[stylist] flash fiction

[Chris Kuell]

Greetings. Below is a 495 word flash fiction piece I'm getting ready to submit to several of the markets Atty posted. All comments and suggestions are welcomed.


 

 

We Three Kings

 

By Chris Kuell

 

Ashes to ashes, that's what the Bible says.

 

I watch a gangsta-wanna-be dude and his Puerto Rican girlfriend stroll out of the FoodBag close enough it looked like they were in a three-legged race. They come to the window, her skirt so short I can almost see the Holy Grail.

"How much to Albany?" Gangsta-dude says.

 

"That's a hundred miles, plus I gotta come back. Two-hundred fifty, and I don't take checks."

 

He flashes a wad as thick as a T-bone and the two of them tumble into the back seat. I drive. They murmur conversation for two, then fire-up cigarettes. The dude keeps lighting an old-fashioned Zippo, then flipping the lid shut to snuff it out. Flick, clop. Flick, clop. The sound is rhythmic, like the clapping of horse hooves on cobblestone.  

 

"It's only the Guard," Mikey had said. How could I protest? He'd seen me polishing the M-16; watched the shadows fall.      

 

Evening crept its way along the horizon. A bottle of clear sunshine passed back and forth in the rear seat.

 

"Six-months," Mikey had said. "Back in time to help put the dock in."

 

The windows fogged. Tongues touched. I caught a glimpse of chocolate nipple in the rear view mirror. How sweet it is.

 

"Helicopters," Mikey had said. "Blackhawks."

 

She catches me looking. Pushes Romeo away, re-buttons her blouse. Flick, clop. Flick, clop.

 

"It's unreal," Mikey had said. "Up high, it's like a bunch of campfires. Makes me want to toast marshmallows."    

 

More murmuring, unpacking. Gangsta-dude sucks on a neon glass pipe. The girl eats a Ho Ho.

 

""None of that shit in here."

 

The exhale stinks of burnt plastic, molten garbage bags. Flick. Now it's the girl's turn. Clop. 

 

"Extra-armor plating," Mikey had said. "Practically impenetrable."

 

I pull over into the breakdown lane, tires rumbling on the gravel. Gangsta-dude puts a piece behind my ear. The hard metal is undeniable. "Keep driving, Pops, or I'll make guacamole outta yo brains."

 

The two soldiers were waiting for me at the front door. Uniforms perfect, medals shiny, faces tight. You know its bad news when they come in twos.

 

I push the gas pedal to the floor. Forty, fifty, sixty. 

 

"Okay, Pops, don't be stupid."

 

Seventy. Seventy-five. Pressure from the barrel cuts my skull, helps me focus. Eighty.

 

"I'll blow your fuckin' head off."

 

"Don't!" the girl screeches.

 

All of this has happened before. All of it will happen again. That's what the Bible says.

 

Gangsta-dude is across the seat pulling at my leg, sweat beading off his neck. Eighty-five. Ninety.

A half-mile ahead, red lights blink on a broken-down natural gas truck, just like the stars over Bethlehem.

 

"Jesus," the girl cries.

 

"Love you, Dad," Mikey had said.

 

We will meet again at the banquet of all banquets. That's what the Bible says.

 

"I love you too," I say. 

 

One hundred and two. 

 

Upon impact, I finally understand. Heaven is a Supernova.