Archive | June 2012



What the hell kind of Fat Farm is this that I can’t get a decent peanut butter and banana sandwich? I mean don’t get me wrong, I’m looking good for an old guy… sure, my arthiritic hip won’t let me swivel like I used to, but we’re talking Live in Hawaii good looking. Ha, ha, Live in Hawaii! They should have known that’s where I’d go!

But the leather jacket fits again (Don’t Be Cruel)and I’ve finally found just the right hairpiece to pull off that greased pompadour look that the Colonel loved. I miss him and Vernon.

I’ve been working on stuff for a comeback album, but I know y’all won’t buy the fact that I’ve been in hiding for thirty-five years. The Memphis Mafia has been taking care of business since seventy-seven, but I couldn’t convince Sonny and the boys to get leied and become the Honolulu Hillbillies.

Priscilla had been looking good there for a while and it makes me smile. If anybody could’ve raised ol’ Elvis from the “dead” it was her, if you know what I mean!

My baby took a wrong turn along the road since my disappearing act. Poor Lisa Marie marryin’ that scarecrow with the glove, now THAT was awkward. I should’ve been there to steer her in the right path. Thankfully it didn’t last long and she didn’t give me grandbabies with that. The Lord does work in mysterious ways.

What’s next for the King? A 2:30 pineapple massage followed by a 4:00 manicure. Hey, I tol’ y’all I was lookin’ good! I gotta go.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Elvis is leaving the cabana!”



Nigel Lasserby knew his time was growing short.

In a gathering of his closest friends and family members he informed them of his imminent demise and offered each of them a parcel; a memento by which to remember Nigel.

Inside his Great-Niece’s package was half of a medallion and clues as to where the remainder of it was hidden. Brother Christoph had been given a book of quotations with many of the sayings highlighted with underlinings. Kenneth was Nigel’s man-servant. His “prize” was a key to a safe deposit box that Nigel had kept at the bank. Lastly, Kitten, a buxom stripper who had befriended Nigel in his final days, received a note book with a series of random numbers.

Before he could explain each gift, Nigel was stricken by a fatal heart attack and died.

“What the fuck is this?” Kitten hissed snapping her chewing gum. “Numbas, you stupid old shit! And afta all we’ve meant to each otha awl these past few days!”

The stripper was incensed. Nigel was worth millions. What about all those lovely greenbacks?

Her gum chewing was annoying. Her presence was even more. She was brought in by Cristoph to give pleasure to his dying brother one last time. And she ended up staying for days. It seems she found true love in the intimacy of his quarters. She found it in the multitudes of dollars as well.

“You’ll all hear from my lawya! Kitten stormed out as she ripped the pages from her book, and shredded the pages into tiny piece as she disappeared through the door.

“Thank goodness for bad trash!” Kenneth said dutifully as he retrieved the vacuum cleaner to eradicate the mess the horrid bitch had left behind.

He emptied the bag from the unit to deposit it at the curb for the trash pickup. His timing was as impeccable as he had kept Sir Nigel’s manse. The truck sped off as a red sports car careened into the long winding drive. It was her again.

“I want my pages with the numbas!” Kitten demanded.

After some thinking she realized they could have been important telephone numbers. Or combinations to some safe lock. Swiss bank account numbers? She had been too hasty.

“You are too late Madam!” Kenneth sniffed. “But if you hurry you might catch up with the garbage scow that just passed you on the street. I vacuumed your mess and made the trash just in time!”

“Son-of-a-bitch!” Kitten shouted as she hurried back down the drive.

Lucky for her she found the truck that had hauled the refuse away. She saw it pull away from the dump just as the breeze caught the last fragment of paper from the heap.

She ran lunging head first into a steaming pile of compost. She had a lot of searching to do!


“C’mon, c’mon, I got ya! I’ll catch ya!”

“C’mon, c’mon, I got ya! I’ll catch ya!”

“Ok, on three, I’m jumping!”

“Your count, or my count?”

“My count. Ready?”

“Are you going to launch on three, or go…three and then jump.”

“Three and jump.”

“Alright. Are you ready now?”

“Wait, wait, I don’t know if I can do this, I…




Posted at FLASHY FICTION on June 2, 2012


They knew in their fuzzy-wuzzy hearts that someday, Nathan will play.

His father made it look so easy!

Blow here.

Push these up and down, and the music comes out there.


Nothing. Nathan watched his dad play in the otherwise silent night. Sweet fluid music; a brass lullaby could bring a tear to your eye. Someday, Nathan would play.

His audience was not captive. They could get up and leave at anytime Nathan wanted to pick them up and put them away. Someday, he’ll play.


His bears cheered a raucous silent applaud. They were awed by Nathan’s determination. The young musician stood and bowed, his father’s trumpet tucked securely under his arm. They knew in their fuzzy-wuzzy hearts that someday, Nathan will play.

Just not today!


She walked with Anika, enjoying the site of such misplaced beauty, and the company the young girl provided.

Dr. Elizabeth Rossi was a caring soul. Recently retired from a prestigious career at the Sloan-Kettering Institute, she had been grounded in aiding humanity. She never did it for the recognition. She just felt good about it.

On a recent visit to one of the clinics her foundation had established, Dr. Rossi had met Anika,an orphaned victim of the civil war that had ravaged the countryside. The young girl brought the doctor to a special place.

“This is Peace Garden” Anika began. “People of my village have planted these flowers. The hope is that peace will flourish where flowers are allowed to grow.”

Elizabeth was touched by her dedication to the betterment of their interrupted lives. She walked with Anika, enjoying the site of such misplaced beauty, and the company the young girl provided. They walked to a point in the garden that caused Dr. Rossi and her friend to stop.

“What of these bells?” the doctor inquired.

“Those “spirit” bells. They ring to honor the spirits of the casualties of our people.” Anika explained.

The hour reached noon. A silent attendant came up the road and bowed in the solitude to the two women. He began to tap upon the bells. The sweetest sound emitted from his percussion. One tone for each life lost.

The young girl bowed her head out of respect. Dr. Rossi upon seeing this, did the same. The birds ceased their song. The breeze rustled the foliage. And the bells chimed in commemoration of the fallen. The feeling was indeed peaceful.

Dr. Rossi did not feel remorse. There was a placid sense to this “Peace Garden”. For obvious reasons, Dr. Rossi loved this place. She just felt good about it.


You dance with the sea like you dance with your woman.

Capt’n Jaines stood on the helm of his back porch situated miles from the open seas. He felt the waft of the winds stirring up the surf on his crop of wheat. The stalks churned like the golden waves of grain they were. Jaines was very aware of the storm front approaching. Instinctively, he lowered the flag that whipped high upon its pole to raise the weather warning.

But as the stars and stripes of his banner came to eye level, the realization hit him as if his keel had run aground. He was retired. A seafaring gob turned gentleman farmer.

It was hard to release the trapping of his former high adventure life for what he saw as a mundane romp in the weeds. From his back veranda, Cap saw the hint of horizon rising above the low lying ground fog that gave his crop the illusion of floating; a mighty ship of chaff and grain rolling in the silence.

He had a telescope mounted on the porch rail and he would scan the distant view, a “seescape” under his watchful eye. Vern, Jaines long suffering wife, had been worn down by his extended absences at sea. Yes, she had married a sailor and all that that entailed. But she wanted a life with him, to finally enjoy each other’s company – to rock on the porch and roll with the waves of life, watching it creep by.

She made every effort of assimilate Capt’n to this life on solid ground. As far as Vern knew, no one ever went under walking on terra firma. But she had her brother install a helm wheel on the rail next to his sight glass. She knew it would please him. Every so often she would spy her husband standing astride the planks with his gnarled hands firmly gripping the spokes. She admitted he looked more natural there.

Vern brought two cups of coffee out to the porch. She noticed Cap withdraw his hands from the spar quickly, hoping she had not seen. But she always saw.

“You really miss the old girl, don’t you?” Vern inquired.

He returned his hands to the wheel.

“She was a fickle mistress.” he began, talking in a confessional voice. “She had broken my heart many times, but she made sweet love to me as well!”

And Cap glanced over his shoulder at Vern. He smiled his haggard old smile. She never felt jealous when he talked of the sea. For Vern knew the sea kept him faithful. It seemed a shame that he had to let her go.

But Vern understood. You dance with the sea like you dance with your woman. Cap tended to the two of them with a loving eye. She looked forward to the rest of this journey as his First Mate.

“SHIP AHOY!”, she yelled to the crows circling the wheat as she came to stand beside her Captain. She felt his arm wrap around her shoulder as they set sail for the horizon.


They had outlawed the concept once referred to as time; there is no when.

26512 walked 17 miles until the sunlight had gone away. She knew that her journey would continue on the return of it to lead her onward. The security warden had instructed her to only travel where her path was illuminated.

She had more miles to traverse. 26512’s legs were sore and fatigued. She knew she needed to arrive in another 137 miles.The way she felt, she didn’t think she’d be able to continue. She needed to call her destination to inform them of this fact.

“You have obligations!” the sector seven security warden reprimanded. “You must arrive!”

“I will try. I can not promise I’ll make it” she said.

“Well, when do you think you might arrive?” the officer inquires.

“What do you mean?” 26512 replied. “I do not understand.”

“I need to cover your absence if you are not here. When do you think you can make it?”

“Excuse me Sir, but… I will be there in 137 miles! I do not know what… when… is.” 26512 answered in her confusion.

The security warden was not fully briefed on the new existence mandate. In fact, he could easily be banished for such talk. They had outlawed the concept once referred to as time; there is no when. There is only where, and how, and how far. If 26512 could not make the 137 miles to New Cincinnati on foot, the warden did not know what he would do, and he didn’t know why!