Poetry: 4AM Call by Shan Jeniah Burton

May 5, 2012 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette

The phone rang at 4am. 

“I’m NOT answering!” I glared.
 
Yesterday’s crackling anger still stung.
 
Phone insisted; stopped.
 
Too much time passed.
 
More…
 
Knocking; frantic barking.  Sheriff at  our door.
 
“He’s being medflighted..”
 
My trembling arms embraced our children.
 
The End
 
Bio: Shan Jeniah lives a chaotically peaceful life in rural upstate NY with her best friend and husband, Jim;two exuberant homeschooled children; a pit-bull mix; and a Manx cat.  Writing and learning are as vital to her as breathing. Submitting is a little less frightening than skydiving.  Her writer blog is shanjeniah  at www.shanjeniah.com.
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Flash Fiction: Making A Sandwich by Mike Young

May 4, 2012 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette
  

The BLT is a variety of sandwich containing Ba...

The BLT is a variety of sandwich containing Bacon, Lettuce, and Tomato. The sandwich traditionally has about three strips of fried bacon, leaves of lettuce (traditionally iceberg or romaine), and slices of tomato, all sandwiched between slices of bread or toast which is commonly spread with mayonnaise. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Want me to make you one too, hun?” 

“No thanks, Dad.  I had a bite earlier. Just this tea is fine.” 

“I don’t mind. I’m already making one for your mother.” 

She watched his slow yet precise movements around the kitchen. He’d always been the cook in the family, taking simple pleasure in the routines. He opened the fridge, took out the bacon, turned to the cutting board, picking up a knife on the way. He cut off two thick slices, placed them in the pan, back to the fridge with the bacon – part of a smooth dance that he’d done for years. 

“I’m making her favorite,” he said, “a BLT. Fresh bread from Henderson’s, bacon nice and crispy, a tomato from our garden, some mixed greens, and light mayonnaise. Tell you what, I’ll split it between the two of you.” 

“Thanks, Dad,” she said. “So, have you thought about what we talked about?” 

“Chelsea Lodge? I don’t know hun, this has always been our home. You grew up here, all our friends are in the neighbourhood.” He gestured around the room. “How could we leave all this?” 

“Dad, most of the old neighborhood gang have moved away. Some are even in the same retirement home, don’t you remember when we went last week to see it? And all those friends greeted you and said how much they loved it there?” 

“Yes, yes, I remember now,” he said. 

She sighed quietly. His memory had really started to slip the past few months. She watched as he took some tongs from a drawer and carefully turned over the bacon pieces. 

“Can’t let it cook too fast,” he said. 

“We did see a nice unit there, remember Dad? A cosy bedroom, nice sitting room, and a compact kitchen. You could make your own little snacks there. And if you felt like a change, the dining room is quite nice. You’d been impressed with the meal we had there.” 

He poked at the bacon, picked it out of the pan and laid it on a paper towel. He carefully sliced some bread, placed it in the toaster, and pushed the lever down. Her father glanced over to the table. “Your mom and I met fifty years ago, you know, and we bought this place together. I’d miss her so much. And I don’t like being alone.” 

“She’d never be far from you, Dad. And we’d all come to visit you often.  It’s only a few miles away.” 

“I know,” he said. “But it’s a big change. My goodness, what would we do with all this stuff?” 

“Dan and I have lots of storage,” she said. “We can help you sort through things, separate what you really need now from what you might need later. And maybe you’ll find some things you’ve enjoyed but can now pass on to the needy.” 

He plucked the toast out as it popped, buttered it carefully, then spread a thin layer of mayonnaise on both slices. 

“We really have settled in here,” he said. “It’s been a long and happy life together.” 

He added the bacon, tomato, and greens, slowly and methodically, sliced it in half, and set the two plates on the table. 

“There you go, for my two favorite girls.” 

She enjoyed her half-sandwich and watched her dad clean up the kitchen, listening to him chatter on about some TV show. He wasn’t doing too badly physically. She’d hired a weekly housekeeper to help with some laundry and vacuuming, and to try to manage all the leftovers in the fridge. 

“Thanks, Dad, this was nice. Sorry I have to run, but I’ll be back next week.” 

“We’re always glad to see you,” he said. “I’ll get your coat.” 

She picked up both plates, hers and the untouched one across the table. As she tipped the other half-sandwich into the garbage and stacked the plates in the sink, she wondered how long it would take him to adjust to his loss. She pushed in her chair, and walked into the front hall. 

“Take care, Dad. We’ll talk some more in a few days.”

The End

*****

Bio: Mike retired a few years ago and has never been busier. Photographer, grandfather, reader, trombonist, social activist, and most recently – a writer.  www.ravensview.ca 
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Flash Fiction: Patterns by T. Fox Dunham

April 5, 2012 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette
Philadelphia, PA

Philadelphia, PA (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Home before midnight?” he said. “I’m honored.” 

His voice rolled like gravel beneath the tires of her BMW. She stood on his side of the bed and ran her hand along his damp pillow, avoiding her husband’s wet hair from his recent shower. He stirred awake and looked for her in the darkness. 

Beatrice flipped on the light and eased down onto her side of the bed. She kicked off her soggy boots, flinging them behind the bedroom door, and peeled her socks off her pruned feet. 

“I would have waited up. Could’ve had a late supper—the two of us. Candle light and old Sinatra LPs.”

“Rehearsal ended earlier than Peter guessed,” she said. Sitting in the same bed with her awakened husband baffled her. Robby was someone she passed in the hall on occasion, like two pedestrians that happen to brush against each other on the street. 

“Vendors are charging an arm and a leg for a good dog,” she spat. It sounded artificial, trite. 

“S’pose they are,” he said. He uncurled from the twisted sheets and sat up in bed. “Break your diet?” 

Her eyes drifted about the bedroom, studying the king-sized bed with white canopy, the matching dresser and wardrobe, her silver vanity and the closet. Mirrors bolted to the closet doors made no angle safe from voyeurism. None of the components matched, all disconnected from the energy of her bedroom. A sour odor of tea-rose perfume nipped her nose.

“No. I was going to get one. It’s been years since I clogged my arteries with a pork popsicle.” 

He laid out without a shirt. She looked over his chest, his defined pecs and flat belly. A silver carpet spread across his chest to his shoulders and petered out into a single trail down into his boxers. She waited for the chemicals to buzz and fire in her body—and waited. 

“Peter would have gone bat crazy if he’d seen you chewing on a dog.”

“I was hoping he’d see me, catch me in my little, pernicious revolution against the G.T.A.H.F.” 

“Remind me. G.T.A.H.F?” 

“Guidelines To A Healthy Figure. Peter’s such a fascist. On Monday, he weighed us on that antique scale of his. When Melinda got on, he didn’t believe the meter. The nazi measured her up and down. She was in tears the whole day.” 

“What happened at the hot dog stand?” 

“I ask for one of the proscribed, red menaces. The vendor, who didn’t wear gloves and had hairy hands, put a long wiener into a bun and pointed at the condiments. Damn my mouth watered to taste it.” 

She held out the phantom hot dog in front of him.  

“I had no cash on me. Who does? It’s all debit cards, and these vendors haven’t hooked up to cyberspace yet.” 

She felt his eyes running down her body as she undressed. 

“He chucked the dog into the trash. My heart died. I turned to yell at him, but he was already taking another order—chili dog, chips and soda.” 

“So no hot dog for poor Beatrice?” 

“It’s been so long, I wouldn’t have known what to do with one. I get hung up on patterns. Giving up junk food was torture, all in the name of dancing. After awhile, it became more a disruption to break the pattern, even for pleasure. Know what I mean?” 

“Guess so.” 

She slipped off her damp skirt and leggings, unbuttoned her blouse. The closet being too far away, she decided to sleep in only a thin pair of panties. Before turning off the light, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her nipples tingled, and the sensation pulsed through her body.

She watched him in the mirror. He’d buried his eyes. 

She climbed into bed and pulled the covers up. She touched the bare flesh of her thigh against Robby. She left it there, waiting. He pulled away as if a spider had bitten him. 

Her husband gently snored. She reached down and stroked herself. She didn’t worry about him. He’d already done himself in the shower before bed.

The End

***** 

Bio:T. Fox Dunham resides outside of Philadelphia PA—author and historian. He’s published in near 100 international journals and anthologies. He’s a cancer survivor. His friends call him “Fox”, being his totem animal, and his motto is: Wrecking civilization one story at a time. http://www.facebook.com/tfoxdunham

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$10.00 For A Flash Fiction Short Story

March 3, 2012 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette

That’s right.  Now that the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette is a paying market, every writer whose short story is accepted for publication will be paid $10.00 through PayPal.

An Amateur In A Porn Video

What kind of stories are we talking about?  Romance, mainstream, literary and erotica.

Click on the Submissions tab at the top of the page for more details.

*****

Hello, my brother and sister bloggers, readers, writers and my Flash Fiction Fanatics.  And a special shout-out to the students at the University of Pittsburgh.

The Old Soldier had a great time at karaoke at Del’s last night.  The crowd was into karaoke and most of the crowd got up to sing.

You can’t beat that with a stick!

*****

Click on the Follow button to get every issue of the The Gazette.

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Fiction: Waiting On The Riverbank by Susan Dale

January 15, 2012 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette

Father & SonFramed in sunset the father seemed an Asian portrait.  Behind him, sundown colors illuminated his face.  In front of him, the dark river was gilded gold from the brightness of the sun.

Tonight, the father sat atop a pile of sandbags, and tipped a coconut half to drink from it watery milk.  He put the shell down, and with his hand shielding the sun’s glare, he again took up his watch.  Through gray mornings, through sun-baked days that slipped into silver twilights, he sat; he watched.  Waiting yet when the first stars of night hung onto twilight.

‘And so,’ he thought.  ‘Another day without my son.’

The father’s face was etched with the furrows of the many years of which his eyes had given over their color.  His face reflected his sad longings, both for his son, and for the hut that he and his boy left behind when they were herded up and drug to this refugee camp called a hamlet, by these round-eyes from across the sea.  Mixed up in his thoughts were his forsaken hut and his lost son.  One intertwined with the other, and they both wrestled with his creature struggle for survival; his time on earth too lonely and sad to go on, versus an indomitable ure to live.

On the days when despair blackened his thoughts, the father told himself that his hut had long been overtaken by the rapacious growth of the mountain jungles.  ‘Yes, and there will be a sapper behind every tree and My-My (American) bombs overhead.  My son is lost and so I have no one to go back with me.’

But on the days when his need to live emerged strong, the father’s heart filled with longings that took him back to the abandoned hut.  He loved most the hut’s mossy roof studded with wildflowers.  When he thought of it, involuntarily, his hands wavered in the air.  In his thoughts, his hands were running across the velvety moss of the hut’s roof.  On those bright days of wildflowers and his son’s spontaneous laughter clear and true in his mind, the father took despair and processed it into faith.  He saw his hut just as it was when he and his boy left it…on a beaten path, and protected by the long shadows of the Sip San Mountain.  And the most happy moment in his dreams?  Inside the hut, under the roof of moss was his son, no longer lost as he was on the days of his father’s despair; those agonizing days when his father saw quite clearly that he was gone.

But hope and despair were weak compared to the father’s overwhelming emotion…to sit on the riverbank and wait.  Wait with his gaze stretched out across the horizon and down the river to time.

Gently, did he call to the boys at the river’s edge: he saw them beating schools of tiny fish into hand-held, bamboo nets, “Have you seen my boy?”

They called back, “In a dugout canoe round a ben of the river.”

“When?”

“Many days ago.”

‘Yes, that could be my son,’ thought the father but he couldn’t be certain.

Yesterday, a fisherman on a sampan that floated by told the father he had seen a young man being captured by Kurilian pirates, and taken downstream to work the rubber plantations recently overtaken by the Viet Cong.

So many false sightings, so many conflicting stories; the father grew more confused every day.  But his fierce, inexplicable, infinite patience kept him on the riverbank.

He was still there at dusk when the fishing boys headed for their village.  On the riverbank searching and waiting when drifts of monsoon clouds dusted the moon.  And while he was waiting, the father fell asleep to dream into the night.  In his dreams, the river churned into a spunky water child that skipped over rocks.  It swirled with foamy shoals of fish, then deepened into currents too wild for him to overcome.

Wakened by his own sobbing, the father knew before he could bring himself to say it, either silently or aloud; yes, his son was gone.

The End

Bio: Susan Dale writes regularly for print magazines WestWard Quarterly, Pegasus and Hudson Review.  Online she has poems and fiction on Eastown Fiction, Tryst 3, Word Salad, Pens On Fire and Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette to name a few.  In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan.

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Fiction: Let Your Fingers Do The Walking by Stephani Maari Booker

January 1, 2012 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette

“Why you being so quiet?”

“To tell you the truth, I’m laying up here with one hand holding the phone and the other down my panties. I am so horny right now. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Naw, that’s all right. It’s not like I haven’t been thinking about you that way while we’re supposed to be having a heavy conversation. It’s been so long for me, you know.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve even wanted to be with anybody like I want to be with you. I think about you so much, and I try to tell myself, ‘Quit calling her so much! You’re running up your phone bill and probably getting on her nerves!’ Even though we haven’t met, I feel like I miss you. Damn, I wish you was right here!”

“Girl, I feel the same way, too. We just have to wait for my vacation time to come up. It’s only a couple of weeks away.”

“That just seems so far away, though. My loneliness and my horniness need to be satisfied now!”

“Well, we’ve both been doing a good job of satisfying the loneliness, since we’ve been talking on the phone almost every day. As for the horniness … Well, you got your hands on your stuff and … you know, it’s really funny, but just before you called I was getting ready to go to bed and play with my toy.”

“Your toy? What does your toy look like?”

“It’s seven inches long and an inch thick. It’s black, hard and plastic, and it’s curved at the end. It takes two ‘C’ batteries.”

“Umph, I’m scared of that. I have a toy, too, but it doesn’t go inside like yours sounds like it does. It’s a plug-in with a big knob on the end that I rub against my special spot.”

“Well, I use my toy both outside and inside. Damn, the more we keep talking about it, the more I want to play with it.”

“Hmmm … You think you could play with your toy with me on the phone here?”

“You want me too?”

“Yeah, I think I want to hear you get off. Could you do that for me? I hope that don’t sound too freaky.”

“Girl, you talking to the original Super Freak. Hold on.”

*****

“You hear that?”

“Yeah, I can hear it buzzing all over the phone. Tell me what you’re doing with it now.”

“I’m holding the tip of it against my clit. Now I’m rubbing it around and around … Now I’m pressing it hard against my clit … mmmmm.”

“Ooh, you are making me so wet. Keep on making noises like that.”

“Mmmmm … ooh … aw … Oh!”

“You know what I want to do to you right now?”

“Oooooh … what?”

“I want to take my tongue and lick your nipples …”

“Mmmmph!”

“…And then go down from your breasts to your belly and stick my tongue in your belly button and go round and round.”

“Aaah, aaah … oooohh…”

“Then I’m gonna go lower and brush my lips against your pussy hair.”

“Oh … oh … OH!”

“You cumming?”

“Uh … almost … there.”

“You sound so good with that moaning. Keep going.”

“Keep … mmmm … talking to me.”

“All right … I’m gonna spread you open and lick your clit … How do you want me to lick it?”

“Awww … suck it … hard … ooh”

“I’m gonna wrap my lips around it and suck it real hard …”

“THAT’S IT … OH! … OH! … grrrrr … OH!”

“Oh yes, damn you so sound so good!”

“Ooh … oh … aaah … mmmm … whewww … I am laying here, with my legs wide open, just covered with sweat … oh yeah.”

“How about another one?”

“Girl, I’m about to pass out now. What about you? Can’t I hear you cum?”

“Honey, listening to you was good enough for me … for now. It’s so late, and we’ve been on the phone so long.”

“Mmm … yeah … so when you gonna call me to give me mine, woman? You gonna make me wait all the way ’til next weekend?”

“Well, hell, we’ve talked to each other three times this week …”

“Um-hm.”

“And I’m scared of what my bill this month is gonna look like.”

“Yeah, I know … mine too.”

“So … well … hmmmm … what time you want me to call you tomorrow night, girl?”

“After eight, after I get home from work and eat. You gonna have your toy ready?”

“Ready and running at super-freak speed!”

The End

*****

This story was first published as “Reach Out and Touch Me” in Gay Black Female magazine in 1997.  It was most recently reprinted in Longing, Lust and Love: Black Lesbian Stories, edited by Shonia L. Brown (Atlanta: Nghosi Books, 2007).  Visit Stephani Booker’s web page for more information about her work: http://mnartists.org/Stephani_Booker 

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Fiction: Code For Sex by Jen X

December 10, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette
Women on Top: How Real Life Has Changed Women'...

Image via Wikipedia

Sebastian was used to getting what he wanted, but he went about it in such a way that it made you feel good to give it to him. We first met at a football game. I had gone at the invitation of a male coworker, hoping that football game was code for sex. My coworker, on the other hand, seemed more interested in men with tight pants on the field. I’m always the last to know.

Disinterested, realizing I was now on a date with a man who was more gay than metrosexual, I headed to the snack bar. The closest match for my insatiable desire for penis was a hotdog. I covered mine with ketchup, relish, mustard, and slurped at it. Sebastian had been in line behind me and watched transfixed. His gaze steadied as I opened my jaw for the last hungry bite and licked the mess of it off my fingers. He smirked at my obvious hunger and his own, for the tantalizing wetness he was sure I had between my legs. He asked me out on a date while I pretended not to see the tan line on his ring finger. Over cappuccinos he told me his wife was dull, her lovemaking lacking. He shared that her body too easily succumbed to his bidding, without any desire of her own. It had excited him at first. When they had first met, she was a nubile nineteen year old. If he told her to bend over, she would, as if waiting for instruction. Now, twelve years later, he was sick of instigating the position. How many times had he bent her body over the banister as he filled himself in her? Thousands? He longed for another’s touch as much as she no longer seemed to long for his. For six months they hadn’t made love and Sebastian had become skilled at satisfying himself in the shower, or to the image of a naked woman on his computer. He was sure his wife heard his nightly moans as he never tried to hide them, but she never once entered the room to investigate. Soon, he began stroking himself at work in the bathroom, to the image of the receptionist, the delivery girl, the woman at the cafe- really, anyone would do.

Sebastian wasn’t a pity fuck, however. He was more like wine. He’d been bottled up long enough that his sexy manliness was potent, begging to be uncorked. His wispy brown hair jutted out at his neckline and I desperately wanted to nibble on his ear lobes. His arms were broad and smooth, while the rest of his body was equally well-defined. Most of all, he wanted me so much that he couldn’t stand it. I could sense it the moment he’d introduced himself. He’d inhaled my perfume as I said hello, like my kiss might be able to save him from the oblivion of mediocrity. After coffee, I gave it to him right away. He was hung up on the idea of a hotel, somewhere “special” for our “first time”, but I unzipped his pants as he drove and demanded he pull over to the side of a road. His breath was fast, when he turned off the car’s engine in the far end of a cul-de-sac, facing a brick wall. I let my tongue out like a serpent, it reached further than he’d expected after watching my messy licks at the football game. He couldn’t think straight, could only feel the motions, my figure eights with pulses of spit and sucking, my hot breath warming him until his penis grew and grazed the back of my throat. He trembled, I wanted to swallow him but my sex couldn’t be deprived. I slid between his body and the steering wheel. He was grateful to find I didn’t have panties on and felt my silk moisture immediately. I rode him furiously, until we both came in an explosion of mutual lust, my back grinding into the horn. It beeped, as if it too had enjoyed our session.

The End

Bio: Jen X is a lover not a fighter, and a writer not an office worker. Not that she can’t be found working in offices from time to time, but (when she does) she’s usually sneaking poems onto the backs of file folders. Her work is widely published and can be found in “Tin Foil Dresses”, “Slut”, “The Scrambler”, “Bohemia Journal” and others. She likes hot tea and knee socks.   http://ilovejenx.com

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Fiction: Spit Or Swallow by Jennifer Donnell

November 16, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette
A bagel with raisin and cinnamon

Image via Wikipedia

I spit in the sink, hoping I missed the unwashed dishes- it just doesn’t seem sanitary.  You pull up your pants, about to hightail it out of my apartment. I can tell you’re great at leaving, you have an ease in your step as you prepare to go.

“It was good,” you compliment, casually. You hope giving kudos will create a return ticket back to my bed, though your loins want my mouth more than my body. You don’t call it a fetish, as it’s what normal people do. They pick up women at a bagel store and invite them to tea. Then, suggest martinis and kiss like they’ve been looking for love in all the wrong places and long to settle down.

You made nice at first, when you made love. You stared deep into my eyes and talked about the blue of them being like an ocean. In truth, you saw a storm which scared you. I seemed cloudy, as though I saw through your act. This was humbling, it usually took women several months. Immediately you asked how I knew.

“It was nothing specific.” I explain, glad to have it out in the open. “First, your name is Dave- and every Dave I’ve ever met has played women like fiddles. Not all Daves are like that, but the ones I’ve met have been. Then, there’s the fact that you ordered twelve cinnamon raisin bagels. What man do you know who would rather have cinnamon raisin when they sell onion or sesame? You were trying too hard, I knew it right away. At tea you kept fidgeting and didn’t stop until you suggested martinis. On top of that, you picked a bar that was near enough to my place that you wouldn’t have to waste money on a cab.”

You’re floored by my description. It’s like I aired your internal banter through a mega phone. We stop making fake love and switch to straight up, old fashion sex. We move from the bed to the kitchen floor. It feels better though less fulfilling. You pin my hands against the  flooring and tell me to scream your name. I try, but after so many bad experiences with men named Dave, all I can shout is “David, you motherfucker!”

You generally like dirty talk, but that particular phrase, motherfucker, just doesn’t sit right. Your grandmother always called you David. You don’t usually introduce dirty talk to one night stands, but if you happen to see a girl more than once, you usually call her a slut and see how she takes it. Motherfucker makes you mad though, mad enough that you call me a bitch.

“You called me a bitch, bitch?” I counter flipping onto all fours and waving my derriere in the air, like my naked body is now off limits. “Well, at least I’m not a cheesy ho-bag who wears a fucking plaid shirt and brown tennis shoes. What, did you borrow your daddy’s clothes?”

You tell me your dad is dead. I’m not sure it’s true, but you look kind of sad about it, and I apologize. You work the magic of your hands on me, in apology. Grateful for the orgasm, not thinking straight, I offer to service you in other ways.

Only problem is, I just read a newspaper article, the day before, about the dangers of unprotected oral sex. I look from your face to your penis, to the newspaper on the living room coffee table. I decide that one more time won’t hurt. However, it does hurt, as the whole time I’m pleasuring you, I’m envisioning myself at the clinic getting a free HIV test. It’s stressful trying to find the one.

It’s stressful for you too, always pursuing new women to sleep with. You don’t get much credit for it. If people knew how much work you put into your conquests, they’d be impressed.

We exchange phone numbers. You kiss me goodbye, on the cheek. It’s formal, polite. You accidentally leave your bag of fresh baked cinnamon raisin bagels. I toast one until it’s crisp and apply a slather of cream cheese. I enjoy the flavor. I swallow it down.

The End 

Jennifer Donnell is originally from Southern California. Her recent and/or upcoming publishing credits include: Pure Slush, The Scrambler, Bohemia Journal, Sapling, Speech Therapy Poetry, Borderline, Young American Poets, Orion Headless, SIC 3, The Scarlet Sound, Don’t Blame the Ugly Mug (Anthology- Tebot Bach), Poetix, The November 3rd Club, Bestiary Magazine, The Criterion, Astarte, Deep Tissue Magazine, East Village Poetry, A Few Lines Magazine, Artistica, Negative Suck, Perhaps I Am Wrong About The World (Upcoming), and a winner (poetry) through the city of Laguna Beach- 2009, 2010, 2011. She is currently seeking to publish her first full length collection of poetry, and is nearing completion on a graphic novel.  http://ilovejenx.com

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Fiction: Fire Flies by Alex Gordon

November 5, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette

 

Smoke detector

Image via Wikipedia

I have flies.  Behind my curtains they buzz and bump against the window towards sheets of bright concrete, clumsy and blind convections like entropy.  The hour-long genocides prove futile, as every morning finds them reemerging with fresh numbers.  Not vigorously though, they’re lethargic and accepting of swat.  I’ll kill thirty in a single sitting.  Then the vacuuming and the satisfying crunching noise.  There are smudges and stains smeared up and down the walls and windows, some with hardened fly legs fixed to the stain, the cleaning of which can only be described as Sisyphean. 

A moment of scientific curiosity ends with the hiss of butane and a spark of splint, in an instant drenching the fly and sending it into flames, up into the air for a brief but illustrious final flight, its wings and legs burning up like singed eye lashes, its brain-goo brought to instantaneous boil, its buzz elevating to an agonizing register, before plummeting to the carpet in a smoldered fireball.

Nose-hairs of apartment guests are bombarded at entrance, a bizarre mix of stale produce and burnt plastic.  ‘Has something died beneath the floorboards? Have you been cooking rubber bands?’  No, it’s the smell of burnt flies, thank you for noticing. 

An excessively large fly on fire flies from the front window to my bedroom in an impressive and record-breaking swan song (flight), crashing into the back window and landing squarely on the sill, hissing.  It sets off the smoke detectors, whose alarms are more frantic than usual, seemingly traumatized by the taste of fly smoke.  The big fly is dead, wingless and legless, emitting a charred musk that makes my nostrils thumb-wrestle.  I stare for a while watching the single thread of smoke drizzle up and out of his midsection and I say a little prayer. 

Swept into the trash bin, the smoldering fly coughs up a tiny ember on what I imagine is some sort of tissue or newspaper, igniting it in quiet pops and crackles, and then, rather suddenly gaining confidence it sweeps upward heroically, enveloping in flame every inch of cardboard, plastic, rubber, paper and organic material, like fly corpses, and finally the trash bag itself, whose blast of chemical juices twist the flames into tropical blues and exotic greens, setting my dual smoke alarms into an indignant, raging shouting match whose subject is likely the dazzling six-foot fire shooting out of the trash can in my kitchen. 

In shock I swing the back door open, run to the kitchen, grab the flaming trashcan with oven mitts, and, with my face tucked into my armpit, shuffle along the carpet to the door and thrust the emblazoned carcass onto the concrete yard, the shrieking smoke alarms looking on in horror.  It lands heavy like a bomb and my oven mitts catch on fire so I flail my arms, shooting them like flaming high-fives into the neighbors’ yards.  I feverishly pat my head down to ensure it’s not on fire, then start flattening refugee embers on the carpet, stomping the way you might stomp if you were trying to break your knees. 

The plastic bin is now engorged, its skin wrinkled and stinky and hacking black plumes into the air, but it’s burning on the concrete safely, so I turn off the smoke alarms and call the firemen.  I sit down to catch my breath and wait for the authorities, watching the fire from the stump of my backdoor. 

The distinct sections that once burned with so much character are now amorphous and scarcely resembling the contents of a trash bin, or the bin itself.  I hear sirens.  It’s dark and it’s cold and it’s windy and it would smell like winter if it didn’t already smell like so many other things, burnt and burning.  The wind drags the embers all across the concrete, and up into the air, orange bodies aimless against dark blue; it shreds scraps of paper with singing edges and drops them in drainage pipes and kiddie pools; it whist dismembered glowing detritus over my head towards cloudy invisible stars, suspending them in the air like flies on fire. 

The End

Alex Gordon is a writer and musician living in Pittsburgh, PA.  He graduated with a degree in Journalism from the University of Pittsburgh in 2010 and currently works as a host and contributor to 91.3fm WYEP.  This story was inspired by a very un-fictional fly infestation and a brief daydream considering its solutions.

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The Mayday Malone Principle by Matthew Vento

October 15, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazette
Sam Malone

Image via Wikipedia

One may ask what the “Mayday Malone Principle” is? Sam Malone was a bartender on the NBC hit series Cheers back in the 80s and early 90s. “Mayday” was the nickname given to him in his so-called Major League Baseball playing days. “Mayday” was a smooth ladies man who never seemed to be short on dates. Beautiful and the not so beautiful would flock to him. Was it because of his so-called career in baseball or was it because he owned a bar?
 
Bar owners have a certain mystique that surrounds them. Most everyone who comes into a bar judges the place and critiques the owner. Why does he sell these drafts? Who picked the color scheme? Why did he lay out the bar in this fashion?  Etc…Women tend to be a bit more judgmental than men. Why, I have no idea why but when I go to bars I analyze the layout and theme myself. I  guess it’s human nature to do so.
 
Back to the “Mayday Malone Principle”.  For some strange reason there is a certain type of woman who finds bar owners very intriguing. These women come in all shapes and sizes both young and old and also from all classes of society. The women know what they want and go out of their way to flirt and pursue bar owners. Whether the owner is married or single, the women have one thing in mind. How am I going to get the owner in bed? The lengths that some of these women would go to are incredible. They range from bringing home cooked meals to actually flashing owners and groping them.  Personal experiences with me are and were women walking into the men’s room while I was going to the bathroom, wandering into my office in the basement, walking into my kitchen flashing me and the ever so clever just grabbing my crotch and telling me at the bar that they would like to screw my brains out. 
 
 All encounters start with harmless flirtation on both the owner’s and customer’s part. More often than not it leads to a sexual encounter. It’s scary for an ordinary looking guy such as myself having this occur to me. At first it was a little scary and then it became common place and now it’s a pain-in-the-ass. In the first year of owning my little dive bar I went through over 40 women.  A lot of them knew each other, a lot of them were friends. I found out that they would talk to each other about their encounters with me. The more I tried to end the “Mayday Malone Principle” the harder the women tried.  I found out that not paying attention to them fueled the fire inside of them more and more. The more I resisted the crazier they got. My second year I slept with over 60 women. I could have slept with a bunch more but I couldn’t stand it anymore. I was tired of living this lifestyle, the thrill wasn’t worth the new-found headaches that it caused. It’s also not good for business, lesson learned.
 
With the Old Soldier’s permission, I shall submit one new encounter every month starting with the soon to be written “Stripper’s, Booze and Tap Handles” a dive bar owner’s tale……..
 
*****
 
The author is a shot and beer small Tavern owner. He has been in business for over 14 years at the same location. He is middle-aged but lives life like a 22-year-old. 
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