Category Archives: splash fiction

LENORD

Lug nuts. Bits of steel candy. Frank saw a pail of them, he wanted to scoop a hand full, biting breaking teeth; shards of enamel raw nerves exposed to air. His eyes watering in pain. He never figured why he felt the way he did when he saw a bucket full of the little fuckers.
Like every job Frank ended up with he ascended down a spiral of anger and boredom. The only thing he knew, was he needed to stay close to the desert; it calmed down the rage inside him.
Crumpling his third can of beer he let his body lean in to the bellows of wind like the highway sign bending and buffeting on a current of dry, hot air.
“How long, Hay, how long do you think the road sign had been there”
” I don’t know. 50 years maybe. This used to be a major route to the Salton Sea,” Hay mumbled, a screw driver in his mouth.
“You know, I’d love to have been that sign 50 years ago,” Frank said in a depressing voice to put the sign in or lay down the original pavement under the WPA.
“There’s your main problem my friend. You can never see the future only the past.”
“Sure, exactly what I wanted to hear.”
After he washed up, he remembered the two six packs under the seat of car.
Frank took a gulp and hit the car ‘s anemic power plant car the engine spit exhaust wrapped in motor oil. Coming down a slight roll on the highway he saw a small bundle wrapped in netting. He had to stop. He clutched the bundle. bounded back in the Dart and fought the steering wheel down black top. The car’s left tire was smaller than the rest.
He reached the trailer and staggered to the bed; past out. In the morning his eyes open a viscous pain brain slicing over his right eye. Frank recalled the bindle in the back. He popped open the rear door slid the netted package out an gingerly and pulled it apar
young sapling. He knew he should return it.

But to who?
He was careful, planted the young tree, opened a JAX beer and admired his work. Now it was in he watered it and nursed it. It began to grow. Most nights. after work, he’d sit on his wooden steps lovingly staring at his work.
His life was shit. he had no family only loneliness busted up like wooden beams. relationships. He lived in isolation. a big tear snaked down his cheek. Now, this plant. It stood for something Frank was certain. Maybe abandonment a childhood and same of going to work at Globe General Hospital where he walked in to the operating room and killed a baby..
Fuck it. Frank walked to the plant bent down and poured beer around the young sprout. It had to have a name it hit him. He called it Leonard and it would live forever..

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AIR TIME/BOOK PLUG

Don’t forget I’ll be on Peter Boyle’s show 7:30 in the morning to talk about my poetry noir book–just out–“Death Dance.” Ask your local book store to ORDER you a copy or get it from Howling Dog Press.

ORDER YOUR COPY NOW:
http://issuu.com/howlingdogpress/docs/final_issuu_preview_death_dance3

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More Frank To Come!

A well known TV person came up to my wife Mary, and asked why “no Frank!” I’ve had som much trouble with this crazy web site and IPad.

Hang tough. I’ll get this deal figured out. Now you know what I’ll be doing this weekend.

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PUNK BLOOD ***Cheap Plug***

My first novel “PUNK BLOOD,” an experimental crime novel, is on sale at Amazon.com, B&N, Powells or order directory from the published Fc2. They have a web site fc2.org.

Most stories under 1000 words is called “Flash Fiction.” My work can run under 1000 words, however the content is very dark and sometimes violent.

Pick up a copy of “Punk Blood!”

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THE WHORE

Slipping off his green, rayon coat stuffed with bright, autoclaved instruments weighing down both his pockets. Frank took a brisk walk to “The Office,”once a hot spot in the city, now a night club in held in the hands of poverty and despair. Frank had a force churning inside making him want to go places like this.
He drank like his lips were touching a babbling fountain. He was sexually carnivorous to the point of stupidity. He saw what he wanted. She stood at the bar platinum blond hair, roots showing, a lemon drop face, pale powder puffed skin designed to covered her age and needle marks on her arms.
Frank looked in to her junkie’s face, slowly they kissed good and long. He probed her willing, red smeared lips and mouth-he felt a front tooth missing. He wrapped his booze swollen tongue around her good tooth and rubbed the place where the right tooth had broken off.
He came up for air and laughed so hard it brought tears of laughter and tears of sadness to his eyes. It was sad irony for an oral surgeon.

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