The endless search for new flash fiction writing talent continues here at the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette. Hello hello hello, my blogging and writing friends. It’s the Old Soldier with another edition of the most dynamic flash fiction magazine on the internet.
If you ever needed a good reason to take out a subscription to this magazine, the showcasing of new flash fiction talent is a great place to start. And of course, this story by Grace Jefferson will be automatically entered into the writing contest which has a cash award of $30.00. You can’t beat that with a stick.
So, take out a free email subscription today. The subscription tab is at the top of the page. And now for our feature presentation.
*********************
Quarters
There was no reason, thought Paul, for any creature on earth to have more than four legs. Insects that had more than four legs could only have been invented by the demons who ruled over phobias and plagues. What clock were they racing that they needed six, eight, or more legs? The likes of caterpillars and inchworms aside, it was only for the ability to scurry – a particularly insect verb; to have access to you in your most vulnerable hours of the night and get away before you could defend yourself.
A man described as ‘rugged-looking’ to his girlfriend, by the mutual friends who introduced them, he did not feel embarrassed by his abhorrence for bugs, even when Wendy teased him about it. It was understood between them by now that she dealt better with environmental crudities and discomforts. They had camped out a couple of times, when they were first dating, because she liked to and so he said he did too. But home infestation was more than a discomfort to him; it was also an affront to his basic territorialism.
“This is war, you little bastards,” Wendy heard him saying in the other room.
“Did you see another one?”
“What do you think?”
Wendy didn’t respond, just made a note in the mental debit column she always kept for boyfriends so her friends wouldn’t have to tell her when it was time to break up.
Certain tones cost a point.
Paul ambled in and bent over from behind the wooden chair to kiss her on the forehead. She restored half a point to his balance.
“I’m sorry, honey. You know how I am about bugs.” He walked around to face her. She conceded to him another quarter point.
“What are they?”
He shrugged. His ignorance about his arch-nemeses amused her. But then, she didn’t study serial-rapists.
“I don’t know. They look like tics but that doesn’t make sense.”
“Oh Paul, it sounds like…” She was about to say ‘bedbugs’ but thought better of it. “It sounds like you should get an exterminator already.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I know a good outfit if you want me to call,” she said.
He raised his brows.
“Sure, babe, that’d be helpful.”
Relieved, Wendy committed herself to remember to ask around about specialists in bedbugs. That explained his scratching. The pest control people could introduce the b-word to him themselves, when they talked to him, and she was out of town. He would laugh as if they had said he had cooties. Then he would understand, and want to torch the house. Whatever; she would be out of town by then. Most of her stuff was still at her place. She could decide how much of it needed to stay there when she got back.
The End
********************
Grace Jefferson is a complex energy pattern, transiting through plutonian life dynamics with support from Jupiter in Cancer. She is supposedly a resident of Minnesota.
Male/Female Relationships In Flash Fiction
July 14, 2010 — pittsburghflashfictiongazetteI have a story for you today.
Hello hello hello, all my blogging and writing friends. It’s 8:40 a.m. in Pittsburgh on what is a muggy, overcast Wednesday morning. The Old Soldier has a big family reunion to attend on Saturday. You know, one of those family reunions where you don’t know most of the people. We have a big family. Maybe I’ll get a story out of it.
Male/female relationships provide great material for the flash fiction writer. I know we all have something to say about getting along with the opposite sex.
Being a bachelor, I wish I got along better with the opposite sex. Maybe I wouldn’t be a bachelor. No sense crying over spilt milk. All any writer can really do is to try to turn the mud of life into gold.
********************
Life Is Art
She and I were sitting at a table at the big window in the Sanctuary drinking mugs of cold beer. Before the Sanctuary went out of business, it was only a few blocks from the Cathedral of Learning of the University of Pittsburgh. My friend was in her forties and was working on her doctorate. I was in my fifties working on my baccalaureate.
“Sex sex sex,” my friend was saying. “That’s all you men ever think about.”
“It’s not all we think about. But it is what gets men and women together in the first place.”
“No it’s not,” she said. “You claim to know so much about women. And I’ll tell you something else, too. No matter how good the sex is it won’t keep a couple together.”
“Have you ever known a married couple with a lousy sex life?”
“Have you ever known one with no life outside of sex?” she said.
I think we were both a little drunk. “Lay Down” by Melanie played on the jukebox. A nice mix of Pitt students from different countries was in the place. I looked through the big window at the buildings, cars parked along the street and at the people passing by. Inside, the Sanctuary was pleasantly dim and cool. Outside, it was a hot, bright, lovely September afternoon. I didn’t mind being in my fifties. I didn’t mind being an undergraduate at Pitt.
“So,” I said, “what’s the solution?”
“Guy, darling, what makes you think there is one?”
The End
********************
Don’t miss a single issue of the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette. The free email subscription tab is at the top of the page.
Short Story Ideas That Work
Blogging: What’s Your Blogging Persona?
Blogging: Inspiration Everywhere