Example #1 three connected flashs like the kokinshu in Examples of flashs past

Three flashes all completed concurrently under forty five minutes as per the flash Friday accord of April 2011. Don’t get any on you.

“Popping the clutch on Oblivion”

“Yeah, ok, that sucks, but, you know, he’s in a Christian rock band.”

“Yeah I did know.”

“So that’s why you broke up with him?”

“No, no, he was like that when I found him. No, he wanted to video us having sex.”

“Oh. Too kinky.”

“Well, it should have been. That was the problem. Here I was all ready for a sex tape and this clown starts narrating to the audience. It’s like he got all camera struck and was doing his own monologue. “

He found the sergeant behind the mess hall, smoking, alone.

“Sargent.” He said.

“Captain,” the sergeant started to salute. The captain just shook his head.

“Not what you were expecting?”

“No, I guess not.”

The two of them had delivered the death notice to a young army widow this morning. It went badly. Sometimes they cry, sometimes they try real hard not to cry and pride you right off the stoop, sometimes it’s just a state of shock and maybe an offer of biscuits and tea. Sometimes they are angry beat on your chest and then collapse into your arms crying. This morning the sergeant had taken led, the captain a step behind. The woman was so still and stalwart the sergeant repeated his news with a bit more inflection on died and in action. He handed her the dog tags and personal effects. She wouldn’t take them.

“You got him killed, you bury him. I’m done. Early parole. I’m already so far gone you’re talking to a ghost.” And she shut the door.

“Sargent, what do you suppose, I mean, how you define, or what would call Honor?”

“The compulsion to do right sir.”

“Wow, um, usually someone thinks a bit about that. Not like there’s a wrong answer. The compulsion to do right. You think you did that this morning Sargent?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“What part don’t you know about? It’s not right to tell someone in person that their husband or son or father is dead? Or you weren’t compelled?”

The sergeant lit another smoke from the burning butt of the last one. Let out a long draw.

“Are we talking like people sir or like soldiers?”

“People”

“I don’t know that honor and courage and all that other shit we say over a flag about to sink six foot by three, all that other shit before we send twenty one rounds into the sky, like firing on god, I don’t know that they have anything to do with this war. It’s like recruitment words, get a kid all jacked up about defending hearth and home with honor and courage and righteousness and God and Country, then we send him out a long fucking way from hearth and home to drop bombs from a plane, fire from off shore with the big ass cannons, shoot at busted windows where blind sniper fire is raining down. If things go tits up, we send somber motherfuckers like you and me in our dress blues, and it’s back to talking about honor and shit. Somewhere in all that you and me are culpable for a breech in honor, the doing right part, not the compulsion. Volunteers, sir, they’re all volunteers, somewhere somehow down the line someone besides their dumb asses, or their moms and dads or wives and kids, has to take some more responsibility than a personal visit when their dumbasses are separated from the rest of their dumb bodies.”

“You know it’s not usually like that.”

“Which part sir?”

“The wives, they aren’t usually that kind of angry. Tomorrow is another day.”

“All due respect to your person and your silver bars, I think maybe they are. All like that. It’s pity for you and me that keeps them from shooting us or going off or eating salt and bread and speaking the truth.”

“Would you like another detail? You’ve got six weeks left; I could get you in the commissary handing out band aids.”

“No sir. I’m a perfect fit here.”

“Daddy Daddy tell us a story!”

“Ok, Hop on Pop?”

“NO!”

“Red Fish Blue Fish?”

“NO!”

“War and Peace?”

“NO! Tell us one of your whopping humpity Bolshevik stories!”

“Humpity Bolshevik?”

“That’s what mom calls them, whopping humpity Bolshevik, she says you are a first class pro-vack-a-tour, a ninth level dissembler, a big fat fabricator of steamy piling Bolsheviks!”

“Oh, that kind of story, you want a story inspired by true events. Ok. In the marines they like to sing when they jog around, army too, because when you cut off all that hair the brain gets cold and hard to manage.

In the Marines they sing ‘I don’t know but I been told, Esquimaux pus—um, Esquimaux kittens are mighty cold.’ In the Army they sing I don’t know but I’ve been told, Inuit kittens are awful dang cold. This is because the marines are French. It’s the navy that has the best songs.”

“Da-a-a-D! Sing us one!”

“Ok then straight to bed or the sandman will find you awake and put sand in your hair and cracks. Ready?

My cunt, my cunt, my country tis of thee

A so, A so, A soldier I will be

For que, for que, for curiousity …”

“Oh darling!”

“Hang on kids --- Yes baby Fuc--- um, duckling?”

“Tuck the kids in, we need to Fig--- talk”

“Ok, night kids. If I’m not sipping coffee at the breakfast table tomorrow morning, check the back yard for fresh mounds of dirt.”

“Ok daddy, night, thanks for the Bolshevik.”