Fresh Flash Fiction

and other creative mania from the mountains of Trinity

Spring

Is Spring ever going to happen:
the closeout of winter’s gloom and woes?
Never on time
as we wait
for a rebirth,
a graduation,
a new life,
renewal for all things alive.

Dirt-black snow berms
shrink beside precocious daffodils,
their tiny trumpets tuned to sunlight,
while sodden squirrels,
chasing significant others,
scurry across the fast lanes.

I watch
and wait for a crocus neuron
to pop out of the grey matter
of my brain and declare "Here I am!"
A new hope simmers in the soup pot of my mind.
Can I make a new paradigm again this year;
don a Bacchanalian toga,
turn my face to the sun
and dance with my significant other on the deck?
“Hell, yes!” I say.
I step out
into the rain —
and then soddenly slink back in.

Maybe next week . . .

— Joe Neil

Fun with Filth

The Value of Dirt: Fun with Filth

My older Sister told me that the dirtiest thing you can do is sleep. She also iterated on more than one occasion the the most unhealthy drink is milk. I failed to count the many years that passed before I realized that she was full of it! Please add the "sh" in front of the "it" in order to feel the force of my frustration with her and my resulting obsession with clean sheets.

Again I highly urge therapy to help discover our older siblings' lack of authority. Of course, the therapy I suggest is to wallow in dirt in much the same way as our distant ancestors did. Live in filth. Cavort with animals. Share utensils, dishes, and the very atmosphere within confined spaces, such as classrooms, business meetings, or submarines. If you're sitting in a group right now, are you worried about catching some dread illness?

Let your dog lick your face, or even your lips, and let yourself realize that your cute little fur-ball just licked his or her butt. [I should add at this point that my dog has had three Giardia attacks recently.]

The whole idea, you see, is to share ourselves. Jesus would want this. He exposed himself to all sorts of sickness and filth. Apparently he experienced no illnesses whatsoever. Unless you consider crucifixion an illness.

The point is: get out there and get sick. Sickness is good for you because many times the act of blending with the ecosystem builds immunity. How many times have you heard that dogs make children healthier? Teachers are often healthier than the general population because they are constantly on the business end of sneezes, coughs, gags, vomit, and, indeed, even poop.

Have fun with filth. Write messages on restroom walls. Change diapers. Sip someone else's glass of aged Bordeaux or Cabernet. Leave lip marks on a glass. Talk to people close up and let spit and foul breath flow out. I believe farts are sanitary, but belches may not be, but I've never heard of anyone being contaminated from a belch or laughing for that matter.

Generally airborne diseases, such as flu are short term and only serve to build the immune system. Therefore, in normal social interaction fear nothing.

In this modern age we know about protection from dread disease. Generally, don't eat poop either directly or indirectly. If we follow the behavior of Gorillas, we might be able to eat our own poop, but don't eat someone else's. However, for your own sanity and healthy commune with animals implement some concern because animals can spread disease. Birds may be the worst. They spread flu all over the world. Birds, however, usually aren't problems because the flying species have very little interest in communing with you.

The greatest disease terror is gardening. The soil is full of fungi, bacteria, parasites, worms, and an infinite array of viruses. The problem is we are constantly ingesting dirt whether we like it or not.

[Some people like to eat dirt.] It gets kicked up by merely walking down the street. It gets in our ventilation. Our bodies must be designed to tolerate or even benefit from certain amounts and types of dirt. Occasionally get muddy and love yourself for it. Have fun with filth!

— Fred Rounds

Winter in Retreat

Bright tiny daffodils spring forth,
awaken softly after a long winter’s nap,
beam happily in their flowerbeds.

Autumn leaves left on faded summer grass,
swirled and mixed by winter’s fury,
resurface, beaten and decomposed:
victims all of winter’s wrath.

Winter reluctantly slips away
scattering its last sweet flakes of snow
too fragile and too frail to alight
on ground too soft and warm.

A tangled mass of oak twigs and branches
adorned with lacy moss and lichen
emerge from melting snow,
wait to be raked away and
reveal the new bright lawn below.

Cats scamper through newborn grass,
race through freshly turned flowerbeds,
happy to be toasted through and through,
grateful for spring’s warm sun at last.

Stretched full length they bask and sleep.
Their spring has begun again
with long days for naps,
birds to watch,
butterflies to chase
and moles to eat.

— Barbara Bailey

Spring

Phantom itches
make me squirm because
I want to be somewhere else,
not where I am at the moment,
doing something else
besides what I'm now doing,
so I stop and go
outside and see
the yellow of the daffodils
just forming next to
dried-out flora of last winter.
I reach down and clear away
the old to make room for the
new fresh growth that lies ahead.

I dream of the
summer that is to come
with all its glorious color and scent:
petunias, snapdragons, daisies . . .
peeking out from every container,
potted geraniums (red and white)
lining the steps that lead up
to the new green and white
striped porch swing that
overlooks the yard
while the sun shines on the
shiny green leaves of the
pear tree, ripe with fruit
waiting to give up its load
of luscious, fresh, decadent flavor
and I feel dizzy
with happiness.

Just thinking about pears
makes me hungry and
I return to the house
as light snow flakes blow
suddenly into my eyes
and I remember the soup
simmering on the stove,
and the fire in the fireplace,
so I head back to the house
positive that it must be spring.

— Jane M. Belden

Flowering Plum

E-mail

Is our new tree dead?

One pink bud on the bowed branch.

Oh! Look! Three! Seven!

— Kate Hulbert

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