Archive for the ‘Flash’ Category


Postscript

It was Marty McBride. However, this was no ordinary Marty. This was non-representational, abstract Marty and he began with his expressionism. He turned blue and, as Yves Klein, dove upon Akimbo. Akimbo, flustered, admired the monochrome; he was a fan of Klein.

Pity he died so young!” Akimbo yelled as he dropped the ax. Akimbo threw the blue imitation Klein-creature off. Marty as Klein and blue was getting his chance. He’d stop the big murderous opinionated poseur bastard Akimbo. He’d do it to save the combination color scheme challenged and color-blind in the Culvert of Altaloona. No longer would Akimbo and his compatriots those minions of the Artistic Standards Board wreak havoc on artistic invention. Let freedom ring!

Creature Marty Klein morphed. Marty remained determined to stop Akimbo but now he wore a Jimi Hendrix face. What’s more, from somewhere, somehow, he’d acquired a large potato and was using it as his body. He was propelling this potato body with uncooked spaghetti stick legs stuck into manzanilla pimiento stuffed “feet.” Indeed, this Marty potato spaghetti leg olive foot creature wore a golden silver dollar pancake head. Emblazoned and mugging upon one side of this golden pancake was the animated likeness of Jimi Hendrix!

Akimbo, seeing Jimi Hendrix’ pancake head, clutched his chest. He tried to grab the frisky potato and came away with potato Marty’s Hendrix pancake head! Immediately, Akimbo stuffed Marty’s Hendrix head into his mouth and swallowed. Marty was trapped. His head was gone. He was a potato with hard Durham egg spaghetti legs and green red pimiento stuffed olive feet. Cooked he’d be a tasty. But raw he was nothing. Headlessness made matters worse.


I may have a unique perspective. Maybe not, but it’s an idea. The idea is that we are it. More precisely, I am. But you are too.  All of you. You’re it. When you go it’s gone. It was all in your head. You were right. It ended with you and now you’re on to something else. See how easy it all was?

 

Don’t believe me? Nothing is real. There is no settled science. History is an agreed upon lie. Much is false, sometimes all. True is a relative term. Real truth is always looking to be falsified. Consensus changes, the temporary nature of what is considered true, or known, should not. This sets us up nicely for life in the next world.

“True And You” by Randall Rogers  Copyright © 2019.

Joe Russo

Posted: November 9, 2017 in Fiction, Flash, Stuff, Uncategorized
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Anacondas and Bubble Butts 

     With the right underwear, a guy can conquer the world. Marilyn said something along those lines, I think with shoes, but she’s never seen me in my baby blue boxer briefs. I believe boxers are like shoes, with many different kinds and sizes and finding that right pair makes you unstoppable.

I wore my baby blue boxers today because they hugged my ass and wrapped around the bulge in front. It was like a walking weapon, don’t stand too close. Or do. The briefs matched perfectly with my blue eyes, blonde hair and tanned skin.

The world I came to conquer was the gay bar downtown, called Anaconda’s. A fitting name, being that customers were only allowed to wear underwear. I’ve been there many times and made quite the selection of friends.

s-bc16aae00bcb0c0a123f52a8ea0554a82d796485Standing outside was the bouncer, a big hulk-like man named Biscuit. He saw me and smiled.

            “Johnny, looking damn fine,” he said, opening the door for me.

            “Biscuit, just wait,” I told him as I lowered my pants down to the top of the briefs. I knew blue was his favorite color; he’s told me many time since.

I walked inside and stopped at the coat- well, clothes- checker. I removed my shirt slowly because I knew people were watching inside. I rubbed my hands down my chest and fumbled with my jean button. I took them off, and inside I heard moaning.

            “Is that Johnny Cooper?”

            “That’s Johnny fucking Cooper!”

The clothes checker handed me a slip of paper, 69 written at the top. Clever. On the backside, his phone number.

Anaconda’s was the place made for dreams. At every corner, a bubble butt stood. A muscled top sat at the bar. Underpants every shape, size and color were waiting for a simple touch, pat or slap. The bathroom was a joke reserved for those who couldn’t quite wait to go home.

I took my seat at the end of the bar, near the bathroom. The bartender, noting the quick glances from other customers, placed a drink in front of me.

            “Free of charge, Mr. Cooper.”

            I smiled at him. I really should ask for his name but before I could speak he shouts at a group of guys who, towards the dancefloor already crowded with sweaty half naked men, were in the midst of pissing on some poor twink dressed as a unicorn.   

As I took a sip, glancing around the bar I noticed one guy looking right at me. He stood at a table, not moving, blinking or drinking. He wore a black pair of boxer briefs, tight and form fitting. His cock not yet erect but getting there.

I nodded over to him, shocked he hasn’t moved to the seat next to me. His olive skin tone, shined in the light. His black hair was pushed back and greased.

He moved over to me. I pushed the chair out and he sat down.

“Hi. I’m Johnny.”

            “Yo sé quién eres. That’s all these people talk about,” he said, in a think accent. I couldn’t place where he was from though; the music over-powered his small whispering.

“Where are you from?”

            He didn’t answer me. Either he didn’t want to or he couldn’t hear me. I looked back down to his briefs. He was a bottom; his ass looked too good in those briefs.

            “My name is Oliver.”

            I looked over at him. He looked like an Oliver.

            “I’m new to this scene. I just moved here from Texas.”

            “Texas! I’ve never been, would love to go sometime,” I said, taking another sip from my drink.

            “I’ve never been with a man,” Oliver said.

            My eyes smiled.

            “I could show you some things,” I told him, standing up.

He looked around. I bet he was nervous, I was my first time. I grabbed his hands, leading him away from Anaconda’s. Away from the other bubble butts and power tops. Away from the men, groaning, yelling “Dammit. Maybe next time.”

We walk back to my place our clothes back on. Anaconda was only a short fifteen-minute walk and on the way, I learned as much as I could about Oliver. He moved away from Texas because his parents didn’t accept him and said that marriage was between a man and a woman. Final. He wanted to be a writer, which was also unheard of in his family.

Inside I put on some music. Oliver hasn’t listened to Whitney or Barry.

Instead, I pull him into me, kiss his lips. I run my hands down his back, touch his butt. His shirt is so soft.

He runs a hand through my hair, pulling back so he can kiss my neck. In my bedroom, I push him down onto the bed. He kicks his shoes off. I take my jeans off.

            “What do I do?” he asks, still kissing my lips, neck and chest.

            “Ssh, I got this. You just sit back and relax.”

            I take off my underwear and just before I throw them onto the floor I caress his cheeks with them wiping my scent all over him like a puppy marking his spot. I turn him around, give him a little slap. His ass round and his hole ready. Pulsing. I stick my tongue in it, swirl it around form letters like some perverted spelling test. I spell out cock, suck, fuck, raw and slut. He moans and I tell him to be quiet.

“Turn around. Let me see those pretty green eyes.”

His eyes find mine and I look into them. Long. Hard. I wrap my hands around his face and bring him closer to me. Our lips lock and I can tell he’s shy.

“Open your mouth.”

He opens his eyes. “Sí, señor.”

“Your accent is so fucking hot.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Say it in spanish.”

“Quiero que me jodas.”

I tell him I make the rules tonight. “Get on your knees. Face down.” Ready. Set. Go.

As I lay on top of him, each thrust making him squeal in pain or pleasure, I know I’ve conquered Texas and I couldn’t help but wonder where I should go next.

Catfish McDaris

Posted: February 17, 2017 in Fiction, Flash
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Hot Pussy

My lady’s female friends always came over for gab fests and ate all our food and drank most of our beverages, which irritated me. The worst thing was they stayed until late into the night and took forever to say goodbye. They were always going to the bathroom to powder their noses, so to speak. This gave me a brilliant devious idea on how to cut their visits short. I went on line to the Lava Co. and ordered Thai Dragon Powder and Bhut Jolokia Red Powder, two of the hottest peppers there are. I diluted the powders with flour and rubbed them in a roll of toilet paper before my lady’s next party. I hung my trap and waited for the results. It wasn’t long before most of the women were squirming and corkscrewing, trying to dry rub their burning crotches on the couch. They were soon grabbing their purses and heading for the door. I was trying to hide my mischievous grin from my quizzical lady. She knew something was up, but couldn’t quite figure it out. When she went upstairs for her shower, I switched the paper and got rid of the burning evidence and scrubbed the toilet seat. I sat down and laughed like hell and read my book by Pearl Sydenstricker Buck, The Good Earth. It was all amusing until my lady’s boss had a heart attack after a huge dump that clogged the toilet. We had to call an ambulance and a plumber. All the women stared at me with accusations in their eyes.

 

Caitlin Hoffman

Posted: February 17, 2017 in Fiction, Flash
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Michael Marrotti

Posted: February 6, 2017 in Fiction, Flash
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pittsburgh

Pittsburgh Culture

I walked up on stage like I was a nobody amongst a timid crowd, who would have had an orgasm after a single touch. The spotlight was beaming on me, the guy who traveled from Andy Warhol’s old neighborhood to recite a few pieces of poetry.

The first stanza mentioned a vagina, you know, the kind certain woman share with the social media world via Tumblr or snap chat. They appeared to be nervous. I shifted the position of my ass in the wooden chair to begin the second stanza.

This one mentioned chlamydia, you know, the sexually transmitted disease most of the millennials carry around like an iPhone. I took a look at the crowd after that to see giant eyeballs, taken aback, like I was reciting Anti-Semitic literature, after they snorted an Adderall.

There’s no turning back now, so I continued onto the last stanza. It mentioned an orgasm, you know, the kind we all had before this waste of time, also known as the open Mic. Where people come to share their art with an uptight crowd. The same people who belittle Trump every chance they get, but then emulate Mother Teresa, ’cause that’s the type of behavior that exists in this pseudo-liberal town of Pittsburgh.

I was banned after that night for enticing people to think about their own obscene actions. Christ, if I wanted to be upset, I could’ve stopped at my mom’s house. It’s less of a walk, and the vodka flows like the Allegheny river.

 

 

Randall Rogers

Posted: February 6, 2017 in Fiction, Flash
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“The Alley”

The alley you’re walking down is dark. It is the back-end of many dive bars, illuminated by the opening of back doors as some bartender takes out the garbage. The green of large, metal, rectangular, Industrial Waste Company trash containers lines the route. The smell is rancorous; a revulsion that immediately makes itself apparent. There are oily patches everywhere where the trucks have come to make deliveries and empty the trash containers. As you walk it is silent except for the sound of a sticky squish from your soles. The alley is narrow; snatches of conversation come from waiters, cooks, bartenders and dishwashers in back smoking, lounging on break.

A man is hunched over puking next to a garbage container behind the Anchor Bar. You come near to passing by him. You are in the middle of the alley as you walk. You try not to look but he calls out to you as you attempt to walk by. “Hey! Hey you!” You try to walk faster but he’s coming over to you. He’s dis-shelved, dribbling puke-spit, sputtering “I’ve got to talk to you!” as he grabs your coat. You look at him and meet his eyes all the time you’re trying to back away. Your clutching your pepper spray canister and on the verge of firing into his reddened bloodshot eyes. You knee the son-of-a-bitch instead and cry out loudly “Hai!” in Japanese. Physical exertion and four shots of spray later the man, a 1970s hippie, is down and bloody. He’s not out but lying face-down bleeding and dry heaving. Another shot of pepper to the side of his face while he’s down (to make sure he’s blinded at least in one eye should he try to get up and come after you) and you’re off, moving further down the alley. And then you stop, turn, and realize; the man is dead. At least, he stopped moving. But you don’t care you walk on further into the alley, into the darkness.

Some twenty-five feet on you feel a gentle tug. An out of the ordinary gripping sensation. A gentle sensation at first it gets stronger and doesn’t go away. It becomes not so pleasant but oddly exciting nonetheless. Then it comes on very strong and swoosh you are gone from your body and into formless swirling space. Your sight is inward now but inward looking out from a disembodied force traveling inexorably up into the black of the Cosmos for all appearances. You go on and begin looking for a Being – any Being or being – to explain or share this “soul-travel” experience with you. Seeing psychically with the mind’s eye, rising into dark matter. Then you meet them. The fellow dead. And they appear to be North Korean and not really dead but “floating-flying souls” like you. Shimmering in and out of focus, seated behind a panel of computers like a live music mixing board, the North Koreans looked at you; they all have groovy Kim Jong Un devil-style haircuts. But wait, you see otherwise. You see Kim IL Sung and the 1950 North Korean Communist invasion of democratic South Korea! You see former dead soldiers now live as dead souls moved up to be currently dead! Furthermore, you see where in the past fear of a loss of a time-sensitive “now” plagued all. Yet this fear vanishes when a realization timelessness and infinity are laughable concepts becomes readily accepted! Because being “dead” is time-sensitive just like being alive! Ergo there is no ego loss comes the corpse; no co-morbid soul-death. And the old and crippling existential angst/anxiety is at a loss to effect!! Life and death is smooth sailing no matter what the circumstances of your life or your death!!! And that, you psychos is the way it just should not be.

So walk down the alley. Discover yourself; hear the symphony before, during, and after. Let your life bloom as a true enchantment for all. And remember to kill the Buddha wherever you find him.