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o sure ... i was the flash fiction editor for the ERWA website for a year or two a few years back. 100 word limit - they are called "Flashers" there, although they've upped the limit to 200 words, the wusses. try telling a complete story in 100 words or less. i think something so so short might be better called micro-fiction, but a rose is a rose, etc. here's a few i wrote:




CRITICAL FOREPLAY IN POSTMODERN TIMES, abridged


--Our scenes have turned to words, such short scenes.
--Yes, it's not like before: swellings, puddles, those peering eyes. Were it only like before, all that time spent on shivers and those sounds we thought could only be imagined.
--Yes, and now diction and style nearly take over, dammit, though we're naked inside out-
--And terse. Flash fiction dries me out: so terse as its phrases strut inevitable no matter how random.
--Crickets chirp then explode as red fingers grasp your thigh, then melt.
--All this time....
--And we're so terse: our present style.
--Let's melt again, leave volumes behind....


~~

2 23 07







rosie177.jpg


Maybe it was the site's bookmark that led my wife to her. I don't know. Right before we separated I couldn't believe what she wanted - the toys, positions, debasement and worship. Why did the floodgates open then?

She had started asking me to call her Rosie during sex. It became obvious she knew, but a telling giggle or brusque command was all I needed, and the uncomfortable feeling passed.

Soon she tired of this mind fuck, and me, and left. Now the recollection of her laugh as we fucked - as I called her Rosie - is less ephemeral than any file.
~


11 27 05







Sailorman

Woe to him who comes under the spell of water, and wakes in jail. On cobblestones, a few girls caper sadly for a beloved dead whore. What their hearts felt was true: love from everyone always, save for the sailor home from the sea.

One hypnosis traded for another: sea to earth, and on to fire. The lines of her, the salt, shores first visited. Sea on shore, sweat and semen, mouth so warm, spill of semen, the spell of water.

Eight times, maybe, then I killed her, mate, some squall. Further than jail, and on to air, to woe.


~~


1 28 07







Levittown At Last

How can I have such dark desires, here? Little boxes box me in. My dark desires like neon here, shining pink orange and turquoise. So many neighbors, colossal supply and demand solution: I'm leg-spread in the equation, atomic boomerang o' love guys, BLAST OFF.

Merv's at the office too too much. He doesn't see the paint peel; no nature for nicknacks, boring in bed. He gets it at the office, I know: a whole different world, just like here.

All the same, each one is different, each Tom Dick and Harry, darkly desired, consumed. It's a Jubilee, the latest, newly-built.


~


10 24 04






What I Do Now


I remember lavender, or lilac: a scent imagined the first time I pressed -- I imagined -- my tongue in her. In her? In my thoughts I mean.

(She didn't like me, not for long.)

I remember eyebrows, outfits, patchouli and rose. Scents still there, imagined recollections. Only once she touched my arm as invitation; once roughly to have me let go. I can still imagine the lavender he never enjoys, the warmth he most likely overlooks, never recalls. I imagine too he pounds her, wets her a few ways - from her I imagine no rough grasp back.

(Remember to imagine lavender.)

~


2 20 05