Flash Fiction by Sissy Buckles
You have no faith to lose and you know it
And then I thought to offer a late apology for all that religion stuff I used to throw your way, I swear I act like a fucking jerk everyday, and it was a weird time in my life, caught between a rock and a hard place living with the flat face of insanity all the while trying to act normal and nothing to stop it except a worthless piece of paper signed by a civil judge ordering him to stay away, the cosmic joke was on me and everybody knew it. And I remember once telling me you had problems that I couldn't even imagine, but since I was crawling alone through the valley of death, let's just say there was plenty I could envision, and thought well, I'll give it a shot then, and if that doesn't work, I would nag/harass/cajole you off that ledge...and why can't I have myself a small religious moment I mean all the young girls I grew up with had one getting their wet panties bunched riding horses out in Lakeside when they were twelve, so maybe I was just having my moment a little later, who knows....so here we still are, and things are going okay this week, I had the flu on Saturday which always puts me in a panic but I ran three miles this am, maybe hit the Chico Club with the gang to see some old guys rocking out, and even your friend up to his old tricks is oddly comforting, as if facing the chaos of universal fear and trembling, at least some things remain the same I never minded the mirror being held up anyway, and yeah yeah the usual angst about 9-5 and the eternal rat race, my contract up in 2013 so it's time to make a move the only transfer jobs are two hours away in big shot L.A., but I'm all about the money right now and stressed just thinking about it when all I want to do is sit on my front porch in Lemon Grove with a cold beer, was this how Rimbaud felt when he chucked it all to run guns in the scorched badlands of Africa tired of being an asshole poet, and Jesse Dayton's smoky Texas dance hall honky-tonk on the stereo who I always liked better when he's drunk and fat, and looking up at the happy new year stars.
I am not a gadget
Waking up from recurrent dream right before dawn my damn 4:00am internal clock and it's way too early to get up so I move on the couch for another hopeful hour of rest, still darkness lights up suddenly the mushroom cloud of our collective nightmare flashing hot incandescent haze framed in blue neon lightning bolt once, then twice splashed against purple sky through partly open dirty venetian blinds my first thought "I'm going to die now", and then, "no we're all going to die" slowly crawl to consciousness shake myself violently awake yet, still fearful. Need strong coffee and lots of it on the morning news in between wall street protest and surf report is a story of a 1/2 man 1/2 machine making a movie about other cyborgs just like himself, his replacement computer eye glowing red seeing all relevant data displayed like Schwarzenegger's in the 'Terminator', if you wear a bluetooth in your ear you'll implant a Google chip in your brain, graft an Iphone with Instagram to your hand, Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the Russian helicopter pilots all heroes dying of radiation poisoning within three months after dropping cement 24/7 down the burning holes in atomic Chernobyl hell, and Thyroid abnormalities have now been confirmed among tens of thousands of children downwind from Fukushima after the complete core melt-down following the Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami on March 11, 2011 while their government admits the recovery and decontamination effort could take years, and the storm debris just now hitting California's west coast shores.
A pretty girl is like a melody
It's a long country road from Arkansas to Broadway for a natural Ziegfeld beauty discovered at 13, Winona Sammon reborn as Peggy Shannon in a Follies jazz baby publicity still "Waiting for D'Artagnan" winsome lily swans neck drooping languorously a scandalous showgirl wrapped in nothing but her long hair and a white piano shawl. Miss Coney Island 1925 then Silver Screen contract hailed the next "It" girl at Paramount her light comedienne freshness replaced nervously brokedown Clara Bow on the set marathon filming sessions, two films in one day and junkie Mabel Normand laughing to a reporter "Say anything you like, but don't say I love to work. That sounds like Mary Pickford, the prissy bitch," serious Catholic schoolgirl bent over memorized lines wild all night parties with the beautiful and the damned quickie Mexican divorce, a second husband Albert cameraman and sometime actor. Secret drinking rumors, tabloid scandals defined difficult, then temperamental small roles offered few and far between a shooting star crashed hard to earth, found sitting on shabby kitchen table chair dead in their North Hollywood apartment tragically collapsed, head on her arms cig in mouth beside an empty glass autopsy confirmed heart attack from a bust-up liver gone at 31 and Albert devoted to the end, yearning for his endless flower, our fragile Rose of Sharon shot with .22 rifle leaving a last suicide note -
"In this spot she passed away, Peg o' my heart
so in reverence to her, you will find me there, too..."
Gulp Gulp Gulp
Handcuffed in the back of a squad car if only that bitch had kept her big mouth shut instead of screaming when I came into the house at 3AM riding bipolar manic crest and Theo's fresh acapulco gold only wanted to get a sleeping bag for the pregnant couple in the park at the beach all their gear stolen by a crackhead and that cunt just had to make a scene she had to get up early for work couldn't let a guy do a nice thing for a down and out pregnant woman now the cop had put a spit bag over his head because he wouldn't stop talking nonstop poetry word riot monologue feeding the mania with the bag on his head he gloated "I'll have this off by the time we get downtown" pondering back on Harry Houdini's mystery of illusion and the glass water coffin trick see he'd figured it out slowly from a martial artist's point of view how the magician trussed suspended upside down in the water-filled glass tank, a zen athlete he'd trained himself to swallow the water gulp by gulp creating a small pocket of air at the top then bending himself up for quick breaths getting out of the coffin was the easiest part; now pulling the mesh bag into his mouth bite by bite gulp gulp gulp slowly swallowing the whole bag as it pulled inch by inch over his head finally spitting it out fast shoved beneath the car seat "you want me to tell you how I did it, right?" cop wasn't even mad just amazed just as he had amazed them all in the park all night long gulp gulp gulp that bitch...
© Sissy Buckles