For flash Friday July 19th, I'm a day early and a few grand short; but there are two. in July 19th 2013 Flash friday

Introduction

It’s too damn hot here; I’m in the middle of remodeling. I might not be around Friday, digitally, I hope I’ll be around in an analog sense, I can’t spring this mortal coil yet, I’m not done suffering. So here are two flashes. They may be good, they may suck. I don’t know, I haven’t read them, though I might run a spellcheck just to make sure my typos are spelled right. I caught the one, I always catch that one. Microsoft hates the word pissant and always changes it automatically to puissant. They aren’t interchangeable.

I’m still going to insist I’m rusty and, more to the point, in a shitty mood. I’m sore and though my ceiling no longer looks like a crime scene the rest of the house does. It has for a year. One room at a time. The attic, my room, is the only one I have control over. I need to undo the damage it took to paint. I’m in a shitty mood. The flashes probably reflect that in none too subtle ways.

For some reason I think it’s important. I mean I know a lot of reasons, but they are all after the fact, marketing type reasons. There’s a deeper reason, I’m sure, why flash Friday is important. I’m expecting one of y’all to tell me.

Flash #1

Prompts; Stork-bundle-idea --- shizknit

The idea struck her hard. Like a 59 caddie with shark fins. She dropped bags right there on the sidewalk during the busiest part of the morning foot traffic; joggers, widowers out for their morning stroll, the odd tourist who wasn’t just now staggering down for the continental breakfast. Some young man, a tourist helped her gather her things, well, the oranges and grapefruits that rolled towards him. We never lose the laws of the playground, whether it’s said or not “A little help” is always implied when something rolls towards you.

“Thank you” she thanked him. “You’re welcome,” he welcomed.

“What’s in the bundle?”

“Python 357,” she said.

He laughed. It was too small to be a snake and was much heavier than it looked.

“Thank you again, have a nice day” she said.

The thought that struck her was, like so many of her thoughts that morning, mocking in tone but serious in nature. It was “Guns don’t kill people, bullets do” She had planned it all out weeks ago when she first applied to purchase the gun. Every minute detail, even what she’d tell her littlest grandchild, Savannah, precocious, apple cheeked, curious little Savannah. “Well, honey, you know how the stork brings babies?” Savannah would say “Uh huh” with her sticky sweet little breath “Well, there has to be a balance, a new one comes, and old one goes. Usually the old one is happy to go, but honey, dear Savannah, sometimes the Stork just has to shoot a motherfucker” She figured prison would affect her language a bit.

She was under the ancient oak at Patriarch park thinking. The young man came back by with a cheese Danish and a paper cup steaming through the drinking hole.

“You ok?” he asked. She must have been there a long time.

“Yes, I think. I’ve forgotten something.”

The young man held her eyes as sat down on the memorial bench some dead patron had left under the oak as though the oak tree shade was his gift to future generations.

“You can leave your bags with me,” he said “I’m going to enjoy this beautiful morning, this beautiful Danish, this beautiful coffee.”

Tourists, she thought.

“Thank you so much sonny,” she said placing the bags on the bench next to him. She was wondering if it was worth the extra cash for hollow points. She really only needed one.

Flash #2

Prompts; Frog robe quilt coal ice sweetie --- Amygdala

“Brought you some weed man”

“Coal to Newcastle”

“What?”

“It’s just an expression,” I said, bumping his fist to make it look like we were mates. He kept his fist out over the paper pink taffeta of the tablecloth.

“Charles Briton?” he looked confused.

“Amazing coincidence!”

“What? Are you Charles Briton?”

I sighed, “Yes, you wanna put that away? This is my niece’s birthday party.”

“It’s about a woman …” he started.

“And? You think I’m psychic?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here, Trevor …”

“Ease up kid what do you want?”

“It’s about a woman …”

“Yeah, ok, it costs a lot …”

He frowned, held out his fist again, like I was the tribal shaman and worked for chickens, goats or weed.

“It costs me a lot. It costs strength, energy, and, I don’t know, soul stuff, whatever makes up a man, it costs me in that, so no, if you’re testing me with your pissant problem then ask Trevor who’s next on the list. It’s my favorite niece’s birthday party. I love little whatshername.”

He took a hundred dollar bill from his pocket, surreptitiously placed the sticky green bud on Ben Franks face, rolled it up and handed the small bundle to me.

“She’s gone.”

“Dead?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. Three days ago I woke up and she wasn’t there, her spot was still warm, the red wings jersey she sleeps is gone with her.”

I touched his hand as I took his not-yet-burnt offering.

“White eagle, ten o’clock, have a Dewar’s neat for me; tell Stacey it’s for Charlie.”

“Thank You.”

She was in the river, rocks knotted in the Jersey the way some girls used to wear a t-shirt. The kid figured if the cops knew he’d hired a psychic and came up clean he’d stop being a person of interest. He finds a psychic, brings dope and cash, but he doesn’t believe any of this horseshit.

My sister and niece bring me a piece of cake thick with pink frosting.

“Happy Birthday Uncle Charlie!” the precocious fat little kid says.

I pocket my thirty pieces of silver and say “Thank you.”