All posts tagged flash fiction

The Most Beautiful Mule in the World

All morning, a man pulls a cart containing his mule up a mountain then breaks for lunch.

He gives the mule his sandwich and apple and hitches himself to the oat bag.

After lunch he hops into the cart next to the mule and steers them both down the mountain into the valley with a wooden rudder.

They stop just outside of town where he hitches the mule up to the cart.

He arrives at the warehouse where he meets Mr. Jacobs.

While they’re loading the cart, Mr. Jacobs pats the mule on the nose, grabs a carrot out of one of the sacks and feeds it to her.

He turns to the man and says, “God, if she just ain’t the most beautiful mule I ever seen.”

When they’re outside of town, the man unhitches the mule, ties him behind the cart and proceeds to pull the cart himself up the mountain.

After stopping briefly for light dinner at the top of the mountain, they both follow the cart down the hill – the man guiding it with a special tether.

About a mile from home, the man then hitches up the mule to the cart

On his deathbed, the man tells his grandson “I once had a beautiful mule. When I’d go over the mountain and take her into the valley town, Mr. Jacobs would always say, ‘God, if she’s not the most beautiful mule in the world.’”

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by Tom Busillo on January 23, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in microfiction, Poetry, prose poem
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Posted by Tom Busillo on January 23, 2012

http://monsterbegood.com/2012/01/23/the-most-beautiful-mule-in-the-world/

Bowl of Face

Her husband’s face floods with water and empties itself into a bowl.

The wife places the bowl in her freezer.

Once the body starts to turn, she files the proper papers and has it disposed of, but keeps the bowl.

Each morning she takes the bowl out, lets it melt, and then stares into it, hoping to see her husbands face – but she only sees her own reflection.

One day she takes the bowl out with her into the garden.

Halfway through her weeding, she hears the phone ringing indoors and leaves to answer it.

A stray dog comes into the garden and laps up all the water in the bowl.

She returns to find that the dog’s face is now her husband’s face and screams with delight, “Truly! Why if this just isn’t the best of all possible worlds!”

But the dog runs away and she spends the rest of her life searching for this unique animal.

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by Tom Busillo on January 11, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in microfiction, Poetry, Prose, prose poem
Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

Posted by Tom Busillo on January 11, 2012

http://monsterbegood.com/2012/01/11/bowl-of-face/

What Brings You Here: “I Realized I Was a Gas…”

“All the previous mornings when I’d milk the cow, I’d grab the udder, give a tug and milk would squirt out into the pail.

“I had no reason to question whether or not the milk was a liquid.

“Then one morning, when I started milking the cow – and I can’t tell you how I knew, but I knew, I just KNEW – when I tugged the udder instead of the milk coming out as a liquid, the milk came out as a spray of gas, came out like this thick cloud of concentrated white steam.

“And yet, somehow to my eyes, the gas appeared to be a liquid and went into the pail just as it did everyday.

“It was at that point that I realized – I KNEW – that I was no longer solid, but a liquid, even though I appeared to be a solid.

“This continued for several more mornings – the milk coming out as a gas, but appearing on the surface to be a liquid – until the fourth morning.

“That morning, I pulled the udder and somehow I knew that things had changed, that the milk that came out wasn’t a gas anymore, but a solid, sort of like very thick soft-serve ice cream.

“Naturally, to my eyes, it appeared to be just milk.

“It was at that point that I realized that I was a gas.”

“So you are a gas now?” asked the doctor.

“Technically, yes. However, to your eyes I will appear as a solid. “

“And I am a gas?”

“Yes.”

“And the coffee in this cup?”

“A solid that merely appears to be a liquid.”

“Interesting,” said the doctor, leaning back in this chair then coming forward abruptly after a short pause. “I’d like to do a little experiment that I think will help you greatly with some of the issues you are having. Are you afraid of heights?”

“No.”

“Good. I want you to open the window and stand out on the ledge.”

“But, we’re three stories up?”

“You don’t intend to fall do you?” the doctor asked rhetorically with a chuckle.

“No.”

“Well then, it shouldn’t be a problem. Now, I need to get something from another room,” said the doctor. “If you would be so kind as to be standing out on the ledge when I get back.”

After five minutes, during which time the patient dutifully placed himself outside on the narrow ledge, the doctor returned with a fan that he plugged into the wall outlet just under the window.

“How much longer do I have to stay out here? Hey, is that a fan?”

“Yes. Now in a few seconds, I’m going to turn it on and I want you to tell me what the air from the fan is,” said the doctor. “Not what it appears to be to your eyes, but what you, to use your term ‘know’ it really is.”

“But, I know what it will be,” said the patient, “Why didn’t you just ask? The wind from the fan is -”

The patient’s words were drowned out by several loud popping sounds as the doctor turned on the fan, causing blue sparks to fly from the outlet and the lights to flicker in the office until darkness prevailed.

Startled by the suddenness and loudness of the popping noises, the patient lost his balance and fall to his death.

As with most patients of the doctor who meet unfortunate ends, his death was ruled a suicide.

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by Tom Busillo on December 26, 2011  •  Permalink
Posted in Free verse, Poetry, prose poem
Tagged , , , , ,

Posted by Tom Busillo on December 26, 2011

http://monsterbegood.com/2011/12/26/what-brings-you-here-i-realized-i-was-a-gas/

How I Made My Escape into the World (A Rather Patriarchal Tale)

each year at the midpoint of summer
the long line of widows in their black veils
would come down from the hill
and walk through our town’s Main Street
and those who had lost husbands that year
would fall in behind them
and from that point on
we would only see these women
once a year
when they came down from the Widows’ House

and each year the day following the midpoint of summer
the long line of orphans in their mismatched clothes and shoes
would come through our town
holding index cards with the names
of children given them by the widows
and they’d call out the names
and the children would fall in behind them
against their will as if by magic
and we’d only see them
once a year
when they came down from the Orphans’ House

and so new widows would gather their children
as the midpoint of summer approached
and leave their homes abandoned in the dead of night

and so children whose newly widowed mothers
would not abandon their homes
but chose to wait and take their place in the line
would run away from their homes in the dead of night

and after years of observing this behavior
and deciding it must be curtailed
the town fathers decided that whenever a father died
the police would handcuff a new widow
to a married woman with a hale and hearty husband
and handcuff each of her children to
a child with a hale and hearty father

and so it was that I was chained to S.
the morning his father fell into a vat
at the factory and managed to prevail
upon him the wisdom of leaving immediately

and this is how I made my escape into the world…

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by Tom Busillo on December 23, 2011  •  Permalink
Posted in Free verse, Poetry, prose poem
Tagged , , , ,

Posted by Tom Busillo on December 23, 2011

http://monsterbegood.com/2011/12/23/a-rather-patriachal-tale/

A student asked the famous poet

A student asked the famous poet, “How many words should a poem have?”

“Size.” Pause. “36.”

The student thanked him, went home, and that evening began the first of the 36-word poems which would become his trademark, sparking a tremendously successful career culminating in the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Soon after receiving his Nobel, he saw the famous poet standing in line at a bakery wearing only his boxers.

“How can I ever thank you for your counsel so many years ago?” he asked.

“You can start by finally bringing me my pants!”

And they laughed and they laughed and they laughed until each swallowed his own tongue and died on the spot.

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by Tom Busillo on November 3, 2011  •  Permalink
Posted in Free verse, microfiction, Poetry, Prose, prose poem
Tagged , , , ,

Posted by Tom Busillo on November 3, 2011

http://monsterbegood.com/2011/11/03/a-student-asked-the-famous-poet/

Dialogue Between The Woman Without a Face and Her Boyfriend Who Lacked a Body

“I wish I had a face,” said K, rubbing her body.

“I wish I had a body,” said L, rubbing his face.

“Nothing’s ever simple,” said K.

“If only it could be as simple as Jack Sprat and his wife.”

“Huh?”

“You know – Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean.”

“But you know I can’t eat!” shouted K. “You know I can’t eat. You know I just have a hose, and yet you’re always mentioning eating. You really are a passive-aggressive fucker you know that?”

“Oh. Sorry, Miss Perfect” said L, sarcastically.

“Go get fucked!”

“Now who’s the one being passive aggressive.”

And K rubbed her body.

And L rubbed his face.

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by Tom Busillo on November 1, 2011  •  Permalink
Posted in Free verse, microfiction, Poetry, Prose
Tagged , , , , , , ,

Posted by Tom Busillo on November 1, 2011

http://monsterbegood.com/2011/11/01/dialogue-between-the-woman-without-a-face-and-her-boyfriend-who-lacked-a-body/

J and His Wife

J put too much sugar in his coffee.

His wife said, “What are you trying to do? Rot my teeth?”

J sipped from a very hot bowl of soup.

“Are you trying to make me burn my mouth?” asked the wife.

J read a very scarey story.

“Are you trying to make my hair turn white?” she asked.

One very rainy night, when J’s car was in the shop for repairs, he borrowed his wife’s car to run an errand. On a hairpin turn slick with the rain, J lost control of the car, spun into the opposite lane, crashed through its guard rail and proceeded to tumble down a steep hill where the car eventually came to rest before bursting into flames and immolating J.

Many years later, she still angrily scolded his portrait on the mantle at least once day.

“If you wanted me to get a new car, you should have just bought me one instead of trying to kill me!”

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by Tom Busillo on October 26, 2011  •  Permalink
Posted in microfiction, Poetry, Prose, prose poem
Tagged , , , ,

Posted by Tom Busillo on October 26, 2011

http://monsterbegood.com/2011/10/26/j-and-his-wife/

Criminology

The nanny scrubbed the baby with such force that she scrubbed him entirely away.

In a panic, she began scrubbing herself with such force that she scrubbed most of herself away as well.

By the time the baby’s parents came home, only the nanny’s arm and shoulder were left.

Detectives declared it a murder-kidnapping.

Over thirty years later, the case remains unsolved.

Thus, we have even more proof that criminology is an inexact science.

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by Tom Busillo on October 22, 2011  •  Permalink
Posted in microfiction, Poetry, Prose, prose poem
Tagged , , , , , , ,

Posted by Tom Busillo on October 22, 2011

http://monsterbegood.com/2011/10/22/criminology/

The Case of the Scientist N. Who Sat Under a Tree Which Was Not an Apple Tree But Had an Apple Fall on His Head Nonetheless

The eminent scientist M., an illustrious member of The Royal Institute, threw logic out the window where it landed on a tree branch and dripped down in the form of apples at the rate of ½ apples per hour.

Several hours later, N., a fellow scientist from The Royal Institute, came to sit under the tree to contemplate why sardines do not swim in air.

An apple fell on N.’s head, causing the scientist’s body to lurch upwards for a split second, during which time he had the following thought:

“Could a good bump on the head with a well-thrown apple be just what is needed to jolt these sardines out of their aimless state of flopping about?”

Pleased with himself, he took a bite out of the apple, choked to death, and remained motionless under the tree.

M. looked out the window, saw N.’s supine body, and thought to himself, “Lazy N. Always off sleeping somewhere instead of doing work. No wonder he hasn’t come up with anything yet.”

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by Tom Busillo on October 21, 2011  •  Permalink
Posted in microfiction, Poetry, Prose, prose poem
Tagged , , , ,

Posted by Tom Busillo on October 21, 2011

http://monsterbegood.com/2011/10/21/the-case-of-the-scientist-n-who-sat-under-a-tree-which-was-not-an-apple-tree-but-had-an-apple-fall-on-his-head-nonetheless/

The Unfortunate and Untimely Incident of The Man Who Checked His Pocket Mirror While Engaged in Self-Flight

Eric let out a whoop of joy as he felt himself soar like a bird high over the fields dotted with small farm buildings below.

He was flying again!

As he glided through the air after a particularly impressive climb and roll, apropos of nothing, he suddenly wondered if when engaged in the act of flight his face was that of a bird or that of a man.

Much to his surprise, when he checked his pocket mirror his face appeared to be neither that of a bird nor his own face, but rather that of the man who appears in everyone’s dreams.

This lead Eric to believe that rather than flying in while awake, he was in fact only flying in a dream, which gave him the opportunity to experience his second favorite sensation after flying – falling.

So Eric stopped flying and allowed himself to fall from the sky, enjoying the familiar sickening yet exhilarating sensation of free-fall in a dream state.

However, at the end of the fall, rather than being jolted awake as expected, Eric loudly crashed through the decrepit roof of an old abandoned country bridge, barreled through what was left of its planked, wooden road surface, and landed unceremoniously with a plop into the shallow creek below.

When the family came to recover what was left of Eric and his personal affects, his sister Erin, already in tears, picked up her brother’s pocket mirror, turned it to find the face of the man who appears in everyone’s dreams, exactly where she had taped it, and sobbed to herself, “I bet he never even saw this” – a thought which somehow made everything all the more sad for her.

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by Tom Busillo on October 17, 2011  •  Permalink
Posted in microfiction, Poetry, Prose, prose poem
Tagged , , , , ,

Posted by Tom Busillo on October 17, 2011

http://monsterbegood.com/2011/10/17/the-unfortunate-and-untimely-incident-of-the-man-who-checked-his-pocket-mirror-while-engaged-in-self-flight/

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