Archive for the ‘flash fiction’ Category

I was walking down the street last Thursday
and a dog with bright white teeth and a big smile
approached me from the right.
He said he enjoyed walking with humans and asked if he could join me.
I, a man of great tolerance, said OK, glad to have ya!
We had walked only a block or two and he starts sniffing the street light poles and fire hydrants.
And with that big smile on his face he raises his leg and pisses on one of the posts.
Shocked…. I said, “look, that is very embarrassing to me, to be walking with you and then
having you do that. people will think you are my dog and blame me for messing up the sidewalk.
And how can you do that with such a big smile on your face?”

He said, “Smile on my face? I’m not smiling, dogs don’t smile! I have an urinary infection!” Then he gave me the finger!



He removed his iPhone from the case so it would sit more securely leaning against the large dolphin shaped sea salt and pepper grinders. Ironic he thought, they had bought those the last day of their visit to Atlantic City. That may have been their last happy day together. As he had been instructed, he set three alarms , each precisely three minutes apart. Swallow a capsule at each alarm, in ten minutes after the first alarm he would be asleep, in thirteen minutes he would stop breathing, in sixteen minutes his heart would stop.  The miracle of time released capsules.
He rose early that morning. After his longer than usual hot shower and masturbate, he slowly dried himself off, pulled on his shorts and undershirt and neatly combed his thinning hair. After pouring his coffee and popping a beer, Gerald sat at the kitchen table, staring at each large capsule that last evening he had placed in the precise order, in a very neat row, green one , then yellow and then red.
This had to be done today. It was December 23rd, he did not want this to happen any closer to the holidays. This is not the kind of memory to leave to your children on each of their next Christmas Eves or Mornings. He knew he wouldn’t be found until after the New Year. But there was always the chance that the nosey neighbor next door may be knocking to leave her plate of Christmas cookies, like she did three years ago. He hid and neglected to answer the door on the last two yearly attempts. Yes, after New Years at least. They would miss him at work by then.
The holiday season can be the most lonely time in a bachelor’s life and especially for Gerald Watswigger. After facing the guilt of being caught sleeping with other women, going through an ugly divorce, losing custody and visitation of his three lovely children, he had lost his dream of only a long happy suburban life. His only choices left, the drunken loneliness of the bottle or the miracle of the neatly spaced row of time released capsules.



High Water

Posted: March 30, 2015 in flash fiction, Seasons
Tags: , ,

The black mud that caked between his toes and had partly dried down the backs of his heels and ankles felt oddly comforting as he paused for a moment and rested in the warm drying sun. Repeatedly flicking his disposable lighter, ridding the dampness from the flint, he was hoping his last few cigarettes were not soaked and disintegrating.
It had been years since he had seen the water this far beyond the tree line. In the 100 yard trudge from the house to the higher ground of the tool shed, the mud from what used to be his newly plowed garden had sucked his tennis shoes from his feet. Wading barefoot in the thigh high water, thoughts of what unknown things may be below the surface loomed in his mind with each careful step. As Gerald rested on the high ground, he watched as two rabbits paddled from the water to safety within his easy reach. Unconcerned with his presence, they shook, licked and scratched the water from their fur. At this moment they were all fellow survivors. “I’ll find those shoes after the river goes down” he thought as he took a deep drag from his last cigarette.


Lucky Days

Posted: March 13, 2015 in flash fiction
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Friday, Friday the 13th, some say it is unlucky. Well, how would we know, unless you are lucky the other 6 days of the week? My idea of a lucky day would be waking up in the morning and receiving a call from work saying,

“Don’t bother coming in today E, we are giving you a bonus day off. Just have fun today, see you Monday”.

Now that would be my lucky day. On the days when that doesn’t happen, I guess are my unlucky days. Looking at it that way, Friday the 13th doesn’t scare me so much. We humans are inherently unlucky. We are just experts at turning bad days into good. Or should I say making good from a bad situation. Basically, life’s a rock and if we don’t work our asses off, we will starve. A hell of a situation to find ourselves in just a very few years after we are born. That pretty well sums up what life amounts to. We have two choices,

A. work – die old
B. don’t work – die younger.
We have no, C. none of the above.

Some may say, “But , what about the freeloaders of our society? They don’t work.” Trust me friend, avoiding work is harder to do  than working. They ain’t lucky, they’re dying, just like the rest of us.

So when Friday the 13th comes around, I look it square in the face and say “Bring it on Motherfucker…bring it on!”

And now, a link to DSS’s yearly Friday the 13th story.


Gerald Watswigger looked only one way, stepped down from the curb and was abruptly struck by the precisely on time MTA bus. Without resistance, Gerald silently slid under the Red Line Express and was ejected out the rear as a broken tangled mass of flesh and broken bone. A closely following Prius, screeched to a stop and was left high centered, balancing on the pile of Gerald’s rib cage, hip and thigh bones.
The day began as usual, with a quick shower and masturbate, an electric shave, deodorant, tooth paste and hair cream. Weakly teetering, he clumsily pulled on his stretched shorts and struggled into his t-shirt. Still barefoot, Wiggs shuffled into the kitchen, tenuously grabbed a cup and using both hands, carefully poured his first cup of black coffee. The pot felt heavier that morning and the shaking of his right hand caused a large spill of hot liquid to run down his thumb and fingers onto his hand and wrist. He didn’t care. The pain of the scalding burn was unnoticeable. He had helplessly watched the slowly advancing disease take over his body leaving his legs and hands practically numb.
There is no way a note written by the withering hands of an exhausted man can adequately describe the despair that causes a person to do this. What goes on in the mind of one contemplating and successfully taking their own life? All we know for sure is he had had enough of life and tomorrow life would go on without him.


This was the first of a series of the flash fiction life of Gerald Watswigger. The life of a troubled and unfortunate man. Search his name for more stories.

Gerald Watswigger rose from his chair, adjusted and buttoned his pants and buckled his loosened belt. With shirttail eschew, glasses poorly aligned,  sock footed he walked to the kitchen. It was only one hour after dinner but he had to satisfy his overwhelming craving for “something sweet”. He stood leaning, staring into the cool open door of the refrigerator.

For the last few years, Wiggs had let himself go and he was just beginning to realize it. He knew something had to be done. His tightened leather belt was on the last notch and the buckle was seldom seen these days from under his extending “pot belly”. He now had metamorphosed into what he remembered as his father. The same strong over six-foot physique but carrying the family trait of swollen gut. He thought he looked as young as ever but catching a glimpse of the old man in the mirror brought him down to the reality that the years, careless eating and drinking and hard work were chiseling him into the form of someone he had sworn he would never let appear.

He was deciding to face it, he looked and felt like shit. He knew he needed exercise. It had been four years since the treadmill in the basement had been turned on. The electronic odometer/speedometer/calorie counter no longer worked. The battery having been removed but never replaced and the model number of the nickel size disc long forgotten. “Hell with it.” the pain in his chest would subside as it always did and he would feel more like doing it tomorrow.



Gerald Watswigger looked down the steep stairs, stepped down onto the high seawater and sun bleached wooden planks. He attached the end of the short rope to the old mooring cleat and silently stepped off of the pier.  With only a few twitches of his legs and feet, Gerald swung silently by his neck just a few inches above the morning tide.

It was 1982 when Gerald first started to write incessantly. Letters to loved ones, poems he shared with his family and friends, short stories filled his lead pencil stained yellow dog tablets. It seemed words and phrases poured from is head. He began writing for a small local paper and his lust to write was mostly satisfied by his twice weekly column. Being published regionally, the feedback he received was very rewarding. He felt he could add “Gerald Watswigger, Freelance Writer”  to his business card and he was not exaggerating. After a few successful magazine submissions, one to Rolling Stone, his first novel emerged. It was nationally accepted and reached five on the New York Times best seller list. He had reached what he thought was the pinnacle of writing success. Then his second was published and then his third. Both equally received and he now felt his career was firmly set both financially and creatively. He was living the dream.

But this day began as usual, with a quick shower and masturbate, an electric shave, deodorant, tooth paste and hair cream. He pulled on his shorts and struggled into his t-shirt. Still barefoot, Wiggs shuffled into the kitchen, grabbed a cup and using both hands, carefully poured his first cup of black coffee. Gerald, leaning on the kitchen counter with a tremendous headache, wondered if he would ever again be able to write just one more. Just one more story, just one more short flash fiction, or just one more paragraph. He felt the cold writer’s block setting in on his mind and he was feeling the freeze as surely as a cold block of ice. The more he tried to create an original thought the further the dark freezing vail dropped down encasing his brain.

It was just two days before that he had met her, a young vibrant beautiful Brazilian woman. Long dark hair, deep tan skin and slimmest of bikini line sun tanned hips, he was so stricken by her low-voiced accent. And now a couple of days after their passion filled affair he realized he had met her 25 years before in 1982. He had forgotten what he had sold for the 25 years of success and just three night’s love with the world’s most beautiful woman.

What goes on in a man’s mind, what deal will he bargain when he is confronted with a choice between keeping his creativity, talent and livelihood or trading it all for great success and only a few passionate nights in the arms of a beautiful woman? What disguise will the devil wear and how does he know the soul  any man will trade for his deepest worldly desires? That fog laden morning on that high ocean pier, many years after making that deal, Gerald Watswigger found out the cost.


( Some of you may recognize this man from other flash fictions I have written about him. I try to create a different but similar demise for him in each tale.)