[stylist] flash fiction

Tue Mar 18 19:47:05 UTC 2014

Chris,

I like the description of the woman's neather regions as the Holy Grail,
also works as a contrasting metaphor

I had to read twice to pick up on the brief mention of a window to
understand the narrator is a cab driver before mentioning it several
sentences later. Maybe just say taxi window? A fare is discussed, but I
initially thought they were at a bus station.

Maybe it's just me, but when the passenger says he will make guacamole
out of his brains, it sounds a bit stereotypical, almost satirical.

I had to re-read to understand the conversation happening, that Mikey is
the driver.

Good, Succinct writing which is the great thing about flash fiction.

Isn't We Three Kings a David O' Russell film with George Clooney? The
title just made me think of it.

Take my comments for what they are worth. I'm on drugs for a sinus cold,
so who knows what I'm rambling about or even what I'm reading, LOL!

Bridgit

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Chris
Kuell
Sent: Tuesday, March 18, 2014 10:35 AM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
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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