Fiction: Number One Son by Guy Hogan

October 28, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette
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Several years ago at the age of fifty-one, Scott Delaney proposed marriage to Shea Yeager twelve years after his father died of cancer. Shea Yeager was thirty-eight, a full professor in the English Department of the University of Pittsburgh; but she had never married or had children.

She said, “I knew you were going to ask me. I debated with myself all weekend.”

“Dad wouldn’t have believed it. He thought I was a bum. Well, a lot of us kids back from Nam never got our ambition back.”

They sat leaning toward each other at a table for two next to the big window on the Forbes Avenue side of the restaurant, their hands clasped together on the plastic, red and white checkered table covering. It was a hot Monday afternoon in August in the Oakland section of Pittsburgh. The buildings and parked cars, the traffic and people stood out sharply in the glare of the sun.

“You reach a certain age,” he said. “It’s strange. For the longest I thought ultimately life was meaningless. If the old man could hear me now. That’s not to say I haven’t enjoyed my restless bachelorhood.”

Shea said nothing.

“The old pick-up is paid off and you know I keep her looking good and running sweet. I might even make a few bucks on this collection of stories you’re helping me with.”

Shea Yeager sat silent, looking down at their clasped hands.

The waitress appeared with two bottles of Iron City beer and a glass for Shea. The waitress was very young, probably a university student. Scott and Shea unclasped their hands so as not to exclude the waitress. The beer was cold and delicious.

Outside, the harsh sunlight brought everything into sharp focus. Inside, the air conditioning was on, but the heat and glare of the sun came through the window pane. For a long moment, Shea sat watching something on the other side of the window pane. Then she looked at him.

“All right,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Yes.” She gave him her hands.

“You won’t regret this.” He laughed. He felt giddy. “I guess I need your ring size.”

“Think we’ll ever have a vegetable garden like your mom’s?”

“I hope so.”

“Wish I could have known your father.”

He contemplated her for a few seconds. He let go of her hands and sat back. He picked up his beer and drank the rest of it down. He put the empty bottle back down on the table, and then he sat looking at something on the other side of the window pane.

“Sweetheart,” he said, “I wish I could have known him, too.”

The End

*****

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Fiction: No Demons by John Craig

October 24, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette
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Sander Yari was found dead in his apartment on the South Side of Pittsburgh, PA yesterday morning, approximately 30 minutes after sunrise. Yari’s body was discovered by his girlfriend, Emily, of the past 2yrs.

I told the paramedics that I was picking him up that morning to go jogging down by the waterfront. I let myself in the apartment with the key that he gave me and noticed Sander sitting on his meditation cushion. This was nothing new for me to see, Sander has been a practicing mediator since high school. The next ten minutes I sat in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea and I didn’t become concerned until I saw that his head had fallen forward onto his chest. When he didn’t move I walked over to him calling his name and when I placed my hand on his shoulder I felt nothing. No movement, no breath, no warmth, no blood flow, no life. I panicked. I called 911. I screamed. I froze. I waited for the paramedics to arrive. There he sat in the lotus pose dead, with the slightest smile on his face and a note paper-clipped to his dog tags.

The paramedics told me that it seemed he suffered no pain; his body had no sign of trauma. His heart just stopped…it’s a damn mystery. Then one paramedic zipped up the black bag that now held Sander’s body. He handed me the letter and Sander’s dog tags, gave me a bereaved smile, said he was sorry for my loss and pushed the gurney out the front door of the apartment.

I placed Sander’s dog tags around my neck and read his letter.

The note read:
This is not a suicide letter. This is my letter of samsara; my cycle of death to re-birth has begun. It is my intention to transmigrate from the organic to the ethereal, back to the organic world. I sit…breathe in and breathe out, staring at the sunrise asking my soul to leave this subtle body.

With love, Sander
P.S. I found God and s/he wears shoes

“What…what…what!? Sander!” I screamed…death, samsara, God, shoes…F-you. Why? What do I do now? Who do I call first? I am cold, I am alone…Sander…why?

Not knowing what to do next I sat down in the lotus pose on Sander’s meditation cushion staring out the same window as he did, seeing the view which would have been his last. City skyline, tree tops, white clouds, gray-blue sky and the smell of clean morning air. This is what Sander would have seen. I cried…I pressed his dog tags to my chest and felt the cold steel that he wore around his neck since before we met. For all the time that I laid in his arms I never took notice of what the dog tags had inscribed on them.

Surname, First name, Second Initial: Yari, Sander A.
Army serial number: 3733756 T42 430
Blood Type: Negative A
Religion: No demons

Three days later I was in front of a crowd of 300 people. A gathering of his ex-army buddies, college friends and relatives, all of whom I had never met. I stood in a church that Sander would have never attended and gave his eulogy.

“No demons, that is what Sander had on his dog tags for his religion preference. That is Sander Yari, he no longer cared for organized religion and felt no need to pick any one house of worship over the other. In his simplistic way… no demons…was a perfect fit for his statement of faith.

“I met Sander in November ‘06, waiting in line for coffee. Actually I met Sander when I accidentally spilled my coffee on his hands at the cream and sugar bar. I was so apologetic, he was calm and smiled. We introduced ourselves; we talked, shared a scone and fell in love over the next couple of months. We would go jogging in the morning and at night would cook dinner together. He called it our “cooking therapy”. No television, no music, just us talking about our day while we prepared our meal.

“Every Sunday afternoon we would have dinner with my family. Sunday evening would be spent in my father’s woodshop, building ornate picture frames. It was great time spent. We would turn on football games or hockey games or if there were no games we would turn on the iPod shuffle and listen to our jukebox of music. He would build frames, I would watch, we would both drink beer and sometimes we would dance in the dust.

“Sander held a job that he was impartial to. He was good at his job, or at least the company he worked for liked him. Sander did not like to spend the money that he earned from his job, if he could help it. He did spend it, but he preferred sweat equity. That’s what he called it…sweat equity….hard work in trade for service. That’s what he did with all those picture frames that he built in my father’s woodshop. Trade for service; sometimes he would get a haircut or vegetables from a local produce shop. One time he even got his taxes done. It seems to make people happy….sweat equity.

“I called Sander my twenty-something-disco-monk; energetic on the outside and fully devoted on the inside. He was urban chic, artistic and cultural. He enjoyed experiences of the city life, good conversation and long dinners at home. He took pleasure in meditation, yoga and reading spiritual texts of all types.

“The spring of 2002 he was in the army stationed between the ice cube tray of Alaska and the sandbox of Iraq. Fire and ice, that’s how he described traveling between the two of them. Sander never had to shoot a gun in combat nor was a gun ever shot at him. He was very happy about that. He was a Chaplin Assistant in the Army, which gave him a lot of free time and a large library to read through.

“After reading the Gospel of Thomas he proclaimed an apostasy, a formal disaffiliation with organized religion. Sander interpreted a passage from the Gospel of Thomas in which Jesus said, ‘I am the light that is over all things. I am all: from me all came forth, and to me all attained. Split a piece of wood; I am there. Lift up the stone, and you will find me there.’ I believe these are the words that have brought us here today. Sander did not believe that there was separation between Jesus and himself. I think he needed to prove it to himself.”

At this time I read Sander’s letter to the funeral congregation.

“This is not a suicide letter. This is my letter of samsara, my cycle of death to re-birth has begun. It is my intention to transmigrate from the organic to the ethereal, back to the organic world. I sit…breathe in and breathe out, staring at the sunrise asking my soul to leave this subtle body.

With love, Sander
P.S. I found God and s/he wears shoes.”

I touched the neckline of my dress and pulled out his dog tags that I had hanging around my neck. Holding them tightly in my hand I repeated the last sentence – P.S. I found God and s/he wears shoes.

Crying, I looked down at my shoes… Breathe Emily, I said to myself, breathe.

Looking up from my shoes I saw Sander standing in the back of the church…

The End 

Webpage: www.craig-photography.com

John Craig is the father of one girl, husband of one wife and the owner of one dog and one cat. But he doesn’t think the cat actually submits to the idea of having an owner. He is the owner of Craig Photography, a Pittsburgh-based photographer who has earned a B.A. in communications and has over 15 years of photography experience. 

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Fiction: Underbelly by Guy Hogan

October 22, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette
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My old bass player called me last night. He finally got his doctorate in political science. He’s an adjunct professor in Vermont. I should have asked where he was teaching in Vermont. He’s married with two kids and he and his wife, Tina, are buying their first home. He invited Tina as a friend to one of our band practices years ago. I was there at the very beginning of their relationship. I was the lead singer. The band did original rock and had a real future. But we were the classic Pittsburgh basement band: always practising but never playing out. Well, Dave found a wife and I got a short story out of it. The title of the story was “Underbelly.” I explained to Dave years ago that the story wasn’t about when he and I were together in our band. “Underbelly” was about an earlier band I was fronting where the bass player was an ex-junkie and still an alcoholic and he and the lead guitarist where small time dealers.

The name of this band was Hit n’ Run. During one practice it was obvious that the lead guitarist, the leader of the band, had something else on his mind besides practice. His playing was disconnected. In between two numbers I asked him what was wrong. 

“Hey, man,” I said to him. “What’s up? What’s going on? You’re out of it.”

“My girlfriend asked to borrow one of my pistols.”

I knew he collected guns.

“Your pistol. What the hell for?”

“She said she wants to kill herself.”

The bass player sitting in a chair because he was too drunk to stand chugged another beer. The keyboardist and the drummer waited. For no good reason I said “Check” several times into the live mike.

So that’s what it was like. It’s why so many bands don’t make it. That’s why I titled the story “Underbelly.”

The End

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Fiction: Adult Education by Guy Hogan

October 19, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette
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How many times have you fucked him? he said.

I won’t suffer that language.

He looked his age, but people said you would never suspect she had two grown children.  This husband and wife sat across from each other at the kitchen table drinking bottled beer, no glasses.  She smoked a cigarette.

What’s his name? he said.

You don’t know him.

What’s his name?

I’m not telling you his name.

Because you know I’d kill him.

Not in a fair fight.  Believe you me, he’s in great shape.

You bitch.

Go to hell.

That’s where I’m at.  That’s where you’ve put me.

Where do you think I’ve been all these years?

Is that what this is?  Is that what this is all about?  Getting even?

One won’t make me even.

The wall phone rang.  He got to it first.

Hello!

Daddy?  Daddy, is that you?

Cindy, this is a bad time, honey.

What’s wrong?

Give me the phone.

I’m talking here.

Give me the damn phone.

All right.  Here.  Take it.  Why don’t you tell her?

Hello, dear.

Mother, what on earth?

The man went to the refrigerator, got another bottle of beer and twisted the cap throwing it in the sink.  He sat down at the table, took a long drink then called out, Your mother’s fucking some college boy!

He drank more of the beer.  His wife finished talking to their daughter, and then she sat down at the table, lit another cigarette, exhaled smoke, crossed her arms and stared at him.

He said, That’s a filthy habit.

None of us are angels.  So, what are we going to do?

Do?  Do?  You have some gall.  I’ll give that much to you.  You have some damn nerve.

I didn’t mean to hurt you.

Oh, no.  Of course not.

He does have a girlfriend.  He doesn’t want her to find out.  He doesn’t want to see me anymore.

From where he sat, the man could see into the dining room and out the big window.  Night was descending and lights were already on in the living room of the neighbors across the street.  No one was in the living room.  A lawn mower sat in the gravel driveway that led to an open garage.  A station wagon sat in the garage and a van sat at the curb.  Both vehicles were late models.

We usually went drinking after class.

Which class?

I won’t tell you that, either.

And to think I was the one to suggest you go back for your MFA.

I’m sorry.

I was so proud.

I’m sorry.

My wife, the scholar.

What are we going to do?

Oh, God.

She crushed out her cigarette in the heavy glass ashtray and lit another one.

You should’ve stayed in ballet, he said.  You could’ve taught ballet.

I was sick of ballet.

You’re still built like a dancer.

I was fortunate to perform as long as I did.

You could have been a pima ballerina.

No.

A principal.

The corps de ballet was enough.  You have to marry ballet and I was already married.

Well, you fixed that, didn’t you?

I guess I did.

She crushed out the cigarette and left the kitchen, the sound of her footsteps climbing the stairs.

He sat in the near darkness.  He got up and clicked on the overhead light and then sat back down at the table.  He had an urge to swipe the five empty beer bottles off the table.  He stared down at the table. 

Now in his mind he and she were young again.  He saw himself walking with her through the hall to the dance studio.  She was hauling the balky dance bag which hung by a long strap from her right shoulder as she walked in that toes pointed outward sway all the student ballerinas walked in.  Sprawled over the hall floor in front of the closed brown twin doors, other student ballerinas in black leotards, white tights and pink toe shoes limbered up.  Some of them wore pink leg warmers, too.  All of them had their hair pulled back tight from their faces.  Soon the studio would fill with the scent of perfume and sweat.

She would find a spot, drop the bag and kick off her clogs while pulling down her jeans to sit on the floor.  He’d sit down beside her.  If the pink toe shoes were new there was the repeated bending to loosen them up.  She would put the flat nose shoes on her feet and tie the pink ribbons around her ankles, the end of the ribbons tucked in because they should never show.  Then she’d stand up.  He would stand up.  There was never enough room to put many steps together.  She’d go through the basic positions.  She’d flex each ankle several times while lightly gripping one of his biceps for balance.  Finally, she would let go of his arm and  go up en pointe to walk around in a small circle taking tiny, very quick and very precise steps with her head, arms and hands held just so, the muscles of her legs working splendidly beneath the white tights…

His wife’s footsteps came down the stairs.  He left the kitchen and went into the living room.  In the lamplight she was taking a sweater from the closet and putting it on.  A shoulder purse sat on the cocktail table.  A suit case sat on the floor next to the sofa.

She said, I’ll phone.

He said, Oh, now c’mon.

The End 

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Fiction: Old Couches And Flea Collars by Diane Payne

October 18, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette
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A boy, ten maybe twelve, no older, listens to his mother describe the couches she has listed for sale in the paper to someone over the phone. “You really got to like gold because this couch has a matching love seat and they’re both very gold.”  She laughs again.  “The other couch?” She seems to have forgotten about the third couch.  “Yes, the brown couch. That’s a nice one.  Really comfortable.  I don’t let the dog inside so there ain’t no dog hair.”  The boy is sitting on the brown couch, the couch he’s never found comfortable because the pillows are so large in the back they nearly shove him off the couch.

“The lady says she’s leaving her house in ten minutes,” the mother tells her son.  “I warned her this place was a mess, everything boxed up.  Hell, we’re moving. I hope she buys the couches.  They’re cheap enough.”

The boy doesn’t say anything. He walks outside to where the dog is tied up to a doghouse. He wonders what kind of dump they’ll live in when they move to Arizona..  “Came here to marry your worthless father,” she always reminds him.  “Piece of shit.  I know I shouldn’t talk like that about him, but sometimes you just gotta call a spade a spade.”

Once, when his dad was storming out of the trailer, the boy mumbled, “Good riddance, turd,” and his mother threatened to wash his mouth with soap.  “That ain’t no way to talk about your daddy.”

The boy sees the blue car pull up their driveway.  Rita stops the car, not sure if she wants to continue after seeing the dog barking and yanking his leash as far as it goes.

Seeing the trailer, the dog tied to the short leash, she remembers when she used the online dating service Plenty of Fishes.  It should have been called Plenty of Rednecks.  Her “date’s” truck wasn’t working so she offered to pick him up.  He had five filthy beagles stuck in a tiny pen filled with dog crap.  When he noticed she was picking  a flea off her leg, he said, “You should’ve worn your flea collar on this date.”  That line really cracked  him up.  She knew he had used that line on other women. “Hey, what about our date?” he screamed after she got back in her car and simply drove off.  Ever since her beagle Petey died, she had been dogless. She could handle the fleas, but seeing his sad beagles was too much.

The boy’s mother steps out of the trailer and ushers Rita toward the trailer, far away from the dog.  The boy sits on the gold couch and listens to his mother tell the wonders of the couches.

“It’s got a matching love seat in my bedroom,” she tells Rita, pointing to the gold couch.

The idea of a love seat being in her bedroom makes Rita feel slightly depressed.

“I think I’ll give this reclining chair to whoever buys the couch,” she says pointing to the raggedy chair.

Rita feels sickened at the prospect of taking the gold couches and the freebie chair.

“Let me think about it.  I’d have to find a friend who’d let me use a truck,” she says inching out of the trailer. The dog barks, yanking on his leash, looking even more pitiful than the couches and chair.

“She’s not coming back,” the boy says.

“You don’t know that, Mr. Smarty-pants.  She’s thinking about it.”

“Damn,” Rita curses to herself, pulling back up the driveway.  “You selling the dog?” she asks the boy.

“For real?” he asks, knowing his mother would just leave the dog on the leash when they head to Arizona.  “Let the landlord deal with him,” she warned her son. “He ain’t coming with us.”

“She wants to buy Gomer!” the boy yells to his mother

“Gomer?  That’s our family pet,” she explains to Rita.  “He ain’t for sale.”           

“Really?  He’s coming with us?” the boy asks.

She gives her son a dirty look to quiet him.

“I understand.  I can see he’s a member of the family,” Rita says returning to her car.

“You can have him for thirty bucks.  He’s a good dog.  One of the best.”

The boy remembers when he used to tell his mother that, long ago when he was a puppy, before he was tied to the chain all day and night.

Rita walks toward Gomer and he growls.  She wonders why she’s doing this.

The boy unleashes Gomer and he’s unsure what to do. He starts to race down the driveway and the boy stops him and drags him to the car.  Rita opens the door and he jumps in the front seat as if he’s been riding in her car every day.

“Thirty bucks,” the mother laughs.  “That’s the biggest joke of the day.”

The boy knows Gomer will be better off with this strange woman than being left behind for the landlord to shoot.

“Gomer,” Rita says.  He looks at her, waiting for her to say something else.

 “You need a bath.” He wags his tail.  She imagines him sleeping next to her bed and laughs. “Funny how things work out.”

Gomer sticks his head out the window. Even he knows how fortunate he is that his luck has just turned.

The End

********************

Diane teaches creative writing at University of Arkansas-Monticello,where she is also faculty advisor of Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, http://www.foliateoak.uamont.edu.  She is the author of two novels: Burning Tulips and  A New Kind of Music.  She has been published in hundreds of literary magazines, which most recently include:  Fiction International, The Rambler, Tea Party, and Arkansas Literary Forum.   More info can be found at:  http://home.earthlink.net/~dianepayne/

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Fiction: Study Habits by Paul Beckman

October 17, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette
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Friday afternoon I saw the Rabbi from our congregation in Barnes & Noble.  I passed in front of him as he was sitting at a table in the RELIGIOUS section reading and taking notes. A large coffee table size book, THE KABALA, MOSES & THE CATSKILL TUMMLERS, was resting on the table as he held it upright with one hand and wrote with the other. I don’t know what he was doing in New Haven at four in the afternoon when he should have been home in Westbrook preparing for Shabbes and the evening service. I was almost tempted to go to Temple and see if maybe the Kabala had Moses as a Tummler in his early days. 

As I scurried around an aisle of books, off to his side—almost behind him, I felt like a cartoon character hopping from tree to tree. I wanted to get a glimpse of his writing. Moving another row I could see over his shoulder. I was like an umpire leaning over the catcher waiting for the pitch. I separated several books for a better view. Two teenage girls I knew walked by giggling and avoiding eye contact. I smiled and motioned a hello. Looking up at the books I’d pushed out of the way I saw that I was in the GAY & LESBIAN section.  

Just before the Rabbi closed The Kabala book and slid his chair back I saw a flash of yellow and black. The book didn’t close all the way. Putting his note pad in his pocket he walked from the table towards the door. I came out of hiding and lifted the cover of the book. I saw another tucked inside, much like my old Mad Magazine inside my Physical Geography book in high school. The inside book was OLD TESTAMENT SERMONS FOR DUMMIES. I knew that information would come in handy some day but I wasn’t sure how.  After all, what could I extract from the rabbi—A holiday aliyah, a business endorsement from the bema during one of his sermons? I knew I’d think of something. 

I once again considered going to services to listen to his cribbed sermon, but instead I called my wife, Elaine, to meet me in New Haven for dinner and a movie. Elaine didn’t share my feeling of having ‘gotten the goods’ on the Rab Man. I saw this as a religious experience of sorts—a gift and signal from above. Elaine, loving and supportive as always, saw it as sophomoric.  

The following week the Rabbi called and asked me to drop by his Study. After exchanging pleasantries and hemming and hawing for an interminable few minutes, he finally came out with the reason for the visit. He offered his support should I ever decide that I wanted to “walk out of the closet” as he put it. I thought about the two girls and realized where he’d gotten his misinformation. He nodded his perception of a wise man nodding conspiratorially as I told him that his information was wrong and that he should tell the girls that they were mistaken and let the rumor die. 

I stood to leave and he gave me a stiff hug goodbye, which made both of us uncomfortable. He had no idea that I knew about the Sermons For Dummies book. No one, not even a man of God, learns an easy lesson, I wanted to tell him, and follow it up with a hug of my own; but I silently left his study carrying the smell of his beard with me still trying to figure out how to benefit from my golden nugget of information. 

The End   

******************** 

www.paulbeckmanstories.com   Paul Beckman sells real estate.

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Fiction: A Day In The Life by Guy Hogan

October 15, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette

Checked the page views of my blog.  Walked to “Little Italy” in Bloomfield in Pittsburgh and bought a newspaper and had two beers at Del’s while watching the news on one of the HD TVs.  More murder and more war.  Bought supplies at the supermarket and walked back to the apartment.  Sat at the writing desk and tried to work on a flash fiction idea, writing in my three-ring notebook.

This woman comes home from work and finds her husband passed out drunk on the living room floor.  She kicks off her shoes and sits on the sofa and looks out the picture window at the lawn that needs mowing and she smokes a cigarette.

The husband comes to.

“Jake,” she says.  “I’m getting a divorce.”

“Leave me alone,” he says and goes back to sleep.

Thought for a moment.  Then ripped the page out of the three-ring notebook and threw the page away.

The End

*****

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Fiction: Light My Fire by Guy Hogan

October 13, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette

 

Some Of My Old Amateur Nude Female Photography

It was 1967. The jukebox was playing “Light My Fire” by a new band called The Doors. The young woman had a nine a.m. class and she was never late for class. She saw the young man she was dating sprawled in the booth he always sat in against the far wall of the snack bar. From there he could watch both entrances. The clock above the booth on the white wall showed twenty-five minutes to nine.

The young woman slid into the booth. She put her notebook, books and shoulder purse down beside her on the seat, a new bright yellow pencil down on the brown table top. The pencil had a sharp point. The young woman didn’t look at the young man, but she felt his gaze across the table top.

“I never come down here this early,” she said.

“I know.”

“Then it’s always so crowded at lunch time.”

“Yes, I know.”

She looked at the his face, and then she looked away.

“You’re still mad at me,” she said.

“I’m not mad at you.”

“Oh, yes you are.”

“No not really.”

A few more students came in. The young woman sat looking down at the bright yellow pencil on the brown table top.

She said, “I can guess what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“I can just imagine what you thought last night.”

“Let’s not talk about it.”

She ducked her head, throwing the hair away from her eyes. She unzipped the shoulder purse, took out matches and a pack of cigarettes. There were only two cigarettes in the pack. She lit one cigarette and did not offer the boy the last cigarette and he did not ask for one.

“Are you still my girlfriend?”

She exhaled smoke, being careful not to look at him. “Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure.”

“Then what was last night all about?”

“I guess I wasn’t ready.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m not kidding.”

She crushed out the cigarette in the black plastic ashtray. The cigarette had tasted stale. She picked up the bright yellow pencil and concentrated on it as she twirled it very slowly back and forth between both hands.

He asked, “You think I have a disease?”

“I don’t think that.”

“You’re taking the pill, right?”

She looked at him. “Why didn’t you come with me?”

“I can’t get pregnant.”

She looked back at the pencil. The pencil was the better place to look.

“So,” he said. “Last night would have been safe.”

“Didn’t I just say so?” She looked at him and said, “Can’t we do other things?”

“Other things?”

“Other things. You know like go for walks. Or to the movies or to concerts or the coffee house or even to chapel?”

“Chapel?” He laughed. “Why in the world would you want to go to chapel?”

“We always end up making out in your room. I mean like that’s the only thing we ever do.”

“I thought you liked it?”

“I love it. You know how much I love it.”

The young man stopped sprawling. He leaned forward putting his forearms on the table top. She looked into his eyes. As he spoke his voice was low the way it had been last night as they pressed tightly together in the dark on the narrow bed in his dormitory room. She’d already had three maybe four cans of beer. Her blouse was unbuttoned and she wasn’t wearing a bra. Cherry vanilla incense burned and a Rolling Stones album played while flickering light came through the open window making shadows dance about the room. She finally excused herself to go pee. She really did have to pee. She was a freshman but he was a senior and only seniors lived alone and had private bathrooms. She came out of the bathroom with her blouse buttoned up and tucked back down into her jeans. She didn’t even go over to kiss him goodbye. She left him sitting on his bed in the dancing shadows in his dormitory room.

“We’ll go more places,” he said, now as they sat in the booth in the snack bar. “But you’re supposed to be my girl.”

“Light My Fire” had ended. The clock on the white wall above the booth showed eight minutes to nine. The young woman found her hands in his and the bright yellow pencil on the brown table top. She squeezed the young man’s hands tight. He squeezed back. The jukebox remained silent.

She said, “I can’t.”

He said, “You mean you won’t.”

She said, “I can’t.”

He said, “You mean you won’t.”

“No,” she said. “I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t. You shouldn’t even want me to if I can’t.”

“You won’t.”

“I have to go.” She began gathering her things.

Someone dropped a coin in the jukebox.

The End

*****

Click on the Submissions tab at the top of the page to submit flash fiction to this magazine.

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Fiction: Privilege Of Distance by Jason Sobelman

October 11, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette
Chrissie Hynde in concert. Taken August 10, 20...

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When did conversations stop at the front door?  

Mother’s darting eyes, searching for some semblance of recognition  in her child. She starts in, “Your father is going to call the cops if he finds you here!”.  

“Mom.” 

A conversation takes place, that is dreamlike and soon forgotten.  Between a junkie and his mother. She guilts me into the understanding, of the jeopardy that I put her in. I comment, she should  leave him and we could  work out our problems together. A pattern has worn her voice, like the deep creases of the laugh lines in her face. She fumbles for a smoke in a jacket pocket. Silently, handing me a business card with an 800 number for kicking my habit before handing me a smoke. 

A snicker shoots up, faster then the  smoke exhaled from her lips. Then in a nervous blurt she says, “Remember when you stole the neighbor’s garden hose, and tried to return it back at the hardware store !” 

I laugh, recalling the neighbor’s  expression. The  sheer disbelief of spotting his hose strewn on some vacant sidewalk  miles from his home. 

Behind me, I hear the neighbor’s Volkswagen pull into his driveway. I don’t want to look. “I could be rich if that scam would have panned out.” Even though I know the scam was a farce. 

Her cigarette’s ash drops to the ground.  “Honey, I think you better go.” 

Mother turns her back, and starts toward the front door.  I’m dying here. I’m not thinking right as I scan for something to steal to score. 

I peer across at the neighbor. Contemplating, to bust him in the jaw and rip that cell phone from his hands. As he stands there, in a threatening pose with his cell phone open, acting like the dictator of Neighborhood Watch. It’s the images you don’t communicate,  that you wrestle with the longest. 

Startled, I feel my mother’s hand push money into mine. It’s hard for me to thank her, with sincerity. As impatience takes over my body. 

 I stride down the street and hear, Chrissy Hynde singing the lullaby “Show Me The Meaning Of The World”.  It carries me through the night. 

The End

Born and living in Northern California.  Survived by a wife and 1 daughter. Published in various poetry contests and the Benicia Historical Chapbook. Published a chapbook in 2008, Dream On The Bible.

*****

The Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette is open to submissions.  The Submissions tab is at the top of the page.

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Fiction: Sky Troopers by Guy Hogan

October 10, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette
Flag of the National Front for the Liberation ...

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It sounded like a fast ball pitched against the port hull of the big chopper.  Scott Delaney felt his stomach flutter and the pulse beat faster in his throat.  The door gunners were searching the jungle below.  Viet Cong were known to be in the area.  Over the deafening sound of the twin rotary blades and the high-pitched whine of the twin jet engines in the stern, the sharp impact came again.

Like Scott, many of the soldiers were teenagers, their sweaty faces gaunt with sunken eyes.  The door gunners were in harnesses as they leaned far out, one to port and one to starboard, trying to see where the rounds were coming from.  Scott held his toy-like rifle, the butt against the vibrating floor plates, up between his knees and waited. Over the deafening noise the sharp impact came again.

The new kid sitting directly across from Scott screamed and lurched forward and hit the deck.  His rifle clattered and his helmet rolled away on the deck.  Scott and others had been splattered with gore.  Scott had never been splattered with gore before.  The kid was crying, pleading for his mother.  Sarge started wrapping the kid, but soon it didn’t matter.  Scott had never seen anyone die before.

The door gunners were returning fire now.  The spent shell casings spewed into space.  The sharp impact came again.  Scott sensed the big chopper losing altitude.

Burt Johnson tapped Scott on the shoulder and nodded at the porthole behind them.  In the jungle below was a clearing, the unit landing zone.  A four man landing crew waited on the ground.  That’s when Scott smelt it.

Scott looked forward.  The two pilots struggled to keep control.  Scott looked aft.  The crew chief was standing, and then he crouched down and dipped the first two fingers of the right hand into a dark liquid on the the deck.  He rubbed the liquid between the thumb and first two fingers.  He smelt it.  He tasted it.  He stood up and began speaking rapidly into the mike of his head set to the pilots up front.

Scott looked out the porthole behind him.  Now he could not see the landing zone.  There were only trees everywhere.  Suddenly they were in the trees.  Scott was flung against the port hull.  Everyone shouting.  He was flung back against the starboard hull except now it was the deck.  Others fell on top of him, everyone shouting.

There was a loud, guttural WHOOOOOOOOSH!  Scott felt the great heat.  The crew chief came running wildly from the stern, his uniform ablaze.  He stumbled to his knees in flames.  Scott struggled to get up.  He grabbed someone’s leg.  He was kicked and stomped until he let go.  Above him everyone pushed and shoved while others stepped on him.  He had lost his helmet.  He had lost his rifle.  He couldn’t get up.  The smoke choked him.  Men screamed.  He knew he was going to die.

Burt Johnson got him under the arm pits and pulled him up.  Other hands lifted him up.  More hands pulled him out.

What was let of the crew chief was found in the smoldering wreckage.

The End

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Fiction: Young Lust by Guy Hogan

October 9, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette
Mellon Arena in downtown Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

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The Frisbees were different colors, sailing in long lazy trajectories through the cavernous Civic Arena in Pittsburgh.  The lights went down.  The band was led onto the stage by flashlight beams pointed at the floor.  The audience stood to clap in unison with the music.

The young woman Scott Delaney was with put an arm around his waist.  She looked up openly into his face.  Scott had been back from Vietnam six years now but she made him feel like a teenager again.  Nothing seemed to have consequences.  It was easy not to think of consequences with her pressed up against him.  Near the end of the concert thousands of tiny flames flickered in the vast darkness.

She and Scott ended up parked on a back road in the suburbs under a clump of trees under a moonless black sky of millions of stars.  He had no rubbers and she wasn’t on the pill.  In the back seat they went all the way.  The windows fogged over.  After it was over and still breathing hard, they held each other tight.  Her skin was damp and very warm.  The car smelled of sex.  He sensed she had already started to worry.  Suddenly, he started to worry, too.  How could he have been so stupid?

She phoned him several days later to say she was late and she was never late.  He felt his world shift as he stood holding the receiver.  She phoned again two days later to say happily it was all right because she had started and there was nothing to worry about.  He felt his world slide back into place.  His relief made him feel selfish and small.

But he knew she was relieved, too.

The End

*****

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The Short Short Story And The Imagination

October 8, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette
Varsity Walk.

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This article is from the archives.

One of the reasons I love flash fiction is because the writer only has to capture “several moments” in time.  Capturing several moments in time is much easier then trying to capture days, weeks, months or even years which is what a novelist must do.  A novel takes great perseverance.  Flash fiction doesn’t take perseverance; but it does take focus and imagination.  Imagination is the fun part.

At the moment that I’m writing this, using a pencil and paper, I’m sitting on the sofa watching a cooking program on Public Television and sipping on a glass of beer.  It’s around 60 degrees in Pittsburgh on an overcast day.  Nothing much is going on with me right now.  But, I’ve been a soldier, a karaoke singer, a lover of women, a teaching assistant at the University of Pittsburgh, a life long college student, a filmmaker, a blogger, a photographer of nude women, a frontman for several rock and roll bands…The list goes on and on.  Just like the list goes on and on for any writer of fiction. 

It is this life experience that every writer’s imagination can drawn upon that allows the writer to produce creative writing.  It’s just that a flash fiction writer only has to capture the “significant moments” of his or her life to produce a good flash fiction story.

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Fiction: Twenty-Three Steps To Goodbye by Terry A. Elkins

October 8, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette
United Service Organizations

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Martha Brentwood stood stoic against the first arctic gale of the season, as she waited for the number-seven to carry her to Saint Ann’s Cathedral for the sixth time in two years.  A trip she never got used to.  The harsh breath of winter bit at her as rabid flecks of crystalline powdered snow threatened to bury her where she stood.  Her mourning-black Cashmere coat was faded by time, and it did nothing to cover her bare hands, but she didn’t shiver, she didn’t blink, and she didn’t move.  Her heart was warmed by the precious memories of Anna, as she recalled their first encounter at the fourth street USO where they both worked so many years ago…Lost in her memories she hadn’t heard the number-seven slide to a halt in front of her—she was somewhere in time. 

A barrel chested man bounced off the bus with the grace of a younger man.  His chiseled features, leather skin, and gray hair—all marked by time, gave him the look of distinguished charm, contrasted only by his simple black slacks, and weathered pea coat.  Blinded by the snow he stumbled to a halt mere inches from the statuesque beauty before him.  Her soft-powdered-pale skin was nearly lost in the backdrop of winter’s fury.  But her sea-green eyes and luscious ruby lips cast a luminescent glow like a watch keepers lantern meant to guide lost sailors home.  He knew this beauty,  and rusted memories of a love long past broke free from their moors as he recalled a four day furlough, a sailors first kiss, an enchanted honey moon, and a sobered divorce sent first class mail from Normandy.

“Martha—Martha, are you ok dear?”  Martha was pulled back into the ferocity of the storm as her memories faded back into the shadows of yesteryear. 

“Excuse me, do I know you?”  Martha asked. 

“It’s me, your ex-husband, John Brentwood.”  As frozen tears of remembrance welled in her eyes, John asked, “Where are you going, Martha?” 

“I’m going to say good bye to an old friend at Saint Ann’s.” 

“Me too,” John said, “but why are you standing here?” 

“I’m waiting for the number-seven to take me there,” Martha said with a tremble in her voice. 

“Martha, honey, you’re standing in front of Saint Ann’s.”

Startled by this revelation, Maratha’s knees buckled and John reached out to her.  As they clasped hands, the cold-cheap -gold bands they had given one another over half a century ago were reunited.  But this reunion was cut short by the somber chimes of funeral bells.

They turned, facing the marble steps of Saint Ann’s, solemnly remembering why they were there.  It was Anna who had introduced them all those years ago, it was Anna who had brought them together on this day, and it was Anna they were going to see.  Arm in arm, walking silently, they faded into the storm as they climbed the last twenty-three steps to good-bye.   

The End

***** 

Terry Elkins is a factory worker who lives in Northwest Indiana.  A former Marine, husband, and father to six children, he loves to to read, learn, and write.  He is an aspiring writer who recently started his own blog to share his passion for writing with the world.  He hopes to one day publish his work.  www.whyguys.wordpress.com

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How To Build A Short Story Brick By Brick

October 7, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette

The familiar classic form of a short story is pretty much set in stone.  There is the setup, the buildup and the payoff.  This is the same form for flash fiction, sudden fiction, short short stories and very short stories.

Or a writer can think of a story as a building.  Here are some of the building blocks.

There must be a protagonist.  I like to rummage around in my own life and come up with a projection of myself to play this part.

For conflict or tension I pick a situation I have first hand knowledge of.  That way I know what I’m writing about.

Locale is either Vietnam or Pittsburgh.  Usually it’s Pittsburgh since I was in Vietnam for only a year a long time ago and Pittsburgh has been my home since I was born.

This is how you can build a story one brick at a time.

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Fiction: The Label by Vivien Jones

October 7, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette
Photograph of Brittania statue, taken 13th Jun...

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It was the most beautiful t-shirt. White, light and sleek. Perfect cut. Ashley twirled in front of the mirror, loving herself from every angle. It was so cool. She grinned at the assistant. 

‘Go on then, where is it ?’ 

The girl tried to look interested but it was 4.00 pm on a Saturday. 

‘Where is what?’ she asked. 

‘The label.’ Ashley spoke in her isn’t-it-obvious voice. 

The assistant shrugged. She came close to Ashley and ran her fingers along the hems and seams of the t-shirt. 

‘There isn’t one.’ She concluded.  

It was Ashley’s turn to be puzzled. This was a designer outlet, not just a shop. Of course there was a label. Unless…….. 

‘Not having a label – wow!’ 

This could be the start of something. She could be a trend-setter, first with the newest thing.  The ultimate in cool. Wasn’t there some cigarette adverts ages ago that never said the name of the cigarette ?  She looked in the mirror again. It looked just as good but something was bugging her. 

Just how would her friends know without a label?  What if they thought it was only High Street?  Ashley blanched in fear.  

No sale.

The End

********************

Vivien Jones lives on the North Solway shore in Scotland where she writes poetry, short fiction and drama pieces for performance, often in collaboration with the early music group she plays with  www.thegallowayconsort.co.uk  She has been widely published in each of these genres in the UK and is a regular reader at literary events.

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