Category Archives: Session XI

Everyone in the Hospital had Meaty Legs

Everyone in the hospital had meaty legs, the kind that became oppressive when Bart observed them for too long. Surely, the nurses and doctors had strangely large legs, but at least they covered up with their scrubs. The patients had no shame they wore the shortest of shorts hiked up to thighs that reminded Bart of the parabolas he’d made in high school Calculus that were too big for his calculator to register. Like the far reaches of space, his mind couldn’t encompass it all. He would go insane.

Peculiarly, every large leg tapered off into a tiny foot. It was like they were all cartoon pigs, tottering around in tiny shoes. Some patients were in denial, their shoes were so small and their feet so massive. He wondered if that was what these people were in here for. Was it contagious? Bart checked his legs, his feet. He’d always thought his legs looked average, but now it seemed they were ballooning out. He felt as if he were drowning in a sea of ugly legs. Pushing the large doors into the hot summer air, he flung his eyes toward the parking lot.

There was a young woman in six-inch high heels, bent over, taking her luggage from her van. She was bent over in a short skirt. Her calves were full, her feet normal-sized, her thighs smooth like cream. Bart gasped out the bad hospital air. The woman looked at him suspiciously. Bart lit a cigarette and watched.

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XI

Super Ball Madness

Takeshi walked by all the games where kids were waving their hands around brightly lit screens, playing drums, playing guitars, or just jumping around like mad. Even though this arcade kept the old games in the back, it was a lot more than could be said about others. What was Japan doing with its youth?
Takeshi liked it in the back, anyway. Past all the madness through the arcade and outside of it, all the people jumping and bustling, he could enjoy his favorite game: Super Ball Madness.
Super Ball Madness was a simpler, pixilated game, where the player only used a single joystick to move the screen around to make the ball get to the goal. He put a 100 yen coin in the slot and suddenly he felt he had control over his life, his marriage, his mortgage payments…
“Jiisan!” yelled a large voice coming from his hip. The shock from the volume of the child’s voice made him wiggle his joystick too much. He just barely missed the goal when his timer ran out.
“What? What do you want? You made me lose, you know! You going to pay for that?” He shook his finger at the Game Over screen.
“Why would you want to play that game, jiisan? It’s old!”
“What’s wrong with old?”
“It looks like pachinko. I bet you like to play pachinko.”
“Sometimes. But what would you know about it?”
“Mama says the men who play pachinko are all deadbeats who can’t go home and face their wives and families.”
Takeshi felt his eye twitch. Parents never taught their kids anything these days. If he talked like that to an elder when he was a kid, he would have been taken aside and beaten. Takeshi reached out and grabbed the kid’s head in an armlock. The kid screamed and tried to run but Takeshi already had him in a vice grip with his knuckles digging into the kid’s hair. “What do you know, you brat!”
“Sir!” It was a woman. She had too much red lipstick on. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Takeshi let the kid go running off and crying. “Look, I was just playing this game and…”
“We’re getting rid of that game next week, anyway. Please leave and don’t come back.”
Takeshi looked back at the screen. The timer ran out and he hadn’t put his initials on the screen. He could see his initials in 9 spots but with one blank spot at the bottom.
“I’m going. I’m going.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and went to the end of the block to play pachinko.

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Fistful of Dragon Puns

Why do you think they call them dragons? Because the fights would dragon on and on? Or maybe they were drag queens. They put their drag on. They could have been doctors, but nobody could read their hand writing. Or maybe there was a species of lizard that’s now extinct, but it actually did exist and was hunted down, since it was a threat to the safety of the locals and it ended up having myths told about it just to pump up the stories about the men who killed them? Ah, who am I kidding. That one wasn’t funny at all!

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XI

Golden Boy

The boy walked down the street, propping his backpack up with his thumbs, humming various tunes to himself, usually just the chorus to a song 20 or 30 times and then he’d switch to the next.

The boy passed by a rest home, where an elderly couple, both in wheelchairs, were being loaded into a van. The boy grinned at the old woman and she stared at him as he approached. “Excuse me,” the boy said, and squeezed between her and the driver, who was loading her husband onto the ramp.

What a thoughtful looking boy, though the old woman.

When they were all in the van, she talked about how the boy reminded her of her genius brother. He used to make electricity out of lemons when they were growing up and he loved to stare at the clouds. She talked on and on until she fell asleep while they were stuck in traffic.

The boy was humming the chorus to “Nobody Walks in L.A.” when he approached a man in a truck. He didn’t see the man until he was right next to the man. He grinned as he passed.

I don’t trust that boy, thought the man.

When the boy had passed, the man rolled up his windows and locked the doors. When his friend came back to the car, he asked why the doors were locked. The man talked about how you can’t trust anybody. He talked about his friends who’ve been mugged and how kids carry guns these days. The men agreed that the world’s not as safe as it used to be.

The boy then passed by a group of young teenagers who were sitting on a foldout couch, bouncing around on the worn mattress. The boy quietly mumbled the lyrics to “L.A. Woman” and he smiled and nodded as he passed by the chattering group.

What a weird boy, thought the teens.

When the boy passed by, they began talking about growing up, comparing how grown up each was and how they wished they could drive around and go somewhere else. Meanwhile, the boy was walking down to his destination and the teens bounced and chattered about what could be, excited about the future and growing up.

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Sweet vs. Sour

The two stared at each other for hours before blinking. One had a rifle in her hand. The other, an ice cream cone. Somehow, the ice cream cone never melted. It looked like ice cream, but maybe it was just plastic. Onlookers called the police yelled through megaphones. Neither moved. That is, until the rifle began to drip.

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Flowers in a Green Vase

The flowers in the green vase stared at John politely.
“You should go to her,” they seemed to say.
“G-go to whom?” John replied.
“You should go to her,” they repeated.
“I’m afraid I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
The flowers paused for a moment. “You know who we’re talking about. Go to her, or we’ll tell her what you did.”
“Wha-what do you mean?” John looked around nervously. It was only him and the flowers.
“We know what you did on that business trip to Miami. What would your mother think?”
“You leave my mother out of this! What do you want?”
“We want you to go to her and tell her what you’ve done. Tell her everything.” The flowers seemed to lean toward John, their bulbs shooting menacing glances. John flexed his hands, as if he wanted to strangle those stems, snap them in half, leave them broken on the floor.
“Look, flowers. I am a respectable man. I just got off work and I’m resting my tired feet. I don’t need any lip from you.”
“How’s Cindy?”
“What?”
“How’s Cindy? Your secretary? We know you like her.”
“Cindy and I have a purely professional—”
“Do you want to do those things you did in Miami? You should go to her and tell her all about it. Tell her what you did to that prost—”

Later, when his friends came to visit, they asked about the vase.
“I really liked that flower arrangement you had,” Raymond’s wife said.
“Oh, I know. Knocked the entire vase over while I was changing out the water. I was thinking of getting a bowl of wax fruit, instead.”
“That’s tasteful.”
“Yes. I agree. Flowers always die so easily.”

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Sorry. This One’s Not Fiction.

How can humming be so annoying? How can it be so annoying? Why is this guy humming in a computer lab? Doesn’t he realizing that people are trying to type… things! It’s like he set the frequency of his vocal chords to make peoples’ heads explode. And he stops for a while, so you can’t just get used to it. He’ll just start humming out of the awful caverns that house his larynx and how can anyone think in this noise? Oh God. He’s mumbling lyrics now. I have to go somewhere very quiet for a while and just rock back and forth.

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XI