Flash Fiction: “The Fire of the Gods”

This is the latest flash fiction challenge over at Terrible Minds.  All participants were given the same title, and we had to create an original story from it.  Here is my entry:

******************************************************************

I couldn’t live.

That’s what I told my student after she finished telling me about a local news story.

A family in a nearby suburb was on their way home from a car trip.  The husband was driving, and he fell asleep or something.  The car veered across the yellow line, smashed into the guard rail, and flipped several times, killing the husband and all three children.  The only survivor was the mother.

I remember telling the student, a young Hispanic woman, that I couldn’t live if I were the only one left in my family after a tragedy like that.  Her eyes instantly welled up with tears.  The other students quickly followed suit.

Being a teacher (and the only male in the room), I fought to keep myself from getting misty-eyed.  It sometimes sucked being the only guy in the classroom at times like that.  It wasn’t like I carried around a box of Kleenex, for Christ’s sake.

###

I couldn’t live.

Passing by the picnic table on my way home, a silver-tipped arrow of sorrow pierced my heart and I dropped to my knees.

The sun smiled down from the perfect spring sky while a robin chirped away in a nearby oak tree.  In my mind’s eye, I saw my two little girls sitting at the table, eating glazed doughnuts with their mom.  My wife, Angela, in her wide-brimmed yellow sun hat, squinted and beamed with delight at the sight of our two most precious things in the world.

You may not like going to the park every weekend, but one day you’ll regret it when the girls are all grown up, she would always say as I tried to ignore her by playing with apps on my iPad.

Mark, listen to me.

I should have.

I should have listened when Angela told me about the suspicious orange Range Rover that kept cruising our street.

I should have listened when she told me she had to run to the store and that I needed to keep an eye on the girls while they played on their scooters out front.

My cell phone fell out of my pocket, and the back of it popped off as it hit the sidewalk, exposing the battery.  What use is it now, I though.  Angela quit answering after she moved out last week, and the only other calls I got were from the university.  But I quit answering altogether after the bodies were found.

###

I couldn’t live.

I felt elated at the moment, though, as I gunned the accelerator, filling the closed garage with the stench and roaring of a savage beast.

This would make a cool sand castle toy for my girls, I thought as I turned the empty Xanax bottle over and over in my hands until the numbness stilled them.

Ah…  Should have…

Should have plugged gaps—

In the garage door—

Nosy fucking—

Neighbor—

 

Not Your Grandpa’s Barber Shop

Armed and Dangerous

I had the pleasure of going to Knockouts for the very first time.  It’s not that I really wanted to go.  Yeah, I’m a straight male and the stylists are advertised as looking like this, but I just didn’t want to go. Maybe I felt I was too old, like being caught leafing through Maxim at the grocery store or something.

To be honest, my wife is the one that made me go.  Seriously.  She is a major coupon-clipper, and I’m not allowed to get my hair cut unless my wife has a coupon, which means I end up going to piece-of-shit mom-and-pop dumps in our small Texas town because they’re the ones who need business the most.  And those places are not good for people like me who hate chit-chat.  It takes a friggin’ hour in the chair; not because I have a lot of hair, but because the obese, middle-aged “stylists” start going off about the guy mentioned on The Talk who cheated on his pregnant wife.

That’s why I was so surprised when my wife handed me a FREE coupon (for first-time customers) for Knockouts.  I thought it was a trap.  I knew better than to play ignorant, though.

“Isn’t this the Hooters-style haircut place?” I said nonchalantly.

“Yep.  Full of hot women just for you.”

Where did that come from?

“Um, don’t you have any other coupons?”  This was probably the smartest thing I had said in a long time.

“No. “

That’s my wife.  She’d rather send me to be pampered for free by a harem of hot young ladies than have me pay a whopping $9.99 to have my hair cut by an old, chubby androgynous Chinese woman at Great Clips.

"Sorry, sir, I don't go any higher."

So I made my way to Knockouts.  To be quite honest, I was nervous.  Never having been to Hooters due to spending my single days in a whacked-out Bible cult (but that’s a whole other story), I was afraid that my motor skills would break down and reduce me to a babbling idiot; or worse, I would somehow end up having to register as a sex offender just by ogling the girls the whole time.

There wasn’t much to worry about.

I don’t know if it was false advertising or just that the company had a hard time recruiting beauty queens in such a podunk town.  When I entered the establishment, it was silent.  Not even a sports game on one of the big TVs.

A skinny, petite young thing who looked like she was skipping her junior high classes for the day greeted me.  She was wearing a normal-fitting t-shirt that wasn’t even ripped down the middle like in the ads.  Her black shorts were indeed short, but all they did was expose her underdeveloped legs, instantly making me feel like a pedophile.  They were the kind of spandex-type shorts that grade school girls in Japan wore for gym class (sorry to disappoint you, dear readers, but young girls — and boys for that matter — do nothing for me).

The petite stylist gave me an awkward, curt smile that clearly said, I know I look ridiculous, and you know I look ridiculous, so let’s just cut your hair and be done with all this, ‘k?

She led me to the only other stylist, another tiny little young woman.  This one, however, wore a regular Knockouts t-shirt with slightly longer shorts (i.e. the bottoms of her ass cheeks weren’t exposed).

“Hi. My name is Opal, and I’ll be your stylist for today,” she said with the enthusiasm of a Walmart customer service employee.

Opal?! You gotta be kiddin’ me. No one has named their daughter Opal since the 19th century. It sounds like a Amish stripper’s stage name.

“Mind if I turn this on?” she said, not giving me a chance to respond as she flipped on Country Music Television at maximum volume.

Oh yeah, the coupon that my wife gave me mentioned free beer and massage.  There were no beverages in sight.

“Uh, the ad mentioned free beer,” I said like a goober.

“Ad?”

“Yeah, the coupon.”

Dammit. Why did I have to say that? Now she’s gonna give me a half-assed, dorky haircut since she knows I’m not paying full-price.

“No, sorry.  We don’t have any beer.”

Alrighty then.  I wasn’t about to ask about the massage.

Opal proceeded to lecture me on the history of our small Texas town since her family has been in the area for generations.  I didn’t give a flying fuck about the year that Safeway first came to town or how Opal’s grandmother was a star basketball player in high school, but, since I hate chit-chat, I just let her go on and on; I just sat there daydreaming about the blonde models used in the fake Knockouts ads.

As Opal was finishing up, I heard the front door open.  Wonder what kind of fat-ass geek just came in?

As I walked to the register to pay, I saw the customers: a plain-looking housewife and her kid.  All my hopes were dashed, and I felt like I was watching Disneyland burn to the ground.

I guess the company couldn't afford a 'vette.

A few weeks later, another Knockouts coupon was waiting for me on the kitchen counter.  This was one for returning clients.

I sighed.  Maybe they would have that free beer next time.

The Menorah

 

Me: (stops in front of cluttered coffee table in living room)  What’s that?

Wife: What’s what?

Me: That. (points at aluminum menorah)

Wife: Oh. That’s a menorah.

Me: Uh, I know. What’s it doing here?

Wife: Why do you seem so surprised?

Me: (sarcastic mode on) Well, it’s just that you are a non-practicing Buddhist/Shintoist from Japan, and I’m a WASP by default. Hanukkah is not something that is normally celebrated in this house, that’s all. No big deal. (sarcastic mode off)

Wife: A wasp? Like an insect?

Me: (rubs temples) Yes. It means white guy.

Wife: Why are white guys named after an insect?

 

I couldn’t blame her; she wasn’t a native English speaker (well, according to Brits, neither was I).

 

Me: Never mind. Never mind. The menorah is cool, but I think Hanukkah has already passed.

Wife: I know. It’s on Andy’s December list of projects.

 

She was referring to a monthly list of tasks. Out of a list of 25, any 10 had to be completed with parent and child. Some of the tasks included Name 5 animals that live in cold climates and If you could buy every child in the world one gift, what would it be?

The task involving a menorah merely said to explain the meaning to the child.

 

Me: (looks at list) It doesn’t even say that you had to buy one. You could have just shown Andy a pic from the Internet.

Wife: (rolls eyes) You’re such a guy.

Me: ???

 

It turned out that she had only borrowed it from a friend. I later discovered, however, that Hanukkah was still going on at the time.

Uh-oh.

I hope her friends had more than one.

There’s a Narrative Essay Buried in This Post Somewhere…

 

Yep, I’m all over the place with this blog.  One day, you’ll find a blasphemous, profanity-laced nugget.  Another day, you might see a serious flash fiction piece about child abuse or bullying.

Some writers have nice little themed days such as Flash Fiction Friday, Social Media Wednesday, Bestiality Monday…  Actually, you won’t find that last one on my blog.  Stuff like that just doesn’t float my boat.

Actually, anoth–

CLICHE POLICE. YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF CODE #27384-92 FOR USING THE MOST UNORIGINAL PHRASE “FLOAT MY BOAT.”  YOU ARE HEREBY BANNED FROM SEEKING AGENT REPRESENTATION FOR SIX (6) MONTHS.

Dammit.  I wish those bastards wouldn’t barge in like that.  Maybe if I owned my own site, I’d have more control over stuff like that. (I think I remember hearing about that at a writers’ conference once.  Not sure, though.  Oh well.)

Anyway, my 9-year-old niece recently spent a lot of time writing a narrative essay for a school project, and–

Goddammit, Chad.  I didn’t come here to read some girl’s class project.  Is this another token post of yours?!

Um, remember what I just said about people barging in?  Well, that applies to all-purpose whiners as well.  Just consider today “Guest Post Tuesday.”  Happy now?  No?  Well, __________________________.  (Fill in the blank with an insult of your choosing.)

ANYway, here is is.  My sister is hoping that my niece can get this published and make lots of money (’cause that’s what writers do: publish stuff and get huge checks in the mail as a result).  In that case, Kristen, let me know before you start submitting; that way I’ll have enough time to take this down to avoid any pre-published fine print crap.

One other thing: I’m not very computer-savvy, so I don’t know how to remove my niece’s name from the cover page.  If any of you have thoughts about stalking her, just keep in mind that my sister and brother-in-law have gorgeous his-and-hers AR-15 assault rifles that they keep under their sides of the bed.  Just sayin’.  (Don’t you just hate that phrase?!  “Just sayin’.”  It sounds so… white trash.  Just like “I know that’s right.”)

Okay.  Without further ado (I promise):

 

That’s all for this installment, folks.  See you next time.

Chad

Unicorns, Writing, and Rainbow-Colored Puke

 

Sometimes A lot of times I hate Twitter.  I’m sorry.  (Twitter, you know I’m only speaking out of frustration, so if you could find it in your e-heart to forgive me, I would be most obliged.)

See?  I can’t even express my pathetic self without retracting it or making excuses (“Chad, you’re being too hard on yourself,” says myself).

Argh!

That’s my life, folks.  And that’s why I write: to express myself.  In my spare time, that is.  My day job is filling college kids’ (yeah, they’re kids, trust me) noggins with storm clouds of deep, profound knowledge.

As I’ve read other blogs of published and unpublished writers, I see that I’m not the only one who struggles with fending off the Abominable Writing Monster and his (I think it’s a “him”) profanity-laced taunts.

Stop rambling, Chad.  Get back to the I-hate-Twitter rant.  Why the hell do you hate it?!

Oh, sorry.  I hate dislike (there I go changing my damn mind again) it because I always seem to be comparing myself to others.  An example:

 

@BeamingSunshineWriter I just finished writing 35K words in one hour!! My fingers feel like undercooked French fries, but, man, I f**kin’ rock!!

 

Chad, you’re just jealous.  Just shut the f**k up and write.  Why don’t you follow the example of these people who were born with rainbows beaming out of their bungholes?

Yes, I’m jealous. I’m only human. And I do follow their examples — to an extent.

 

St. Lou -- Patron Saint of the Totally F**ked

 

But I am me, and they are them.  In other words, I shouldn’t compare myself to others (or wish a painful, gruesome death on them for that matter).  These wonderful words of wisdom should solve all this bullcrap in my head.  That, and following these writers under a fake account which I use to berate and heckle them.  Just kidding.

No, you’re not, you jealous, lazy prick.

Yes, I am just kidding.  The St. Lou medallion around my neck reminds me to be good. (If you’re thinking, “Who the HELL is St. Lou?!”  just check out Hot Tub Time Machine.  Hilarious flick.  Full of 80s references to entertain old farts like me.)

Where was I?  Oh yeah.  Just ranting about not having the time to crank out word counts like Krispy Kreme cranks out donuts.  (Is it just me, or are their donuts way too sugary to eat more than one?  I mean, they’re like triple-coated in a thick, sugary paste, for crying out loud.)

Anyway–

Hmm. WordPress says I just wrote 414 words (and counting) in 10 minutes.

Yeah!

Now, please excuse me as I add strikethrough to this entire post.

 

Manly Macho Men

Oh, puh-leeze, dude. Let's see you try something that a former Alaska governor-beauty queen hasn't mastered, 'k?

 

I have a new hobby that I’m not sure if I want.  Sound weird?  Well, it wasn’t my idea.

It was my wife’s.

Single guys, this is what you have to look forward to: your future wife planning out every spare moment of your free time like a personal receptionist for a high-powered CEO (I’m just kidding… I think).

I’ve never been the macho, athletic type (I dropped out of Cub Scouts, for crying out loud), so I was surprised when my wife told me that she had signed up my 5-year-old and me for a father/son program, kind of like “Introduction to Scouting 101″ where boys and dads do everything together: pitching tents (I probably should have rephrased that), camping, shooting (BB) guns at poor, defenseless crayon drawings of turkeys, and so on.

Here is how out-of-place I was: When we arrived at our first weekend campout and I unpacked the tent equipment, I was immediately pushed aside by two burly, bearded mountain dads who proceeded to assemble my own tent as I stood there like a doofus.  I didn’t look stupid for very long because the thing was up and complete in about 56 seconds.

Anyway, when my son’s elementary school had its Annual Father/Son Campout, I was drafted into yet another manly, outdoors-type event — never mind the fact that we dads and kids would end up looking like vagabonds in a tent city on public school property.

Little did I know that I would be bringing our 3-year-old as well.  I didn’t know if I was more nervous about hanging out with macho dads or taking care of two little heathen boys in our fragile sleeping quarters all by myself.

Before leaving for the school campout, I had the following conversation with my wife. Because of my extreme hesitation at the beginning, she probably thought I was about to ask if I could go to a bachelor party in Vegas.

Me: Uh… Yukiko? Um… Can I ask you something? Only when you have time; I mean, I don’t want to bother you or anything… Wow, is that a new shirt? It looks great on you!

Wife: (stares at me for a second) Ah, no. It’s your Bon Jovi shirt from high school.

Me: Oh. Well, it looks great on you! So… retro.

Wife: (shakes head, walks away, reveals bikini-clad woman on back of shirt)

I eventually got around to the big moment: asking if she could come along and help me set up the tent. I mean, come on, the thing had countless tangled-up strings , tent spikes, three rod-things, and a rain shield. How could I have done it myself?

Luckily, she agreed.  By the time I found the tent spikes and rubber mallet, though, my wife had the tent up and ready.

After finishing our meagerly-rationed chow (2 large Domino’s Pizzas), canteens of creek water (Dr. Pepper), and cleaning up our makeshift mess hall (playground equipment with slide), my wife announced that it was time for her to go.

“So soon?” I asked in fear. “Why don’t you stay another couple of hours?”

“I have stuff to do.”

“Like what?”

“Relax at home,” she said, grinning like a kid who was about to begin Thanksgiving break.

My sons and I watched her walk away, but she only walked for a few yards.

Then she sprinted.

“Bye-bye, mommy,” my youngest said to himself.

Yeah, bye-bye, mommy. Have fun.

It wasn’t all that bad, I guess. Actually it was kind of humorous watching all the 20- and 30-something tattooed dads in their workout shorts, muscle Ts, and backwards ball caps ignoring each other.

They finally became united as brothers in arms when the war broke out later that night, though.

The booger war.

(Just click on the link so I don’t have to explain.)

The game started out with just the kids, but guess what? Yep, the dads got involved and took over, chasing away all the little ones.  Bean bag “boogers” were being pelted all over the homeless tent city.  One poor kid had to have his mom come and pick him up; apparently he wandered into the crossfire and a booger smacked him in the face, bloodying his nose.

There were competitions for everything: the winning team of Booger Wars, the winner of laser tag (I didn’t stand a chance; some little brat followed me around, shooting me at point-blank range until I was out), and the winner of Guitar Hero (Yes, there was a portable video game system set up in the parking lot — talk about roughing it).

My kids were too young for the events, so we went back to the tent so I could read books to them.  I guess they were finally bored with the 100th reading of Curious George Goes to the Movies because my youngest suddenly produced a stick and proceeded to stab my bedsheets.  Before I could tell him to stop because it happened to be an air mattress instead of a regular bed, the damn thing started deflating.

I roughed it that night after all, with rocks and twigs poking me through the flattened air mattress.

The next morning, however, my time had finally come.

“Yes! We finally won something! We’re the last ones with a tent still standing!” I shrieked with delight, surveying the empty fields where the tent city used to be.

“Dad, I’m pretty sure that means we lost.”

A year ago, my son would have agreed and rejoiced with me.

Gee, how quickly kids grow up.

Flash Fiction Challenge: “Bullies and the Bullied”

 

Here is a 100-word challenge that I recently participated in.

 

We always made Todd close his eyes in the shower after gym class.  Once, during our barrage of insults, I threw his clothes in the trash barrel.

Todd spoke softly with a lisp and only hung out with girls.  As far as I knew, he never got beat up; no guy wanted to touch him.

After that school year, we never saw him again.

***

My son’s junior high photo smiles at me from the mantle. “Of course I still love and accept you, Michael,” I say to it, wiping my eyes.

When you get home from school, I’ll tell you that, buddy.