August 2014 Flashes
Brad Rose was born and raised in southern California, and lives in Boston. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee, in fiction, a 2013 recipient of Camroc Press Review’s, Editor’s Favorite Poetry Award and the 2014 winner of unFold Magazine’s FIVE (5) Contest for his found poem "Signs of Reincarnation at Le Parker Meridien Hotel, NY, NY." Links to his poetry and fiction can be found at: bradrosepoetry.blogspot.com. His Chapbook of miniature fiction, Coyotes Circle the Party Store, can be read at: sites.google.com/site/bradroserhpchapbook Audio recordings of a selection of Brad’s published poetry can be heard at: soundcloud.com/bradrose1
Perfect Background Music
How does one build a robot snake? Like the Little Mermaid, with different kinds of scales, and a tail with a rattle? I’ve studied elastic statues, and I can assure you that skin is of no use. As I try to follow these assembly instructions, I want to lie down, like a prairie, in low, flat, sleep, my eyes relics of rain. I can’t be certain if these words are eroticized upholstery or upholstered eroticism. Despite all this anti-gravity, it occurs to me that I will probably never record a dance album. Maybe there’s something going on behind the scenes? Like a bug on its back, I just can’t seem to get any traction. Guess what. The sky learns to be blue. Like skywriting, it takes a lot practice, and no clouds. Of course, it’s more beautiful for having once been broken. You may ask, “What readies us for living?” One-third of suicides don’t leave a note. Illiteracy remains a huge problem in the world today. The anger of misunderstood alphabets, like raging houses, their roofs fuming in the blue air, lawns crackling like a fireplace. They say a certain party may have flammable parents. But then, they say a lot of things. Don’t you think that noisy weather makes perfect background music? Especially lightning. As you leave, please, don’t forget to turn off the stove, lock the front door, bring an umbrella.
Love and Death in the Banking Industry
A suicidal bank clerk loaned money to a flirtatious woman who promised to throw knives at him. Hell-bent on self-erasure, Preston knew every successful love story demands enough courage to admit one’s cowardice. Nadine, always at the ready for the next whiplash, didn’t mind playing the part. Flamethrower or fire-eater, it was all the same to her. She promised Preston to keep it short and sweet, like a cupcake ablaze at a children’s party. Of all things Preston yearned for since entering the banking industry, love had been the most elusive.
Valentine’s day, with Uzi in hand, Nadine entered the bank like a professional. The Clinton mask was not genius, but that’s what Preston loved about her. As if he even knew what hit him.
I am an expert amateur. And yet, I have nothing. There were a lot of things I could have been, but sadly, now there is no one to thank. Of course, there are always new mistakes to be made, but with little hope of compensation, it’s nearly a lost art. My advice to you is to make a list of yourself and practice your sleeping skills. You must also try to dream more frequently of animals, preferably ungulates. You may wonder, will this be on the final exam? I can assure you my friend, it won’t. Everyone already knows the answer. By the way, I hate to ruin your pitching arm, but have you noticed that wherever you go, it’s not on the map? Maybe it’s both a hardware AND a software problem? You know what I always say; if you don’t want to see the sights, don’t look out the window. Of course, every dream is momentous, no matter how large or small, even the fire ant’s dream. A red apple has more genes than the human genome. Eventually, everything, flammable and inflammable, will burst into flames. I’ll bet no one has ever given you the Heimlich maneuver like that before? Don’t blame me. Just because I forgot to bring the cooler, doesn’t mean I don’t know how to have a good time. The medium is the message. But so is the xtra-large.