Flash Frenzy Round 32

Posted: August 23, 2014 in Flash Frenzy Weekend Flash Challenge
Tags: , , ,

Hello again, friends, and welcome to Round 32!

We have a new guest judge joining us this week, the lovely and talented Taylor Scheid.

Before we get started, here’s a brief reminder of the rules.

Deadline: Sunday at 6:00pm MST. You all have 36 hours to create your best work of up to 360 words (exclusive of title) and post it into the comments below. Please include your word count (required) and Twitter handle if applicable. For complete rules, click here. 

The winning author and their story will be featured as Wednesday’s Hump-Day Quickie, receive a winner’s page, and be crowned Flash Master of the Week.

Here is your prompt.

Photo courtesy Ashwin Rao

Photo courtesy Ashwin Rao

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Comments
  1. David Shakes says:

    The Beatles Never Played Mexico
    David Shakes
    @theshakes72
    331words

    “Where’s your goddamn hat Juan? This is so like you – thirty minutes late and minus half the costume. This is no ordinary photo shoot you know, it’s freaking ‘Rolling Bone Magazine’ for cryin’ out loud!”

    “I ain’t gonna wear no hat Pepe, it’s like stereotyping us or something…”

    “We’re a three piece Mexican outfit for the love of God. Troubadours. And where’d you get fancy words like ‘stereotype’ from?”

    Pepe looked incredulously at Juan. Pedro just shook his head resignedly.

    “Need you ask, Pepe? It’s that little shih tzu he’s been hookin’ up with, filling his head with nonsense again.”

    “She has a name Pedro!” snarled Juan.

    Pepe’s indignation was palpable.

    “I’ll not have that bitch’s name spoken in my presence. She’s brought nothing but grief to this band…”

    “Oh yeah,” growled Juan, “well maybe she’s opened my eyes to a few things…a few home truths as it were.”

    “Enlighten us,” barked Pedro.

    “Well, for starters – why’d we always split the royalties three ways? I mean it was basically me who wrote everything except ‘Twist and Bark’, not to mention me being the most popular one…”

    “That’s bull and you know it!” whined Pepe unconvincingly.

    Juan had always been the more popular one, right from school, despite Pepe’s superior looks. He was the tortured poet, always gathering a crowd, always had women sniffing around him.
    Despite this, Pepe felt that it was his guitar riffs and melodies that were at the heart of the bands success.

    Pedro was just happy to drum.

    Juan had one more shock to deliver:

    “Hey Dude..puppy…yeah, you -‘Rolling Bone’ reporter. Come here, I have an exclusive for ya. I’m going solo. We’re breaking up!”
    “Care to comment?” the young reporter asked Pepe, tail wagging uncontrollably.
    Pepe simply raised his head and refused to speak. Pedro looked on at him, aghast.
    Juan was turning to leave.

    The photographer took the immortal shot.

    “And I’m keeping these glasses,” Juan said, “they make me look like Elvis.”

  2. Tijuana Brass
    @stellakateT
    353 words

    I’m so fed up of looking cute, what are we supposed to be today? A Mexican Tijuana band, if I could I’d ring up the RSPCA I really would, its so demeaning. I want to have some street cred instead of all these women going “oh aren’t they cute” and throwing a few coins into the begging basket. Marlon says it’s not begging, it’s artistic, Pixie doesn’t give a dog’s bone as long as someone pats and coos over her. For Lassie’s sake! Call yourselves dogs!

    Yesterday we were wearing tutus; mine was an embarrassing shade of vivid pink. I’m a male Chihuahua proud of my breeding line. I’m a pedigree. One day this dog is going to have its day.

    Damian rattles the coins in his pocket. It’s been a good day. He’d put Herb Alpert and his Tijuana Brass loud on his sound system and that seemed to attract the punters. This dog idea of his is amazingly lucrative. His girlfriend Izzy, makes the outfits on her mum’s old sewing machine using cheap Oxfam fabrics, he’s in awe of her skilful designs. Maybe he could franchise his business have a trio of Chihuahuas in every town.

    He places the dogs in the front pannier of his pushbike making sure they are secure. They are precious cargo. His Grandma would kill him if anything happened to her darlings. Now she couldn’t get out she was worried they would get fat and depressed without a bit of exercise so it was easy to persuade her to let him have them every afternoon between two and four, any earlier he and Izzy would still be in bed.

    I nip Pixie to move over and make more room for me in this dog carrier. I urinate, Marlon tutts, I ignore him hoping the smell will annoy the boy. Tomorrow I’m going to bite the first person that pats my head and says “What a cutie”. If I’m put down then so be it. I’ll be on par with them banned dogs. I puff out my chest no more outfits for me, beware of the dog.

  3. America’s Dogs Got Talent
    @JamieRHersh
    352 words

    “Hey, Roger, check it out.”

    I looked in the direction of Ricardo’s pointed cigarette. The skinniest man I’d ever seen was walking toward us with what appeared to be an emaciated, curly-haired bear on a leash.

    “Excuse me,” the man said, “we’re in the semi-finals. Can you show us to the green room?”

    “That thing made the semi-finals?” Ricardo asked. I shot him a “shut your mouth” look, then turned to the contestant.

    “What’s his name?”

    “Horace.”

    I nodded my head, flinching inwardly. Bad look, bad name, unappealing owner – what a tough combination. I, like Ricardo, wondered why the producers had let this dog through to the Judge’s round.

    “Right this way, sir.”

    When we reached the green room, I watched as Horace and his owner tried to find a place among the sea of tutu-clad poodles and sharply-groomed German shepherds.

    My radio sounded; it was near showtime and I was due backstage. I forgot about Horace until there he was, in the “on deck” circle, forced to follow a trio of chihuahuas doing a chair-dancing routine to Janet Jackson’s “I Miss You Much”.

    As the announcer introduced them, I felt more sorry than ever for the ugly, unkempt Horace and his scarecrow owner, David. The crowd gave them the expected welcome of laughter and jeers. Undaunted, David set Horace on his mark, then sat down at the piano and began to play.

    The tune seemed familiar to me, but I was unable to place it. David faltered, on the intro, and re-started. The audience twittered. The judges exchanged looks. One tripped her “X” buzzer, and half the crowd applauded.

    David began again. I realized I was holding my breath.

    I watched, stupefied, as that ugly dog half-howled, half-barked the first four bars of “”O mio babbino caro”.

    The crowd erupted in wild applause. The judges sat, stunned, mouths agape, as Horace and David finished the song.

    There were no further “X”’s from the judges. Horace was passed through to the finals with instructions to see the groomer, and for David to buy himself a well-tailored suit.

  4. streetej says:

    Steampunk Mariachi Chihuahuas!
    Emily June Street
    @EmilyJuneStreet
    358 or 360 words, depending on how you break down “Bodie-the-Rat”

    McNulty and his cronies, Bodie-the-Rat and Marlow, lurked outside my trailer after the show. Rumor said that before becoming our circus strongman, McNulty had been a prizefighter. His crooked nose gave the tale some credence. Bodie, McNulty’s manager, was as skinny as snake and twice as mean. Marlow, the old trainer, resembled a chunk of granite. In his heyday he had been even beefier than McNulty.

    I shuffled towards my trailer. The last thing I needed was trouble with our troupe’s token delinquents.

    “You owe me, illusionist,” McNulty said, flexing his massive arms.

    “I don’t know what you mean.” My voice squeaked with dismay.

    Bodie snorted. “We know you tucked cards up your sleeves last night, Paul-o. No one’s luck is that good.”

    I scowled. I hadn’t actually cheated—not using sleight of hand, at least. Real magic, well, that was another matter, and none of their damned business.

    My fingers itched with leashed power as McNulty yanked my cape ties into a makeshift garrote. “It’s our night off,” he growled. “We’re thirsty. Cough up. If I get a hundred I’ll release you and keep quiet about your cheating ways.”

    I dangled in his grip, gasping.

    “Search him,” McNulty bellowed. While McNulty throttled me, Bodie searched my pockets, nose twitching with greed. Marlow observed like a hard and distant god.

    Sweat trickled down my spine. McNulty squeezed harder.

    Trouble triggered instinctual magic. I wrenched my arms through the gesture for the spell: “Animus Transfiguro!”

    My desperate mind flailed for suitable creatures. Only Miguel’s chihuahuas, dressed up as steampunk mariachis for his hand-balancing act, came to mind.

    “Steampunk Mariachi Chihuahuas!” I screamed with my remaining breath.

    Smoke exploded through the alley, obscuring everything. I coughed and wiped my eyes. The thugs had vanished.

    “Arf! Arf! Arf!”

    Three tiny and disgruntled dogs trembled before me. I recognized McNulty straight away: he glared at me above his crooked nose with a seething hatred that leaked through the barrier of his steampunk goggles.

    “It’s your own damned fault,” I said, scooping up the dogs and carrying them into my trailer. “And I prefer you all in this form. Especially with the hats.”

  5. jbertetta says:

    “La Lucheza”
    Joshua Bertetta
    @JBertetta
    360 words

    The mariachis fell silent when she strode into the cantina. Voices trickled toward silence, but T-Bone, Big Dog, and Wolf shouted at the camarero and at once he brought them their cervezas.

    She drew alongside the three burly men, their steel-studded black jackets still caked in dirt, their beards like steel wool. She spoke in decent English. “Outside. They are your motorcycles?”

    “Yeah, baby,” said Wolf. “Why don’t ya saddle up alongside us? The night’s on Big Dog here.”
    She tucked her hair behind her ears and blushed.

    “How much?” asked Wolf loud enough that, when he saw the old man across the bar lower and shake his head, yelled, “What the fuck’s it to you?”

    Hurrying toward the three, the camarero gave each a shot and a chaser on the house. He raised his arms. The mariachis continued and the drinking resumed.

    She didn’t give a price when she sat down; T-Bone leaned back in his chair and adjusted his sunglasses.

    She got them talking and got them drinking and in getting them drinking she got them bragging.
    Big Dog’s the one who spilled the beans first and T-Bone, propping his elbows on the table, leaned forward and grinned. “But it was my idea.”

    She reached out and stroked his arm. “You are a bad, bad man.”

    “Bad to the bone, baby, bad to the bone.” He looked to first to Wolf. “There ain’t nobody badder.” He lifted his sleeveless leather jacket and showed her his gun.

    They drank into the night and she danced with all three in turn and before they left together, Big Dog tossed the mariachis a wad of cash and took their hats.

    T-Bone, Big Dog, and Wolf laughed and stumbled down the street and she, running silent through the night, turned a corner, and beckoned them forth: “Come get it you big bad men.”

    And come and get it they did; their hands already at their flies when they saw emerge from the dark alley a tall, old woman, her hair long and grey, eyes ghost white grinning before them. She said something in Spanish and turned them into the dogs they were.

  6. Carlos Orozco says:

    Carlos Orozco
    @goldzco21

    Comandante Garza’s Proposal
    349 Words

    “Jefe, it’s foolproof. No one will suspect a thing.” Comandante Garza’s words floated temporarily above the stench of cheap cigar smoke and expensive whiskey. They sank back down through the permanent fog of the small, ill lit room and burrowed into El Jefe’s ears.

    “Please explain it once more Comandante,” El Jefe said between a gulp of whiskey and a puff of the cigar.

    “We dress the Chihuahuas in mariachi outfits.”

    “Three of them?”

    “Yes, three dogs to fit all the diamonds.”

    “Why not one big dog?”

    “One dog looks like a stray. Three dogs look like they belong to someone. The dogcatcher would never pick up three dogs in mariachi suits. Los Contras will never suspect we’re transporting half a million in diamonds through their turf. Those idiots will laugh at the funny dogs, and we’ll laugh at their stupidity.”

    El Jefe rubbed his beard, pulling the hair toward his chin while he thought. “And your police force? They won’t think three mariachi dogs are suspicious?”

    “My guys stay away from that side of town, too violent. We don’t get paid enough to risk our necks.”

    “Well, everything sounds good, but where are you going to get the three trained Chihuahuas from?”

    “Trained? What do you mean Jefe?”

    “You imbecile. How are the dogs going to know where to go? If you let them loose they will run astray. Don’t tell me you were planning to strap my money to some untrained mutts? How you made it to Comandante is a mystery to me Garza.” El Jefe sighed heavily, sat back in the plush chair, and rubbed his eyes. “At least you had the sense to explain your plan to me before you carried it out. I would’ve hung your decapitated body over a bridge if you would’ve lost my diamonds.”

    Comandante Garza laughed. “Good thing I came to you then, right Jefe? Well, I have to get back to the station before…”

    A knock interrupted Garza’s goodbye.

    “Jefe, someone is here wanting to talk to El Comandante Garza. Something about some missing Chihuahuas in a mariachi band.”

  7. Mark A. King says:

    The day a dog fell from the sky

    By Mark A. King

    @Making_Fiction

    359 Words

    Sputnik 2. November 3, 1957

    Laika, has had many names. Kudryavka is was one, but there were others. She is young, yet has already lived two lives.

    Tightly restrained by chains, she can barely move in the container. She is unaware that this vessel will become an oven, freezer and eventual coffin.

    Partially shaved fur, wires and sensors, make her look like a fabric Russian doll, crudely stitched and roughly patched. Her food, jellified chemicals, lightweight and sterile, does not have flavour – she won’t live long enough to notice.

    During take-off, the rocket vibrates, and she shakes in fear. Gravitational forces tug at her…then release. She wants to hide. She barks and whimpers. Her frantic digging is futile. She is in pain. The heat is unbearable.

    Outside, the vacuum competes with death for coldness, and the blackness is infinite.

    She is the fate of a nation.

    Elsewhere. November 3, 1957

    “Are you happy with this?”

    “No, why would I be?”

    “We should intervene.”

    “No, it would look…odd…there might be questions.”

    “I thought you said they were ready, that this was their first step to transcendence.”

    “It might be, all species make mistakes along the way, but yes, it’s not a great start.”

    “We could still do it…I mean who would ever know? They’re not expecting her back. “

    “True. The ship will burn up, so there won’t be any questions. “

    “What do we do with the people who did this?”

    “You know the rules, we can’t touch them.”

    “But…”

    “How’s America doing?”

    “They’re upset.”

    “How about a little nudge in the right direction, you know, with the moon thing?”

    “Sounds good.”

    “What about Laika?”

    “She’s cold, I’ll send her somewhere warm.”

    Guanajuato, Mexico. November 3, 1957

    It is the annual festival; they have decided this year that it is the festival of the dog.

    Laika wakes.

    In the evening, the stones radiate the heat of the slumbering sun. Under the flickering torches, the dogs run freely through the narrow cobbled streets.

    They’re dressed in hats, sunglasses and capes. The majestic domes and spires cast envious looks at them, for they are adored and worshiped, they are gods.

  8. A Taste for Blood?

    ‘Ohhhh… Look at them, So Cuuuuute.’
    ‘They are so sweeeeet!
    Barbara stood back from the adoring crowd. Normally she hated anthropomorphising animals. But these three were actually quite photogenic.

    Barbara lifted the heavy SLR to her face and knelt down. She made a noise like a mouse, pulling her tongue beneath her teeth,the sound rang out,squeaky and gritty. The three dogs ears shot up in unison, all three faces turned to her. She pressed the shutter release. Click! What a picture! Twelve little legs scuttled on dumpy bodies, making it halfway across the road. Click! Fantastic. The glasses fallen, their faces visible. One dog hung in the air freeze frame before falling, landing awkwardly, a tiny ‘snap’ made the crowd gasp. One was plastered in the doorway of Norden’s Bookstore, the other had ejected it’s colourful bowels through its anus onto the road.

    The car had disappeared as fast as it had arrived. Click! Barbara swallowed hard and wondered why she’d took the last photograph. She felt strangely compelled. The owner was screaming holding her emptied dog to her breast. Click! Many people milled around, looking away disgusted, not sure what to do. Click! Barbara slipped away into a delicatessen shop.

    The shop seemed a quiet, safe haven. The crowd expanded outside, she saw flashing lights and the screaming had stopped. Antonio was cutting salami behind the counter. Swish. Swish. The smell of garlic suddenly hitting her, she gulped back a rising force.

    ‘Lot of commotion out there. An accident?’ Antonio said looking round at her.
    ‘Yes, it was an accident, I never knew they would start running, I never meant for them to…’
    Antonio’s scream was a rising scale, like an opera singer, ending on an beautiful octave. The long high note rang out clear and steady before falling to panting whimpers. Holding his fingers up, the blood spurted, he jumped around smashing into the glass counter, making the bread sticks wobble, sending packets of square tea tumbling. Leaping then crouching, his face as red as the organic beetroot. Barbara froze. She never understood why her hands instinctively rose to lift the camera to her face. Click!

    (360 words)
    @avalina_kreska

  9. by Maryann Holloway
    @ma_holloway
    http://mholloway63.wordpress.com/2014/08/24/sunday-photo-fiction-challenge-two-conversations-about-three/

    200 words

    Two Conversations About Three

    “Whoever said that all bad things come in threes was right. Why did I agree to rent the summer cottage to those three Americans on holiday?” complained Mrs. Mosito.

    “Mom that is not what that saying means,” said Maria.

    “I’m running back and forth all day long. Do they think this is the Ritz?”

    “I’m sure three middle aged tourists is not what the rule of three is all about.”

    “Today one of them had the nerve to complain about my furnishings. She pointed to this lava lamp and said it was making her nauseous. I unplugged it and took it out. Next she’ll complain that there is no lamp in her room.”

    “Three is imbedded in our culture. In religion we have the Trinity. It’s in our fairytales and literature as in Goldilocks and the Three Bears. There are three acts in a play. In public speaking we say what we are going to say, say it and say what we said.”

    “They also want me to recommend restaurants. I only know the Three Amigos on Third Avenue.”

    “We’re programmed to look for patterns of three.”

    “I thank the Father, Son and Holy Ghost they leave in three days.”

  10. […] Also submitted for Flash Frenzy Round 32 (see the rules at this link) […]

  11. […] entry for this weekly photo prompt flash competition of up to 360 […]

  12. Disquiet

    An unsolicited call tipped me off to this battered ranch house with a couple of disheveled kids playing in the sickly grass. A headless and nude Barbie was clawing at the lawn, heading for asphalt and the freedom of a Goodyear tire. Outdated cars sat comatose in the driveway, their rusted tailpipes decaying like a smoker’s lungs.

    I rapped tentatively, unsure of who or what could be waiting inside. A woman with cinnamon skin and hazardous eyes invited me in, asked if I wanted a cup of coffee. Before I could decline, a Louisville Slugger greeted my jaw. Darkness.

    I awoke to my hands being tied to a cement pole.

    “Hola, bounty hunter. Welcome to my basement.”

    Heron Lopez. Similar to his namesake, he flapped his tattooed arms one day in Tucson and took flight, missing his court date for human trafficking.

    “Guess you ain’t in Mexico like I was told by a former mamacita of yours. How ’bout you untie me and we’ll hash this out over a Corona with lime. A pinch of salt. Cool?”

    “Silly pendejo. You’re slippery, man, I’ll give you that. No beer though, amigo, I have other plans for you.”

    “Does it involve carne asada or chimichangas? Seriously, I’m famished.”

    “Gringos and their jokes. Is that the fear talking? If not, it should be.”

    He was right. I was petrified of this chiseled psychopath. I’ve heard the rumors about el perro rabioso, the rabid dog. This dude will gut you with as much emotion as a man brushing his teeth.

    “It’s real simple. If you kill me, my associates will kill you. And that chica with the coffee too.”

    He laughed a bit too loudly.

    “You’re as dumb as my little niño and he’s still in diapers. You think this is my only hideout? I’ll be in the wind before you turn blue, my friend. You knocked on the wrong door today, this is no bueno for you.”

    He loomed over me, his breath rancid with bloodlust, his mud-colored eyes jiggling in their sockets, a machete vibrating in his hand.

    “So, I assume that’s a no on the chimichangas? That’s just cold, man.”

    Chris Milam @Blukris
    358 words

  13. The Best Defense
    262 words
    @CaseyCaseRose

    I was having bad dreams again.
    Slithery faces and strange people were trying to get into the house.
    I told Mom.
    Again she told me, “You’re safe! The house is safe. We are safe. They’re just dreams.”
    But at night they felt real.

    When Grandpa came to visit this weekend he took my chin gently in his soft hands and tilted face up.
    “You look tired little peanut. Running and playing too hard?”
    I told him about the dreams.
    He nodded seriously.
    “You need guard dogs for your dreams. But not just any guard dogs,” he said.
    “Okay, you are going to borrow Pipi,Gigi, and Pop,” he began and I giggled. Grandpa’s three dogs were small enough to put in all in my back pack.
    “Mom won’t let us borrow the dogs,” I said and he waved his hands.
    “No, no, you borrow them in your mind! Alright, they need something extra to make you feel safe…how about leather jackets?”
    “And dark sunglasses!” I pitched in.
    “Of course, to keep their laser eyes from doing damage until needed.”
    “And hats. Tiny ones,” Grandpa added,”Mostly because the best defense against bad dreams are happy thoughts, my dear.”

    When I woke up in a panic from my dark dreams I closed my eyes once more and conjured my tiny defensive gang. Laser-eyes and tiny hats at the ready.
    I smiled.

  14. C Connolly says:

    Cuban Heels

    Heat emerges from beyond Casino’s double doors, as Jay pushes them open and moves inside, tiny sombrero stamp displayed at his wrist. The floor is full of bodies, improvisation at the ready. Already he recognises integrated elements of Cha Cha Cha, Danzon and rumba, beyond the usual Dile Que No and a contratiempo. The band – a short statured trio – Techichi tonight, he thinks – is playing for all their worth, sweat browed. Still, he isn’t feeling it yet, though the music is hopping.

    “Care to dance?” a female voice asks, behind him and he turns, taking in a flame coloured up do above green eyes, looking into his own, decided, daring him to say no. He doesn’t. Instead, they are up and onto the floor together, before he is thinking about it and she is pulling his arms around her into position, pre figures and turns. She is close enough to him he can smell the remnants of a perfume he can’t quite place, before he realises he has missed his count and the beat is beyond him already and away.

    “Sorry,” Jay mutters. “Start again?”

    “Sure,” his companion says, smiling a little. “When you’re ready.” She raises a pencilled eyebrow at him, eyes sparking.

    Jay looks away briefly, starts to count; to concentrate. This time he has found the rhythm and they are in it together, hips noting the swing and away, break step firmly in place. He finds she anticipates easily, given he has never been the strongest of leaders really; quick and graceful in her spins, single and double. He senses, rather than sees, the looks they are garnering from others around them; knows they are down to his petite partner, who takes the credit. Suddenly, he is grinning, pulse increased and the steps are sorting themselves, as they work the floor, two together, deep beneath the base.

    “We’ll have to try that again,” she says, causing him to realise the song has slowed to a close. Jay realises right then he could easily jump to her tune for time to come. The concept doesn’t bother him much – and he doesn’t even know her name yet.

    (360 words)

    @FallIntoFiction

  15. milambc says:

    Stranger Danger (360 words)
    @brett_milam

    Marvin came to the dog park every day at noon without a dog. He sat on the bench with his legs crossed. It made him stand out to the dog walkers and the Frisbee-throwers and the dog-sitters in the park. Only creepy old men crossed their legs.

    And he always brought a pink leash with him, which he kept firm in his grip, as his eyes scanned the park behind black sunglasses. A bowler hat sat atop his fraying hair. Thick beads of sweat dripped down his wrinkled neck. Strike number two for onlookers in the dog park. Only creepy old men wore bowler hats anymore.

    He never said anything. But he scribbled. Every few minutes, he would pull a tiny notebook from his breast pocket, a pencil and begin scratching away. Nobody knew what. Nobody tried to talk to him. Some would even walk their dog by him to see how they’d react. If the dog snarled its teeth or tucked its tail, Marvin must be a pedophile. Only creepy old men made dogs uncomfortable.

    Only creepy old men could be a pedophile. Stranger danger was prominent among the middle-class moms and dads in the suburban dog park. Some had even phoned the police. Dispatch would send a patrol car to drive by, but they couldn’t do anything. There was a “file” on Marvin, they said.

    Then, Michelle, a talkative third-grader with a penchant for asking, ‘But why?” stopped to talk to Marvin. Her collie sat by her feet panting, hot from the heat. Her mom had run to the bathroom for “just a minute.” Onlookers had their hands hovering over smartphones like a holstered gun.

    “Hi, whatcha doin’?” Michelle said.

    “Drawing,” Marvin said. His voice aged, dusty.

    “Drawing what? Can I see?”

    She could. She looked at the first page, then flipped through several more.

    “Doggies! What’s this one?”

    “That’s a pit bull named Gus,” Marvin said.

    She noticed his pink leash.

    “Where’s your dog at?” she said.

    “Oh, he joined the other doggies in the clouds last winter.”

    Then Michelle’s mom returned and hurriedly ushered her away, interrupting her next question.

    Marvin smiled and returned to drawing.

  16. Karl A Russell says:

    One Of Those Affairs

    It was a very New York wedding; Chihuahuas in Tex-Mex drag as page boys, a string quartet playing novelty pop and a groom dressed like something from Star Trek.

    I walked the perimeter that separated the random crazies in the park from the random crazies on the guest list, planning possible escapes. I counted six exit points which I could hit with a minimum of violence and a zero body count, then headed to the party tent to wait.

    It was cooler inside, one customer at the bar, swaying slightly on her stool. Late thirties, eyes like chipped blue diamonds, framed by a neat red-black bob. I took the stool beside hers, threw out a smile and got one back in return. Her wine glass was empty and I figured she’d already had plenty, but for the chance of one more smile, I bought her another. It was even more stunning this time. She nodded towards the music.

    “That’s poop.”

    I shrugged.

    “Sounds like the Flying Purple People Eater.”

    “It’s shite. Sorry…”

    “No worries; not a fan myself. Are you with the bride or the groom?”

    She took a sip of her wine, smiled again, pale blue eyes flashing.

    “Nowadays? Neither. Once? Either. Sorry… Again…”

    “Really, it doesn’t bother me.”

    “But-?”

    “A man is so much more than his work. Here.”

    I passed her a card, my real number. She pocketted it, one sculpted eyebrow raised in amused curiosity. I grinned, signalled the barman for two more drinks. The string quartet launched “Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” and I knew that the bride had arrived.

    I sighed, tipped Blue Eyes a wink, then headed out. I dropped the pill into the whiskey, passed it to the bride’s father then watched him sip it as I took my place at the altar. In ten minutes he’d be dead, in twenty, I’d be two mil richer, and tonight I’d have a call from Blue Eyes too.

    First though, I had to finish the job. Opening my bible, I smiled at the crowd, tried not to laugh at the bride’s Bowie make up, and began;

    “Dearly beloved…”

    Like I said, one of those affairs…

    360 words
    @Karl_A_Russell

  17. […] final contest I entered this past weekend was the Angry Hourglass Flash Frenzy. I didn’t grab a spot on the podium this week as the two chosen winners were so […]

  18. […] Here is my entry into Angry Hourglass Flash Fiction Challenge #32 […]

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