Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Eight Flashes, Fifty Words Or Less

8 Big Chief Tablet Tales

By The Legendary Jim Parks
Phone Call -
Deedee basked in the glow of the fireplace. The phone rang. She expected her girlfriend. She was babysitting for her.

I'm upstairs. Come on up and play.

A raspy male voice.

She slammed the receiver down. It rang again.

I'm waiting. Are you naked?
Leaper -
Duffy fought the helm, steering the trawler under the Golden Gate Bridge against the tide. In a flash, he saw something sail past the wheelhouse windows. It crashed through the foredeck. Blood splashed the gunwales and splintered planks.

Its a woman. She jumped.

The deckhand pointed at the bridge, high above.
A Castration -
Jake's erection grew in her hands. Drowsily, he felt something cold and sharp pressed against the base of his scrotum. By the candle light, he saw a straight razor.

You got a girlfriend? I think I give her this. She grinned wickedly, slicing.

Fuck you.
Bill's Cough -
Bill's cough worsened each day. It was uncontrollable. On the seventh day, he almost choked.

Reeling with delirium, he couldn't believe he had coughed up a worm.

There it was on the floor, an icky gray thing covered with slime from his throat. He crushed it, writhing, between his fingers.
Billie's Ghost -
She wrote something hard and scratchy, a she cat with the blues wearing a red slip, something worthy of a girl's worst wrist-cutting moods.

Billie's ghost lolled in the doorway.

Pluck the flowers, cultivate the thistles, make them bleed a bit to hear your eight bars, sugar. They deserve it.
Water Spouts -
We shoveled shrimp around the clock until our hands bled against the
hickory handles. Mr. Blanchard threw back his head and peered through his trifocals.

Coo! Look here. He pointed to a delft sky with thunderheads in white relief where seven waterspouts played across the bay.
Flight -
One day when the sun blasted hot I warmed the plane and let her roll out before I pulled back the stick and she took off like a kite. Below us, the world took on the aspect of a neat quilt in gold and green swatches stitched with gray clay.
Mamacita -
I could hardly keep my voice even as I watched a trickle of sweat disappear between her tanned breasts.

Yes, mamacita, I like very much.

She slowly unpinned her waist length black hair and dropped the thin shift to the floor. She stood barefoot and naked, except for a crucifix.

© 2004 By Jim Parks

No comments:

Post a Comment