FLASH FICTION: Something

a1f48f9b6606d70d1488d994ac709736

There was a woman. There is always a woman. A beautiful woman.

The life of any man is a burning, then a standing over ashes. Stirring and stirring, with his cane. I was young. And burning.

I was young…

*

We walked, evenings. This woman and I. For the days were too warm. When the sun went down, and the wind rose, and the moon, we walked. Through the town. Across the lawn, the green lawn of the museum. Behind the museum, where we would make love. We could not pass by, without doing so.

One evening…

We had been talking. I had been talking, and she had been listening. She listened attentively, but said nothing. There was a sadness about this woman that was no small part of her charm. She was never so sad, or so beautiful, as that evening.

I stopped. And I asked her … if there was something.

She did not answer. But asked me to keep walking. And speaking. Being in the mood for listening, but not speaking.

I continued, for a time. Then paused again.

The woman. In the moonlight, she was so beautiful. Yet … so melancholy.

I asked her again, if there was something.

She shook her head, only.

I wanted so badly for her to speak. To hear her. When you are in love, and young, only, it is a pleasure to listen. When you have forgotten about love, and so grown older, you cannot hear, and will not listen. You will talk a great deal, as before. But you will never again listen.

So I asked again. I took her by the shoulder, and turned her. For I knew there was something. There is always something.

I leaned in.

Then she said, “I am afraid … there is something.”

I listened. Watching her white teeth moving.

“There is something.”

*

We were walking home. We crossed the lawn, the dark lawn of the museum.

We kept walking.

 

                                                                                             

Rolli’s latest book is The Sea-Wave. Buy him a coffee.

Advertisements

FLASH FICTION: Eduardo

Blue Ocean Panorama

I was the only survivor of flight WC350.

The lady next to me on the plane had—I’m not sure. Her eyes watered constantly. They moved constantly, too.

“I was an English teacher in the 60s. I don’t remember all of my students, of course.”

“I remember Eduardo.”

“He was quiet. Not shy. He was melancholy. A melancholy child. Is there anything more thought-provoking?”

“Eduardo was a good student. A good boy. A nervous boy. I touched his shoulder—once.”

“He wouldn’t eat with anyone. He’d take his lunchbox … and stand in a corner of the room, facing the corner.”

“One day, I came up behind him. As he stood facing the corner. I didn’t want to startle him. I looked over his shoulder.”

“And he turned around. Eduardo…”

“His heart fell down. A jar fell down. And a spoon.”

“Paste. He’d been eating paste. He’d been given paste, to eat. In his lunchbox.”

Her eyes watered onto her lap.

“You look so much—you remind me of him. You have the same way about you. Something … melancholy.”

She leaned in. Tears dropped onto my shoulder.

“What’s troubling you?”

A propeller blew through one side of the plane and out the other.

I felt drunk.

*

The news explained everything. I watched it constantly, in the hospital.

The debris field was bigger than the Red Sea.

“How did it happen?”

“How did you survive?”

“How does it feel to be the only survivor?”

I was a celebrity. Finally.

It took them a month to find the pilot.

His name was Eduardo.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

Rolli’s latest book is The Sea-Wave

Buy him a coffee.

 

THANK-YOU: Free Story

e47ae0984844cb905dd96887758dda98.jpg

As a thank-you present for my loyal readers, here’s a never-before-published short story. It’s about writers … and the future. Click here to read or download.

                                                                 

Rolli’s latest book is The Sea-Wave

Buy him a coffee.

FLASH FICTION: Chez Franco

disgraceful2.jpg

“How’s the wine?”

“Tastes wonderful.”

“But does it taste expensive?

“It tastes older than you. You must know Franco pretty well.”

“You look beautiful. Really. It’s not just me. The guy by the window…”

“Frog Eyes?”

“He can’t take them off you.”

“I wish he would.”

“No worries. They’ll cook him up shortly.”

“So you’re a friend of Franco’s? I mean, to get a free bottle. You must be well-acquainted?”

“Not really. I’ve known him … twenty years.”

“Old friends?”

“I never could stand the man.”

“Does he know that?”

“I’m guessing he’s knowledgeable. With a forehead like that.”

“Then why the wine?”

“Madeline…”

“And why come here?

“You’re a beautiful woman.”

“Frog Eyes seems to think so.”

“Franco, too. He keeps looking at you.”

“He doesn’t.”

“If we’re not vigilant, a duel could break out any minute.”

That I’d pay to see.”

“Madeline?”

“Yes?”

I only noticed the masked man when he yelled something unintelligible. He pulled out a gun and…

Franco’s head exploded.

Then we were on the floor. Under the table. Madeline… I’m sure I looked just as terrified. I’m not sure who took whose hand. Who gripped harder, with every shot.

People falling. Tables. Shattering glass.

No words. No screams.

For a minute or an hour, we didn’t move.

When we crawled out…

Frog Eyes was lying in the middle of the room. In a puddle. Breathing hard.

No one else was breathing.

We knelt beside him. In the broken glass.

He was gasping.

We each took a hand. He squeezed them. I took Madeline’s.

Shots. Somewhere outside. Faint. Fainter.

Frog Eyes stopped squeezing.

One shot, far off.

Then it was quiet.

                                                                                                  

From The Big T, a flash fiction mini-collection. Order a copy.

FLASH FICTION: Two Hearts

faint.jpg

My mother and I were in Bristol, visiting someone. A cousin, or something, and her teenage daughter. We were having tea—like this. I would’ve been nine or ten.

Children did a lot of listening in those days. I was never very good at it. I’ve always felt that only interesting people should speak, though it’s the opposite of convention. I suppose I fidgeted too much or said something smart because Mother hissed in my ear: “Why don’t you go upstairs and say hello to Katherine?”

Children still did as they were told in those days. I was never very good at that, either. But this time, I listened. I suppose I was bored. I didn’t know who Katherine was and I didn’t ask.

The first room I went into was the master bedroom. There were clothes all over the floor. When the parlour had been so clean.

The second room was the teenage daughter’s. She had a lot of nice things. Fashionable clothes. There was quite a lot of makeup on the vanity. I put on a bit of coral lipstick and looked in the mirror. I’ve always liked that color.

The third room…

A girl lay asleep in bed. But she wasn’t asleep, no. Her eyes were open. She was staring straight up, at the ceiling.

There was a chair by the bed, so I sat in it. I was curious.

I looked at the girl. She was no bigger than a child of four or five, though she could’ve been my age—or older. Her wrists were like sticks.

As I watched her, she turned her face to me. Her cheek against the pillow. She looked just like a Victorian advertisement. She looked at me. And she said…

She said…

“Because I have two hearts … I am strange and sad to everyone.”

I took her hand. It was so small. I closed my fingers around it. Her skin. You could see every vein.

And I could feel them. PA-PUM … pa-pum. PA-PUM … pa-pum. PA-PUM … pa-pum. The two hearts. A stronger, and a weaker. Beating.

She didn’t say another word, the girl. She didn’t have to.

It’s strange, how something can affect you. For years, I thought about that girl. When I was about to enjoy something, perhaps something too nice, something improper, I’d think of her. An image of her, with her head against the pillow. And I’d set down the cake, or tell the young man no.

The girl. The two hearts. My moral companions.

Can I trouble you for another cup?

____________________________                                                             

Rolli’s latest book is The Sea-Wave

Buy him a coffee.

FLASH FICTION: The Big T

t

2016 was my happiest year.

I pursued my writing dream.

I lived in twelve apartments.

I wrote fifty-two stories.

I sent my stories to the Big T (The New York Titan).

The Big T sent them back.

I sent my stories to The Chesapeake Community Newsletter-Gazette.

The Chesapeake Community Newsletter-Gazette sent them back.

I just about shot myself. The bullet lodged in the wall.

I couldn’t write a word in Eternal Rest (the name of the shelter). Not at first.

The ceiling was plaster painted blue.

Then it came to me.

Rippling Tongues of Hungry Desire.

Rippling Tongues of Hungry Desire.

Rippling Tongues of Hungry Desire.

The book wrote itself. It sold itself.

I shot myself. It was a year before I could see again.

Telexa is the name of my estate. The Big T. There’s a glittering T on the rooftop.

The world’s celebrities visit Telexa. We drink champagne. We joke about orgies.

I joke about climbing the Big T and jumping. Every night.

                                                      

If you like what you see on my site, you really ought to buy me a coffee (or two). More coffee = more stories, poems, cartoons and drawings for you to enjoy. Without coffee … I don’t even want to dream, of that.