[stylist] flash fiction

[Tessa Urban]

Hello this was interesting I suppose however I just don't understand it. The metaphors and everything in this piece. Maybe it is because I am uncertain of flash fiction is that is possible. There are other things about this piece that I just shake my head at however I am aware that it is personal preference. This is just my opinion however. The writing itself is good I suppose just not my thing. However, I must say that just because it isn't what I am in to it does not make the piece that. I hope this makes sense have a great day and God bless! 
Tessa

Sent from my iPhone

> On Mar 18, 2014, at 11:35 AM, "Chris Kuell" <ckuell at comcast.net> wrote:
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> 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.
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> We Three Kings
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> By Chris Kuell
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> Ashes to ashes, that's what the Bible says.
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> 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.
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> "How much to Albany?" Gangsta-dude says.
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> "That's a hundred miles, plus I gotta come back. Two-hundred fifty, and I don't take checks."
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> 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.  
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> "It's only the Guard," Mikey had said. How could I protest? He'd seen me polishing the M-16; watched the shadows fall.      
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> Evening crept its way along the horizon. A bottle of clear sunshine passed back and forth in the rear seat.
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> "Six-months," Mikey had said. "Back in time to help put the dock in."
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> The windows fogged. Tongues touched. I caught a glimpse of chocolate nipple in the rear view mirror. How sweet it is.
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> "Helicopters," Mikey had said. "Blackhawks."
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> She catches me looking. Pushes Romeo away, re-buttons her blouse. Flick, clop. Flick, clop.
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> "It's unreal," Mikey had said. "Up high, it's like a bunch of campfires. Makes me want to toast marshmallows."    
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> More murmuring, unpacking. Gangsta-dude sucks on a neon glass pipe. The girl eats a Ho Ho.
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> ""None of that shit in here."
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> The exhale stinks of burnt plastic, molten garbage bags. Flick. Now it's the girl's turn. Clop. 
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> "Extra-armor plating," Mikey had said. "Practically impenetrable."
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> 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."
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> 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.
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> I push the gas pedal to the floor. Forty, fifty, sixty. 
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> "Okay, Pops, don't be stupid."
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> Seventy. Seventy-five. Pressure from the barrel cuts my skull, helps me focus. Eighty.
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> "I'll blow your fuckin' head off."
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> "Don't!" the girl screeches.
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> All of this has happened before. All of it will happen again. That's what the Bible says.
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> Gangsta-dude is across the seat pulling at my leg, sweat beading off his neck. Eighty-five. Ninety.
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> A half-mile ahead, red lights blink on a broken-down natural gas truck, just like the stars over Bethlehem.
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> "Jesus," the girl cries.
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> "Love you, Dad," Mikey had said.
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> We will meet again at the banquet of all banquets. That's what the Bible says.
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> "I love you too," I say. 
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> One hundred and two. 
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> Upon impact, I finally understand. Heaven is a Supernova.
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