[stylist] flash fiction

[Atty Rose]

I loved this piece. It was put together is vivid visuals.

And humor too!

I think though you should have a few more words about Miky. I thought at 
first it was the couple talking about him and had to go back and re-read it 
to realize what was up. Since it is important to the story I suggest a few 
more words on it.

Well done!
Atty

----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Chris Kuell" <ckuell at comcast.net>
To: <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Tuesday, March 18, 2014 10:35 AM
Subject: [stylist] flash fiction


> 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.
>
>
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