Flash Fictions

Bouncy, Bouncy

Music fills the room, forcing all the furniture, dust, and excess

molecules into the hallway. If I had a broom, I might try to clear some

space by sweeping the sounds into a newly-designed dustpan. Don’t ask

about the design, it’s a secret and besides, your gossip hounding ways

could get you in a peck of trouble. I’m not saying all music is trash,

just anything with a guitar noise or semi-rhythmic droning or squeals.

I’m also not particularly fond of the room-filling capabilities of

torture-based bone scraping, but I’m willing to make concessions as long

as the game is short and the hotdogs are relatively fresh and warm. You

might be wondering about the connections between hotdogs and music. Both

have consumer-based pricing structures and both gush a thick mucousy

liquid that when condensed and processed turns into colorful, yet sun-protecting ointments. They won’t protect from the sun’s rays, mind you,

just its oppressive crime racket and bumbling meathead hoodlums.

Hone Grown

I’d like to help you, but there are laws against my intervening in the

affairs of vegetables. No, I’m not talking about bed-ridden motorcycle

crash victims. I mean those tasty friends of the garden. Gardens don’t

necessarily require friends, but when you’re dirt, worms and bits of

broken glass, you need more than just a television. From my limited

understanding, which quite frankly isn’t all that limited, the

vegetables of the world have formed a union. They’re not asking for

much, but you’d better listen to their demands. If you’re hearing

impaired, that’s too bad, because vegetables lost their movable digits

years ago. There are only three demands. First, vegetables want pets.

Each stalk of corn or tasty string of peas wants a gerbil. I know that’s

a lot of gerbils, but I understand Cuba has been doing some research

into a small rodent army. Secondly, vegetables want socks. Sure, they

don’t have feet, but it’s a small concession to keep our species alive.

Lastly, they want the world to stop calling the tomato a vegetable. It’s

a fruit dammit, do you hear me, tomatoes are fruits, can’t you see


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