Tag Archives: flash fiction

Hacked?

Last night I thought this site had been hacked. Now, after two emails to Support everything is back to normal.

Don’t forget you can order my new book of poetry “Death Dance” right here:

http://issuu.com/howlingdogpress/docs/final_issuu_preview_death_dance3

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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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How To Get Death Dance

This is not about Frank but I know he’d approve. Without haste do two things: buy a copy of my book “Death Dance.” you can see part of the book, order it on line with your choice of three different covers.

Is Random House or a University Press going to give you something like that? Go have a look. . .

http://issuu.com/howlingdogpress

SEE WODDY ALLEN’S MOVIE ABOUT PARIS!

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FACING THE INEVITABLE

It sat hard, motionless. At times benevolent. At times cold Statistic hungry for eats. Frank stared at it hibernating on the coffee table. Outside? Still air, sound of big rigs in the background.
Frank ran grainy, yellowed films of partisans being shot by the Bolsheviks in 1917 Russia.
What happens when you die? How many con men had he heard on boarder stations XERF, XEMO and XLO. Send your money to Brother Rosie or Reverend Ike and go heaven. Frank had is own way of going there and it was free. “Franks Plan For Living On Nothing.”
Frank bolted off the bed grabbed his 21 and ran out from a the down the Medicaid, aluminum and wood death chamber.
He knew he’d do it someday, blow his brain wide open like pieces off lobster on the half shell. Today wasn’t the day. Instead, he sat on an rusted fuel barrel head supported by odd-job fingers with torn flesh and both real mineral and manufactured crap; tucked under his finger nails. Tears like large, wet balls began to roll down his cheeks.
Where had he gone wrong?
.

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Soul Rain

It sat hard, motionless. At times benevolent. At times cold Statistic hungry for eats. Frank stared at it hibernating on the coffee table. Outside? Still air, sound of big rigs in the background.
Frank gazed at it. In his head he saw grainy, aged, yellowed films of partisans being shot by the Bolsheviks.
What happens when you died? How many con men had he heard on these boarder stations XERF, XEMO and XLO. Send them money go to heaven. Frank had is own way of going there it sat on the coffee table a steel eyed and ready.
Frank bolted off the bed, palms sweating and ran out from a the run down aluminum and wood death chamber. The gun sat in the trailer. He planted his feet on the ground. Streams of sweat poured out of him.
He knew he’d do it someday, blow his brain wide open like pieces off lobster on the half shell. Today wasn’t the day. Instead, he sat on an rusted, used fuel barrel his head hanging down, tears started to pour out like desert rain.
Frank knew taking his own life wold do nothing. It’d be like taking a red flame and smoke driven train to hell; your fucked up, emotional luggage coming ridding with you
.

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Music

Reaching for the bread from the toaster, Frank’s fingertips burned a tinge of red. Hot musical notes struck Frank’s brain in the color red.

Taking a gulp of whiskey, he buttered his toast, blew on his fingertips. Glad he didn’t have to play a complete symphony with those babies.

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