to call names.  I finally turn away from the guy.  I start to pop my gum again only this time I pop air.  The guy, and to my amazement, shoved two fingers into my mouth and yanked out my gum and threw it on the floor.  The guy has brownish-blue eyes.  Once fierce are now serene.  He studies my face for a moment and something within me sparks coercing my insides to flutter.  I’m Darwin he says.  I swallow air.  You know he smirks like Darwinism?  I choke on my air but I’m still breathing.  You believe in Darwinism?  I ask in my girly-girly tone.  No.  You?  He asks.  No I say I believe in rockets.  Darwin is amused.  His rough hands slip into both his front pockets.  They move around and suddenly I’m intrigued to what lingers behind his button fly.  I turn away, embarrassed.  Seconds later I turn back to him to say something to him but there’s two sticks of gum being shoved gently into my mouth.  Pop all you want Darwin says.  I bite down on the gum; it’s minty.  So you like to fly?  Darwin assumes.  I nod.  I want to fly to the moon I concluded.  We’re racing down a deserted road in the outer of the skirts of a small Texas town.  Darwin has the pedal to the metal and my heart is racing a thousand miles per second like a rocket drunk on its fuel yet it can’t keep up with his Super Sport.  It’s metallic blue.  A crosswalk resides down the hood.  The thrushers are cranked wide open.  The sky is blue.  The sun is brilliant.  The air is hot.  The scenery all around is a blur.  I see nothing but the denim blue road ahead which reminds me of Darwin’s jeans.  Suddenly the Super Sport fishtails to an abrupt halt.  Both our bodies jerk forward hard then back.  I have to catch my heart at the base of my throat.  Darwin flips the gear in reverse and drives the Super Sport backwards a few yards on the road before he continues onto the fields of foxtails.  I glance through the back window and the Super Sport is nearing a tree.  I turn around in my seat and notice it’s the only tree visible from my vantage.  The Super Sport parks beneath the tree.  A swift breeze grazes the car the way cows graze fields.  I like you Darwin says.  I like you I tell him back.  Good he says.  I’m fourteen I say.  So he says.  I’m to young I say.  Darwin has a spark in his eye, the same spark that caused my insides to flutter earlier.  Fourteen is not young he says it’s the right age to fly to the moon.  Darwin leans across the seat and puts his mouth over mine.  His tongue fidgets with mine because I don’t know how to fidget with his; I’ve never kissed a guy before.  Darwin wrestles with my tongue for awhile until my tongue finally gives up and gives in.  For a moment with Darwin I feel like I’m eating a banana split.  The ice cream is soft and creamy and feels velvety like Darwin’s tongue.  The strawberry topping is delicately sweet like Darwin’s breath.  The pineapple topping reminds me of a tropical island, like Gilligan’s.  The chocolate topping is like sampling forbidden fruit.  The whip cream reminds me of being on cloud 9.  The nut topping feels like my feelings for Darwin.  The banana reminds me of Darwin’s cock.  The cherry reminds me of innocence lost.  I enjoyed my banana split.  I throw the container into the trash can and Darwin drives me home.  How was your day?  My mother asks.  I flew to the moon I tell her.  In a record store, I am fifteen.  Darwin tells me to take my hair down after we raced to our make-out place to make-out.  Instead of a banana split I have a sundae, and Darwin drives me home.  You’re late!  My mother gripes.  Yea, but I’m home! I gripe back.  In a clothing store, I am sixteen.  Darwin tells me to take off my clothes after we raced to our make-out place to make-out and have sex.  Instead of a sundae I have an ice cream cone, and Darwin drives me home.  You’re passed your curfew!  My mother bitches.  So ground me!  I bitch back.  In a liquor store, I am seventeen.  Darwin hands me a beer after we raced to our make-out place to make-out and drink and have sex.  Instead of an ice cream cone, I eat a burger, and Darwin drives me home.  That’s it, you’re grounded!  My mother yells.  Try and ground me!  I yell back.  In an Adult store, I am eighteen.  Darwin sticks the DVD porno flick into the player after we raced to our make-out place, now his apartment, to make-out and drink and have sex.  Instead of a burger, I eat some leftovers, and Darwin drives me home.  I want you packed and out of this house!  My mother screams.  Whatever!  I scream back.  In a drug store, I am nineteen.  Darwin hands me the stick and tells me to pee on it after we raced to our new apartment where we make-out, drink, and have sex regularly.  How are you?  My mother asks when she visits our new apartment.  Pregnant I tell her.  In a wedding store, I am twenty.  Darwin places the wedding ring on my matrimonial finger which he forgot to do earlier because of his nerves after we raced to our new home where we don’t make-out, drink, or have sex.  How is the pregnancy?  My mother asks when she visits our new home.  I’m overdue I tell her.  In a grocery store, I am twenty-one.  Darwin hands me the baby to take the groceries off the caravan after we raced to our home where we kiss, share quiet dinners, and make love.  How is the baby?  My mother asks when she visits the baby.  It’s not a baby I tell her It’s a rocket.   

Today I woke up feeling fat. . .

 

. . .so leave me the fuck alone!  Okay.

 

But hey, enjoy my poem!

 

**********

 

MAMA

 

Fat Mama

Sexy Mama

Can’t fit in my jeans, Mama

Shut up, Devlin, and have another donut!

 

There. End of poem.  Now go away. . .:(

“48 reasons NOT to work at a Home Depot” – flash fiction

 

 

He was a self-proclaimed (1)Do-It-Yourself killer.  He killed the mother.  Chopped up the father.  Hung the son.  Pissed on the dog.  Stepped on the cat.  Cut fresh (2)flowers from the (3)garden and arranged them in a vase in the living daughter’s (4)kitchen on top of the (5)island butcher’s block next to the brain mattered (6)stained machete.  The daughter squirmed beneath his firm grasp on her throat and pelvis.  She was the reason why he was there in this (7)dreadful place of (8)Home Depot memorabilia from previous Do-It-Yourself (9)Workshops.  He swore he saw (10)Homer running behind the (11)fridge after Barbie and Ken with (12)paint brushes and (13)utility knives because Homer caught them fornicating in his (14)orange apron pockets and beneath his (15)orange painters hat.  He could smell Ken’s (16)plastic melted cum sticking to his bald head as Barbie begged from somewhere within the (17)nuts and (18)bolts department to have her hard plastic breasts (19)buffed and (20)sanded and (21)sprayed by instant gold tanning (22)products real women would kill for in a Walgreens drug store if it promised a date with look-alike-Kens.  Barbie was lucky.  “Ken is a fag!” the killer once told his sister when he was a little boy dressed like GI Joe chasing little girls in pink (23)floral dresses chopping off pigtails while droplets of blood wept on those pretty blossoming flowers then shooting at boys who dared to steal his glory as the globe-trotting-pigtail-chopping-military-man.  The daughter squirmed a second time.  She had gold hair.  A ponytail instead of pigtails.  As he originally thought she had in the (24)makeshift park on the jungle Jim on the swings on the Rocket that went sky high from a kid’s eye.  “A kid’s eye” the killer thought slipping his (25)calloused hands over the daughter’s face.  (26)Mashing her skull he then thought of mashed potatoes at the Golden Corral on 75th Avenue where the majority of diners were illegals, aliens disguised as Americans sloughing over the endless buffet because they had green cards that permitted them to.  The killer thought “Since when did America succumb to these atrocities particularly (27)signs translated from English to Spanish?”  And he went on to ponder on why there wasn’t any signs translating on how to get back to the alien river mother-fucking-ships yet there were signs on how to eat at a buffet:  Please use a (28)clean plate when visiting the buffet.  Por favor a usar un limpio plato cuando visitando el bufete cada vez.  Mashed potatoes?  The killer’s stomach growled picking up the machete finishing off the daughter on the kitchen’s butcher block obviously (29)made by the (30)Homersapians of (31)Home Depot.  The head rolled and landed in the stepped on cat’s (32)litter box.  The dog whimpered.  One of the (33)roses wilted in the waterless vase.  Homer chased after Ken who chased after Barbie.  The killer was going insane with maddening hunger.  “This was supposed to be an easy fucking (34) job!”  The killer bitched.  He then spat on Homer as he rushed passed him.  “What?”  Homer sounded (35)orangey offended rubbing the slime smell of ingested (36)lead and tobacco (37)wood from his bald head  “This is your fucking fault!”  The killer rampaged. “Turning me into a fucking (38)carpenter.  A (39)gardener.  A baby-sitter!”  The killer scooped up Homer and Ken and Barbie and shoved them into his (40)tool bag and zipped the zipper shut.  There was muffling.  Barbie squealing.  Homer (41)screwing Ken in his ass as usual.  The killer grunted.  He detested killing on an empty stomach.  It fucked with his (42)lunch hour.  “So how’d it go. . .at the Johnson (43)residence with their newly (44)installed butcher’s block?” a freckled face albino toon in his late teens with gold bling on one front tooth probed.  The killer snuck-a-peek at manchild’s hands only to find they were grotesquely big and hairy (45)green, the obvious signs of good times raped and wasted on palm (46)Rosie and her five little (47)friends.  He made a mental note to take manchild up on his previous offer of (48)retiling his bedroom.  “Well, they were so ecstatic the woman just about had herself a heart attack.  The man just about fell to pieces.  Their son almost tripped over his shoelaces and just about hung himself.  And the daughter. . .well, she just about lost her head!  Those Do-It-Yourself projects can be a real killer, know what I mean?”

 

(pub2012 in MF)