An online journal for small literature
by Randy Surles
by Randall Surles
He seemed to be a large red cat,
with pointed ears and a long thin nose,
casually watching our approach.
We appeared to have interrupted his meal,
his evening tea, as he was British,
and he was loathe to leave
He glanced our way one final time,
no doubt trying to ascertain our purpose on his street,
then grabbed his meal and disappeared.
And reflecting on the Little Prince,
I wonder if that fox was tamed,
And if so, who truly was his friend.
Mighty Mouse – that miniature flying mouse of might and morals; that invulnerable, invincible, incorruptible caped crusader – I loved him! At age five or six, when I heard his theme song, “Here I come to save the day!” I was completely his, transported into Mighty Mouse’s next adventure.
One night, I was awakened to my parents, chasing a mouse. Not violent people during the day, my parents became big game hunters of the worse kind after dark. Mom grabbed the broom and Dad grabbed a trash can and the dust mop.
In pink flannel gown and tan flannel pajamas, the hunt began. Nibbling on cheese taken from a trap was the target. Before Dad was ready, that woman of rodent fighting renown swatted that mouse and – missed. It had to have been Mighty Mouse because he FLEW – FLEW, I tell you across the kitchen and took off running across the floor through the partially opened door of my bedroom.
Mom was so startled that she stopped for a second. Dad seemed to traverse through solid matter as he entered my room on the tail of that terrible, tiny, tenacious creature. He made a fierce swat with the dust mop, confident he had been the victor in that chase and kill episode. Instantly Mom wanted to see the trophy. Proudly, Dad lifted the mop – no mouse. Looking everywhere for that mouse, which had hidden in the dust mop, Dad put the mop on my bed. Then that beady-eyed bit of repulsive rodent sauntered right up the middle of my bed! Mom began to beat the bed. I started screaming. Dad started beating the bed. The mouse turned and FLEW, I tell you he FLEW, across my bedroom.
Mom and Dad managed to simultaneously squeeze through the doorway. Dad took the lead. Dad and Mighty Mouse reached the living room at the same time. Dad slammed the trash can (which he had carried during the entire chase) over the mouse. With mouse in can, they went outside and discussed the method of disposal. Why Dad did what he did next, I will never know. He turned the mouse onto the ground and stomped it. Well, he stomped at it. It ran up Dad’s pajama leg. This quiet spoken, six foot two inch, two hundred twenty-five pound, reader of comics jumped, kicked, hopped on one leg, and cussed until Mighty Mouse, carrying Dad’s right house slipper, FLEW – I tell you FLEW through the air to the top of the house – right into the television antenna pole. Dad sat down in the front yard, gasping for air. Mom was speechless. There was complete silence.
Pointing at me, Dad puffed, “Looks like you’re going to have to get my shoe.” Dad lifted me up. Mighty Mouse lay still. I reached to pick up the shoe. He leaped up. I fell backward, bounced off Dad, landed on the sidewalk, and broke my arm.
I hate Mighty Mouse.
He was just sitting there, mesmerized, or maybe hypnotized, by the passing cars, head moving left to right, then back again, with each passing vehicle. He squatted in the middle of a square of bare concrete surrounded by a rusted metal frame. The semi-demolished carport sat on the side of an old house – the spot, along the side of the highway, in which he chose to rest.
He wore a long sleeve white dress shirt totally buttoned to the neck, tucked in black faded dress slacks which were probably too short when standing because they rose mid-calf as he squatted. His laced up brown oxfords were old and dusty from walking miles around the city going nowhere. His white socks had no elastic so that they draped down around his dark dry ankles. He looked neat and needy.
Sheryl noticed the thin black man sitting in 100 degree sun and thought he looked familiar. She turned at the next intersection and made the block. She thought she knew him, but she was going too fast to be sure. She slowly passed by him the second time and he watched her pass, his head going from left to right, then back as the next vehicle got his attention. She made the circle around the block a third time. This time even slower, and as she passed she began to cry.
He had been her high school sweetheart. He went to the Army and Viet Nam. She went to the university. His letters stopped. Her heart broke. She thought he was dead. Maybe he was.
It’s been called micro fiction, flash fiction, tiny fiction and cigarette fiction. Early on, these stories were called short shorts or even ultra shorts. You may have your own name for it: bite-sized fiction or fun-sized fiction.
Call it what you will, it is a short story made even more so. Flash fiction is to stories what haiku is to poetry: a world in a drop of water.
Get rid of any fluff. Be ruthless in your editing. Distill it down to its essence and then distill it again. Get to the point. Get to the point, now.
Fair enough. Some people start with an ending or goal. Others start with a great line or image and work from there.
However you do it, whatever your style, we are interested in seeing your work. If you have a story to tell, consider sending it to us. We will publish the best on our website.
We are also looking for short poetry and will even consider short plays for publication.