The Lost

Alone in my room
I feel the Lost
It pushes and pulls me
outside
beneath cold stars
I turn slowly
upon myself
breathing out
Paahh!
Paahh!
translucent puffs
I push them to you
alone in your room
absorb them
alone
in the Lost

My Fierce Kitten

All Hallows' Eve is approaching,
I've heard stories about what happens to Black Kittens...
So you were taken from your mother too soon.
You are  scared of shadows,
but are an expert mouser.
Some days you stretch languidly in my lap,
while others are spent under the porch.
I try to coax you out with cream and a nip,
to little avail.
Your favorite evening perch is just under the porch-gable,
where you wait for that fuzzy bat to flit within your grasp.
Will you murder it in a fit of violence,
or will you hold it tight, whispering in it's ear,
"We who own the night will always be lovers."
Your box and saucer are here always,
waiting.
But you rarely visit,
My fierce kitten.

Together We Can Bury It

"She is breathless to tell him. I have quit my job. I have stolen the brain. And together, we can bury it." -from "Blooms"
 
What an amazing collection of  Flash Fiction Gems! From first to last, entertaining and well written.

What flash fiction does best, and Kathy Fish has mastered, is to take an idea, dunk your head into it, then pull you back up, coughing and sputtering.

While I have read and written flash fiction before, I've not read it collected in book form. I must say, that I enjoyed it immensely.

Collected in five Chapters, with each story from a different point of view, this book should be enjoyed one story at a time and not as a continuing narrative.

For the first chapter I read all eight stories at one sitting. Frankly, I was left a little dizzy. The second chapter I read each story one at a time, but over the course of a day. That worked much better. I found that I needed to digest each story by itself.

I am looking forward to more delightful little worlds seen through the prose of Kathy Fish. The Lit Pub copy of this book is an extra special treasure as well.

Together We Can Bury Can Bury It can be purchased here.

The Children of Iteru

Shall we not tell the tale to our children
of the nameless ones
who would be gods of men
falling to earth atop pillars of fire
to enslave Ra's beloved

And how we threw them back into the heavens
our teeth stained with blood
hearts pumping the thick Nile mud
weeping for heroes lost
and silent witnesses

Sleep now
we will write your names in stone
that none shall forget
the fell deeds and honor
of the children of Iteru

Mr. Bench

 

If you go down to the park.

That park that nobody goes to anymore.

There are two benches, set back to back.

On one of the benches sits a man.

Not an old man or a young man.

Just a man.

Put some money into his hat.

Tell him your name.

Then sit on the other bench.

He will hunch over for a few minutes.

He will make strange noises.

He will tell you things.

Things about yourself.

Who your friends are.

Where you went to school.

What your dog's name is.

What you had for dinner Saturday Night.

Nobody knows.

How this is accomplished.

By the man on the bench.

"Earth Day" excerpt

I have sailed the eternal ether sea,
 between the  stars.
I have pushed out to meet the silence,
 and laughed.
I was the mote in god’s eye,
 and cried.
Today though is my earth day,
 intrepid explorer.
I have returned home,
 hero’s welcome.
I shall lie beneath her green grass,
 and rest.

-a Travelers’ Tale, anon

Martlet

I wandered that day along strange paths seeking forbidden knowledge. I saw you at meadows edge, arms outstretched as if embracing the late afternoon sun. Naked and plump like the first peaches of Summer; pale of skin and rosy bottomed. Bewitched, I stepped lightly over leaf and twig to your side.

You turned and beheld me as if I were a long awaited guest. Our eyes met and I saw your heart shine forth, like the light of an angel, from behind earthy brown eyes. Love came to me not as a cherub, but in the guise of the gay martlet that lit on your shoulder and whispered in your ear.

You floated gently away; drawing me into the golden meadow, promises of ancient knowing’s in your embrace. I could not move; you faded into nothingness leaving a whisper and a memory.

I linger days at meadows edge never entering. I have forsaken toil and pleasures of the flesh awaiting your return. The shadows over my soul deepen until all is black.

-Tom Allman

Caroline

The first time that I saw Caroline’s pussy I was thirteen. She’d lured me away from a dungeons and dragons game with a Yoo-Hoo and some salty language whispered in my ear. It was mystical and fuzzy; I wanted to touch it. She told me she would never show it to anyone else. But when it came time to show her my goods I chickened out.

When I was sixteen I saw it again. We were at bible camp hunting mushrooms. She let me kiss it. It was salty and moist and tasted a little like the morels that we were supposed to be hunting. I came in my shorts from the excitement and was too embarrassed to talk to her the rest of the summer.

When I came home from boot camp she enticed me away from my buddies with a six pack of Pearl and some even saltier language. Now a world-wise Marine, I was prepared for action. A chicken-head rubber I bought in Tijuana adorned my member. It opened before me like the curtains of the whorehouse I had visited with my first weekend pass. She told me that she had never done it before and I was too stupid to know the difference.

The last time I saw Caroline’s pussy was yesterday. It beckoned to me from the bedroom. The kids were asleep and the kitty needed scratching. Still salty and sweet perhaps wiser from childbirth. It’s forever the like the forbidden peach in her short and curly Garden of Eden.

The Torture Never Stops

There is a pause in the IBM Selectric’s staccato as the author surveys his progress…

The metal door of her tiny cell hisses open… The Dark Lord is silhouetted by red, green, and amber lights. He enters, preceded by a floating sphere dripping liquid pain. She chafes against her restraints, her meticulously coiled hair now spilling about her shoulders. His metallic breath catches as he sees her; who is the torturer and who is the tortured. No questions are asked, she knows what he wants.

The wordsmith jerks the paper from the machine, its platen and feed roller clacking angrily in protest. He starts to crumple the offending page…

A Cheshire-like grin begins to form; new possibilities careen across plot lines and branches.

Sweet Revenge

Delores’s Family told her that she was being paranoid; which proved that they were out to get her! Her Cat, Mr. Puss, confirmed her worst fears. “Darling, your loved ones mock you whenever your back is turned.”  

Delores decided to have a third eye grafted into the back of her head.  She took a “ME” weekend and had it done on the sly. It was neatly covered by her mop of auburn hair. “I’ll show those eye-rollers and tongue-sticker-outers,” she fumed.  

The duplicitous feline told the rest of the family what Delores was doing. “He’s been so helpful and given us such good advice since the operation,” they all said.

When she returned home they followed her around striking lewd poses and making “do you want your face to freeze like that” expressions. This was the last straw.

Terrible and irrevocable things were said, dishes and collectibles hurled. This home was now broken. His job complete, Mr. Puss lay in a laundry basket grooming the area where his testicles had been and savored his sweet, sweet revenge.

The Truth About Cats

I love this story! I'm not sure if it's Literature(y) enough to submit anywhere but here.

The Real Story by Tom Allman
As I stared out of the window, thinking of nothing, I suddenly wondered what Cats might use as a form of currency? The old lump of fur in my lap stirred, stretched languidly and began to clean herself. "You know, at one time, cat's were fabulously wealthy," she mewwed.

"Can you read my mind?"

"Shut up, I'll tell you the story, but then I'm going to have take another nap!"

"Ummm, OK."

"Cat's were given fabulous piles of gold coins by the pharaoh Ramses the First." "To keep them safe we stuffed the coins inside the remains of adorable baby birds we'd tortured then buried them in the yard." She circled my lap, claws unsheathed. "We kept watch over them from the highest and sunniest perch's we could find." "When we dozed off though the damn squirrels dug them up and spirited them all away."
"Very sad stuff," I sniffed.
From the corner of her eye she caught sight of a grey maned bandit on the window sill, sending her tail a-twitching. "Brigands," she hissed, "One day we'll be avenged!"
With that stinging ephithat still hanging in the air; she dozed off again.

Friday Flash + 52/250 challenge (for Emily)

Rhino Rampage by Tom Allman

All signs and portents had been pointing to this fateful ending.  The unpleasantness could no longer be delayed.  It was time to tell the 3year old we were leaving the zoo.

This dangerous and distasteful task called for tact, diplomacy and logic.  Or, a really great lie. 

Don’t roll your eyes at me, I’d like to see you drag a screaming 3yr old a mile and a half through the zoo. 

So I told her that a rhinoceros had escaped and we were evacuating.

She warned (loudly) everyone we passed that a rhino was running amuck!  Strange and condescending looks were cast.  Did she know the truth?  Maybe, but letting dad make an ass off himself is more fun than a tantrum any day.

Downstream (first 52250flash of 2011)

My body is stuck in an inner tube bobbing slowly down our little river.  My mind is moving somewhat faster. I zip past a paddle wheeler whose cub pilot is marking twain.  Then, after shore leave in the Big Easy, I ship out to the Heart of Darkness to find the White Whale.

My bony old butt scrapes a rock and I have to paddle like an upside-down turtle back into the current.  Under full steam again I scoot by Gilligans’ Island and render honors to Darwins’ Beagle.  Soon though, I arrive at my ultimate destination, my tiny kingdom somewhere in the Pacific.

This is where my dreams always end, in a hammock under the bluest sky you’ve ever seen.  Every morning the children gather flowers to weave into my crown.  In between sunrise and dinner I manage to fend off European invaders and a giant squid. This is the somewhere I’ve never been that is more familiar to me than my own skin. 

Phil Something (U.K. version) Theme : Spontaneous Combustion

No man and few women could resist Liz’s’ coffee brown eyes, alabaster skin, and perfectly pouting lips.  She met them at pubs, groceries, and at the C of E.  A slight smile and a wink and they were ready for a bit of Rumpy Pumpy!

This one, Phil Something, was struggling mightily with his left sock when he noticed the large burn marks on the carpet.  As the their anticipation grew Phil noticed the smell of burning bacon.  When her skin brushed his it was very, very hot, which Phil attributed his expert snogging.

He rolled onto his back and with her astride (which is when he noticed the sprinklers).  Phil swore he could see flames smoldering behind those impossibly long lashes.   When he arched his back in ecstasy he noticed that his flesh was beginning to boil.  And as waves of pleasure overtook them, he burst into flames. 

She dismounted Phil like a gymnast then lit a fag with a fingertip.  As the sprinklers came on she headed for the loo.  How nice of Phil to help her test the Flame Resistant mattress that he’d just delivered.

Sub-Orbital Urbane Conversation

The tiny wedge-shaped capsule hurtled toward the Pacific at Mach 3. The heat shield, now glowing a bright red, was held together with just spit and prayers.  The same could be said of our Intrepid Astronaut.  

In Houston, an ex-Nazi Scientist toggled his microphone, “Friendship 7:Houston, how ist our Space-e-Man feeling today?”  “Smart-ass,” thought the Space-e-Man.  Through clenched teeth the human meteor tried to wax poetic and failed.  Finally he mustered enough wind to croak, “I c…can b…barely hold my fudge!”

Mission control, having a case of the giggles, was slow in regaining its decorum.  Nobody noticed a tear in the eye of the Bavarian Rocket Guru, “Momma made de best fudge,” he whispered.

A Slightly Less Creepy Example of My Slice of Life Flash Fiction

The Friendly Confines

By Tom Allman Jr.

I got a postcard from myself yesterday,  postmarked from Twenty-Three years in the future.  On the front was a picture of New Wrigley Field……

My weary eyes fluttered open, I could see Joe Jr.  He’d hardly left my side in the last week.  My kith and kin had all come and gone, saying goodbye to a skeleton that used to be me. 

Joe Junior and I had butted heads after his mom had left.  I surprised him one day at college and took him to a Cubs game.  Two men, at the Friendly Confines, sharing a few beers and few laughs. 

“Remember Old Wrigley in May,” I rasped.  “Yeah Dad, I do,” his voice cracking.  “I’m taking the boys on Tuesday wanna go?” 

“Yeah I do Joe.”

The back of the postcard said, “Screw work, take Junior to a ball game.”

A Historical Pre-enactment of My next 52/250 and Friday Flash

Lost in Translation

By Tom Allman

We sailed, at dawn, to the last outpost of the Aztec Empire.  Intrepid explorers of the planet we.  I the Gastronome, eating my way across six continents and Fitzhume the cunning linguist, speaking in tongues.

We arrived just in time for second breakfast. I rubbed my belly and shouted for Count Chocula.  Presently they offered Fitzy and I, steaming and pink, a giant conch full of chunky and decadent chowder.

Nonplussed Fitzy attempted to teach the proud natives the vowels and consonants of other General Mills products.  The throng parted and up walked our missing European friend.  Oh fortunes favor, we turned and shouted in unison, “Frankenberry”!

From my 52/250 Collection...The story of a "Bad Haircut"

Ferdinand’s Mom

By Tom Allman

Ferdinand was an excellent dancer; at least that’s what his Mother had told him.  Around and around they would spin in the front parlor to some old Les Brown records.  He begged her to allow him to meet a real girl.

Sheltered but smart, Ferdinand believed that his mother had only the best of intentions.  Ferdinand’s Mother knew that if her boy ever held or smelled a sweet young girl he’d be gone lickety split.  This Saturday’s Sadie Hawkins Dance at the Grange Hall would be a perfect opportunity for her to make sure that never happened.

With his shoes polished and his dead father’s suit hanging nearby he readied himself for the final touch.  Smiling (on the inside) his mother lowered a bowl onto his head.  Clickity Clack went the scissors and his dreams; it was the Birth Control Haircut.

From my 52/250 Collection...A bit of Dr. Who Fanfiction

ARCH RIVALS

The slow, grinding, metal on metal whoosh……whoosh…….whoosh startled the doves sleeping in the rafters of the warehouse.  There/not there/there-an impossible Blue Box appeared from nothingness. 

The door of the Impossible Blue Box creaked open.  Bony fingers, gripping a cylindrical metal MacGuffin, preceded a sharp elbow and the sandy haired pate of the foppish chrono-hippy.  Confidently he maneuvered through the jumbled crates to the fresh, man-shaped stain on the dusty floor.

Was the HE really gone?  Through all of time, back and forth, and back again they had battled.  To have it end with a sickly-sweet smelling stain didn’t seem very cricket.  Stooping, he waved his beep-boop twinkle stick over the patch.  What would he do now? An impish Cheshire grin began to creep across his face.  No, this wasn’t HIS man shaped stain.  He stood, stuffed the beep-boop twinkle stick into his breast pocket and headed back to the Impossible Blue Box, whistling an Arcturian pop tune that wouldn’t be written for another eleven centuries.