It’s the Old Soldier with the Monday edition of The Gazette for all my brother and sister bloggers and writers. Snow, snow, snow. And it’s just February. At many places on the sidewalk there is nothing but a foot path. I went out and got a tomato, a half-gallon of %2 white milk, a quart of chocolate milk and a green pepper and came right back to the apartment. The little grocery store was only five blocks away. Man, could I use a six-pack of cold sixteen ounce cans of beer right now; but the Old Soldier is on a fixed budget and will have to wait until next week for the suds. The nectar of the gods will taste all the better.
I always like to remind everyone that The Gazette is always looking for writers to publish. There’s a Submissions tab at the top of the page. The Gazette likes stories that capture life. Tell your friends about The Gazette. Let The Gazette be your flash fiction home on the web…
Why are men obsessed with womens’ breasts? You really don’t expect me to answer that question, do you? I’ve fondled my fair share of breasts in my time. Female breasts were the inspiration for the following story.
It was a rainy March night in Pittsburgh. I sat with a female friend in a bar at a table at the big window that looked out on Forbes Avenue near the campus of the University of Pittsburgh. She and I had been drinking and now we were waiting for our wings, celery and blue cheese dressing, you know, to sober up a little before class. We were both in our early forties and worked steady jobs and we were taking the same night class at Pitt. It was Friday and we were prepared for class and neither of us had to get up early Saturday. So we could afford to get a little drunk. I was single but had my eye on a classmate I hoped to hookup with soon and my friend had been dating a new man several months now.
“Boobs,” my friend said. “What the hell is it with all you men about boobs?”
“Don’t you know there’s more to a woman than just her breasts?”
Her breasts were large and for her age they looked pretty firm and still sat up relatively high. I said, “Lover boy working them over pretty good, huh?”
“I think I’m a cup size larger.”
“Well, maybe you’re just pregnant.”
She suddenly got quiet. I was just joking around. The waitress brought our wings.
“Everything all right here?” the waitress asked. I looked at my friend. She was staring out into the rainy night. A “Little Help From My Friends” by Joe Cocker was playing on the jukebox. There was a nice crowd, mainly undergrads, in the place.
“Another pitcher of beer,” I said. The waitress left. I said to my friend, “I was joking.”
She said, “I am pregnant. He doesn’t know it yet.” She looked at me. “Now what do I do?”
“Stop drinking alcohol?”
“Smart ass. You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know what you mean.”
Short Story Ideas That Work
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