Archive for the ‘Flash Fiction’ Category

How to be important…

June 22, 2016

Oh, you are so busy, you tell everyone just how busy you are and insert the complaint of how exhausted you are.  There are so many demands on your time. Your presence is always required. You must not miss a meeting, a lunch date, a happening.  What if you are not present to make the right connection with an unknown but desirable someone who might push your interests farther forward? People admire just how much you accomplish, what efficient ways in which you use the time allotted you. Your list of engagements burgeons, so many obligations must be fulfilled.

But then it must be admitted that you are a force  of will over time, situations, and other people.  Do you even realize that once this life of yours ends so does all your importance?

Flash fiction. 2016

Cell phone nightmare…

March 11, 2012

The perky dental assistant has just finished installing the nasty dental dam in my open mouth, which has me stuck in what might look like a frozen scream a la Munch with polished hardware and rubber bits escaping at the edges of the rictus. “Dr. Toothsome will be right with you,”says she, patting my arm, then leaving me sweating on the reclined plastic chair. Ah, the joys of a root canal!
Dr. Toothsome enters the room. “Hi, Mrs. Stepford. This won’t take too long. We’ll have you out of here in no time.” From behind me, he starts by revving up the grinding tool. Suddenly he looms over, his eyes huge behind goggles as he peers at the offending tooth about to receive his ministrations. Next, the needle advances and makes little pricks along the gumline way back inside my mouth. “Let’s wait a few minutes for the freezing to take,” says Dr Toothsome. He disappears from view and the sounds of moving metal implements tinkles ever so musically accompanied by a few revvings of the grinder from beside and behind me. Meanwhile sweat has glued me to the plastic chair and drool is emerging from behind the rubber sheating at my gaping jaw and dripping ever so slowly down my chin and neck.
“Well, I think we are ready to proceed,” says Dr Toothsome. (He might be, but I am definitely not!) He pokes the metal tool into my mouth and revs it up. Grinding sounds interspersed by swishing rinsing sounds from the suction siphon are interrupted by the rousing melody of the beginning bars of the William Tell Overture. The music seems to be emanating from somewhere on the person of Dr. Toothsome. He stops grinding, pulls the implement from my mouth, hands it to me and says “Hold this for a second.” Then he proceeds to pat himself down to find the source of music and stop the interruption. In his best Captain Kirk impersonation, he glances at his communicator and says, “I’ve got to take this!” I am incredulous this is actually happening! Naturally, my mouth is gaping, and would do so even if it was not artificially made to do so by the dental dam. Dr. Toothsome moves behind me, which is good as I feel like giving him a swift kick.
“Hello?… Yes Mavis, this is not a very good time…….Yes…I can pick Madison up after soccer practice…Yes… The casserole is on the top shelf of the fridge?…Set the oven at what?… For how long?…No, I won’t be late picking her up…Yes, I think I can manage that… Okay…Bye”

Flash Fiction…Postcard Story…

December 4, 2007

The prompt is to use – George, Venice, bee, catastrophe, sweater – for a written piece that fits a postcard.

I, George Obbligato, otherwise called Giorgio in my hometown, Venice, am lying on the terrace on my chaise longue and recalling what happened between Orazio and me in the reataurant last night.

As you know, Orazio is the chef at my restaurant “Le Falerne alla Fiamma”. Last night, all of a sudden Orazio felt chilly. He put on his moth-eaten sweater, the one that trails loose threads from holes in the elbows. I was quite irritated to see him dangling some of these in the “zabaglione” he was whisking with vigorous strokes. I yelled at him. “If you are dressed so warm against imagined cold, I, myself am sweating from all the steam generated by the cooking pasta.”

I threw open the door leading to the alley, and went on separating radicchio leaves, washed these carefully, quite comfortable and busy, when suddenly Orazio starts yelling at the top of his lungs. “What a catastrophe, there’s a bee in my Zabaglione.”

This was a list of words given to my writing workshop to use in a ten-minute exercise. This is what I came up with from off the top of my head.