fiction, Uncategorized

some butterflies

It is late, the dark has started weaving nests into crannies. I’m drunk. We’ve only known each other a few weeks.

“I don’t want this,” I told her, a few minutes ago.

And so, she paces.

She stops.

“What are you?” she asks, her arms limp from nail biting.

I frown at her, drinking something–a beer, probably. “I’m a man?”

She frowns, “No–no! You are arms–yes, legs, eyes–yes, three hundred pages of verse, maybe–but you are not a man.”

She goes back to pacing.

I roll my eyes. “Why are you being so dramatic?”

“I’m not being dramatic,” she tells the other side of the balcony, “I’m being poetic.”

She walks back and stands over me.

She looks down, into me–about to cry or kill me, I don’t know.

“Some butterflies are beautiful for only a day and then they die,” she whispers. She kneels down, places her face on my leg. I put my fingers in her hair.

“Am I supposed to be a butterfly?” I ask, finishing what certainly seems to be a beer.

She shakes her head. “No–you are not so lovely a thing. You are a stomach ache, you linger–you do not die, not beautiful enough to die.”

She sits back on her haunches, she laughs. I laugh too, not understanding.

Like a blind man clapping at a magic show.

My laugh goes on much longer than hers. She kisses my hand.

“You poor boy,” she tells me.

She stands up and goes inside.

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art, poetry

It’s Bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S

I fell in love with a girl named Alice
We loved each other
As one bulimic cannibal
Might love another
(Bulimics are like mailmen
but with food
Cannibals are like mailmen
Who eat other mailmen)
We did all the things
You can only do
When you’re in love
Like read each other poems
And dance in the middle of the street
To no music

Then
When the music stopped
We’d tear holes in each other
With everything
But bullets

Our conversations
Were a cacophony
Of passionate poetic lines
Like “I love her with
A red hot madness”
Or “He fell heavy on my chest
And whispered me the world”
We salted each other
With enough Bukowski-isms
To drown a class
Of teenage girls
In one biblical flood
Of angst filled love

Yet this great tower
Of poetic babel
Was brought down
In a single verse

“Why aren’t you hard?”

A question that
If turned into a weapon
Could slaughter the known universe.
Then came the storm
“Am I not hot enough for you?”
“Don’t you want to fuck me?”
“Get off me, I am going to sleep.”
Then in the morning
Like a paraplegic
Preparing for a walk
I held her close
And kissed her neck
She reached down
And grabbed my penis and balls
All at once
And mashed them together
She laughed
“That’s what I thought”

After a week
She showed me an article
On her phone
It said
“Food for harder erections”
It had a picture of a banana
(A thing that looks like a penis
but you eat it, unless you’re a cannibal
then you eat both)
Half peeled
And said
“A hard man needs a healthy heart.”

“Your heart is weak”
she told me
and that was that
oh well.

 

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art, fiction

The Blind Man’s Eighth Shot of Tequila

Walking into a restaurant with a 30% discount on alcohol is the first step on a dark path toward tequila.

“Are you sure?” G asks, pouring the seventh round of shots.

“Who you asking? Me or you?” I boast, trying to figure out the mystery of picking up a slice of lime. G laughs. I get the lime between thumb and pointer. I fill with pride. I take the shot. I blink.

My eyes do a split. When they come back together, my left contact is knocked out of place.

“Shit,”

M sits across from me.

“What?”

“My contact. Does anyone here wear glasses?”

I look around. A girl raises her hand.

“What is your prescription?” I ask, tugging the lens from my eye and accidentally dropping it into the bowl of salt.

She pulls out her glasses. She puts them on.

“Oh, I don’t have a prescription. I just think they look cute.”

I glare at her. My other contact, feeling lonely, begins to itch. I slip it out and flick it somewhere.

I look around.

The world has become food coloring droplets on a paper towel; the consistency of a drowning man’s last thoughts.

I look across at the blob of condensed air that is M.

“It’s a stylistic choice,” he defends the girl.

“Oh, bullshit, it’s mocking the handicapped, next thing you know, crutches will be cool.”

I stare up at the light. It is a pool, shimmering.

“It’s not like that,” M says. I can feel his eyes rolling around his tone.

I grunt. “You’re right, it’s more like black-face.”

M thinks about it. My fingers stumble around the table in search of a glass of water.

“Yeah, except you weren’t enslaved,” M reminds me.

“No,” I shrug, taking a drink of what turns out to be a Vodka Tonic, “just blind.”

I squint at M. It helps. He is giving it some serious thought.

“No,” he decides, “slavery is definitely worse.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “yeah.”

G’s hand appears out of nowhere. An eighth shot of Tequila.

I can smell it.

*

Thanks for reading. For more of our work, check us out at Flash-365.com

 

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art, fiction

Telephone Pole

We got a dog. Mother called it “Lab Mix” because that sounded better than mutt.

My brother and I wanted to name the dog. It was even more important than when we thought it was our job to name our little brother.

We sat in the living room. The lab-mix sat between us.

I wanted to name it Nathan. He wanted to name it Fred.

We bickered terribly. He was bigger than me. So, I was cautious. We bickered so much that Father became distracted from his work. He came upstairs. He sent us to our rooms. As we climbed the stairs, bleary-eyed, we heard Father.

“Telephone Pole!” he called to the dog. It went running. He let it out in the backyard. I watched Telephone pole from my bedroom window, fuming. And that was his name, till he was hit by the UPS man.

I was the only one to see. I cried when I called the police.

But even the police, the EMTs, the firemen, and the Power Grid workers that came, couldn’t save Telephone Pole.

For more stories and art by Flash 365, click here

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art, fiction

The Red Headed Mutant

K and I
Liked to go to a playground
Near our house
It was a big wooden castle

It was built when I was a baby
I know because there are pictures
But none of the other pink hairless things at school believed me
Because S (A thing called a Hot-Girl)
called me a liar
and
What are pictures
Against the word of a Hot-Girl?

In the sandy part
By the swings
There were two things
The Homeopathic Doctor later called
Bullies
(Which are deformed things
that used to be children
but became mutated
after a series
of failed experiments
performed on them
by adults)

They cornered K and I
K stood back as they focused on me
“Take off your socks!”
they yelled
So I took them off
And they put them on my hands
And rubbed sand in my hair
They kept us there for over an hour

While they were distracted with me
K ran off
One of them went after him
I was left with the other
A Big Red-Headed Mutant
He kept pushing me in the sand
Told me he was going to bury me alive
He told me to start digging my own grave
All of a sudden the
Whole business
Began to seem quite silly
So I decided to leave
“YOU CAN’T LEAVE”
I just kept walking
He followed close behind and kept yelling
“STOP”
“No”
“Come back and dig”
“I don’t want to be buried”
“YOU DON’T HAVE A CHOICE”
I shrugged and kept walking
Till I reached the exit
Leading to the hill
Which led home
As I approached the gate
I saw The Homeopathic Doctor
run up over the hill
She looked at me
Then at
The Big Red-Headed Mutant
And she began to grow
Taller and taller
Taller than I’d ever seen her
She blocked out the sun
She grew so big
And her eyes so angry
She transformed into
MOTHER

The Big Red-Headed Mutant
POOFED from existence

I turned around and found only
The footprints
In the sand
Where he had stood
A moment ago
When I turned back
The Homeopathic Doctor was back
She waved me over and hugged me
She carried me back down the hill
A few weeks later I saw
The Mutant who’d chased K
But I never again saw
The Big Red-Headed Mutant
I wonder what MOTHER did with him

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