Flash Fiction -- The Miserable Yet Polite Man

 by Denise Miller Holmes, The Witty Wise Woman

A miserable man laid in bed on a Sunday morning. He daydreamed about the years with his wife, who slept beside him, feeling a longing and yearning for the woman he married—who was not the same woman he now knew. The wife he married was a cheerful, sweet, adorable thing that loved him.

The woman in bed with him now was a domineering shrew, whose hatred for him was communicated every moment of every day. What had caused her to change? He had no idea. But he had been taught to always be loving. To always be polite. So the words, “I want you to leave,” never crossed his lips.

While lost in these thoughts, his wife stirred beside him. Putting a warm hand on his back, she whispered, “I’m about to make you the happiest man alive.”

Knowing that this could not be the affection she’d been denying him for years, he found himself ebullient with hope. He turned to her and politely said, “Thank You. I’ll miss you.”

Flash Fiction -- The Swap

by Denise Miller Holmes

It’s amazing how one piece of mail can change a life and cause great embarrassment at the same time.

When I read the invitation to the Grand Opening of Evan’s used-car dealership, relief flooded my body.  Here’s your chance, I told myself. This is the perfect time to say, “sorry.”

I’d met Evan a few years back when I was twenty-two, and we dated a few times before I left for a job in another state.

The entire four years I was away, I tortured myself about how I’d treated him at the end, just before I left. I don’t remember what the fight was about, but I yelled mean things at him and told him I never wanted to see him again. It was an intense outburst that gave me a pain in my gut and heat in my cheeks whenever I thought of it. I’d thrown every insult my father had taught me at Evan, including, “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” which made no sense.

But, God has a way of bringing painful things back in order to heal us, and the invite was my opportunity to make it right. I needed to make this right.

I wanted to do something more than show up at the opening of his new location. I wanted Evan to remember that I’d come to the party, and, especially that I was nice to him—that the animosity was gone. So, I pulled into Aunt Flo’s Floral for something special.

I picked out a dynamic arrangement of bold-colored flowers and signed the card. ”Congratulations . . . .” blah, blah, blah and signed it “Clarice.”

At the last minute, I decided to have them deliver it rather than haul them in myself. The nice man smiled at me and promised to get them there early that day when the celebration would be starting.

I arrived about thirty minutes after the doors opened and saw an exquisite carved wood table with flower arrangements and cards covering the entirety of it. My flowers were there, in the center, with an envelope attached to them—an envelope entirely the wrong color.

Because I’d picked a blue envelope and this one was pink, confusion swirled around for a bit. But, before I could check out the card, sweet Evan came up to me and took, not shook, my hand. He held it there for a full four seconds (I counted) and then gently let it go.

After a few minutes of chatting, I pointed to my flowers and said they were from me. He walked over, to my chagrin, and snapped up the card. As he read it, I got an understanding of how bad the message must be because his face paled and he swallowed hard. “What is this?” he yelled, throwing the card onto the floor. “Do you want me dead, Clarice? Can’t you let this go?” He stormed off.

Certainly, this was more than him not liking pink envelopes. I picked up the card and read, “Rest in peace.” It was signed “C.” 

My first thought was, Oh how annoying it is that so many lazy people abbreviate everything. My second thought was, Oh gawd. How will I ever explain this and win his trust?

I called the florist and gave them a piece of my mind. They apologized exuberantly, then explained what it was like for the people who received my card.

“Where did it go?” I said, thinking someone else’s pain might be more than my own.

“Well,” he hesitated and sighed. “Imagine how the grieving family of Herbert Kunkel felt when they read your note out loud at the funeral reception, and it said, “Congratulations on your new location.”

Evan was in another room, engaging his guests, and I figured he needed time to cool off. I went home and poured myself a full glass of sugary drink. By then, it was early evening. God, please help Evan believe me.

I didn’t finish the prayer because my doorbell rang and startled me. I opened the door to see a small bouquet of forget-me-nots in an arrangement with baby’s breath. I brought them inside and read the card. It said, “I think there was a mix-up at the florist’s and you don’t want me dead. Let’s both pray about it, then go get a coffee. Call me. Is six a.m. okay?”

I ruminated a bit over the turn of events as I sipped my cola. It didn’t take long to decide. With God (and coffee), anything was possible. 

Flash Fiction -- Man’s Command of Language Wins the Contest for a Beauty’s Heart

Hello! My name is Tigeronus, and I live on a planet called Cat’s Paw. That is an orb in our galaxy where cats rule. (Don’t be surprised. It was inevitable.)

I and my two friends, Split-Ear and Tubby, went to the Feral Museum to “sightsee.” “Sightseeing” is code for us to go watch pretty ladies.

In those days, we would position ourselves on the padded bench across from the most famous painting EVER—The Catarona Leeza.

While gazing at that awe-inspiring painting, we debated what Catarona’s expression meant. Was she acting coy? Was she flirting? Her expression was so enigmatic!

Right after Tubby commented on how green the Persian beauty’s eyes were and Split-Ear said that her white, silky fur was so beautiful he might consider taking a bath—I spied her. Strolling past the very painting she had modeled for was Catarona herself!

All of us saw her at once. We immediately drew ourselves up, onto our bottoms, with straight spines. Tubby sucked in his gut and was barely breathing. Split-Ear washed himself frenetically. I tried to keep my rabbiting heart from coming out of my Himalayan body.

I felt I might die when, instead of ignoring us, Ms. Leeza sauntered over to our bench. Then, she spoke!

“Gentlemen,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “I would love for one of you to take me out tonight for an elegant dinner.”

I could not see Split-Ear, the shabby Tabby with his dirty fur and alley-cat ways, ever measuring up to Catarona’s standards. And Tubby, that fat Marmalade, would just clash with her delicate pigment and fit figure. I was certain she would pick me, a breed so close to hers. What I did not know was that this was a contest based on merit.

She laid out her plan. “I love liver and cheese. Always have. And, the one who uses those two words in a sentence in the most creative way, is the one I will choose to be my date.”

Split-Ear and Tubby seemed to energize when she said this, as if suddenly gaining hope.

Split-Ear took his turn first with a brilliant, “I could have liver and cheese if I could afford them.” To this, Catarona Leeza rolled her eyes. You could tell she found the sentence subpar.

I could not imagine Tubby’s would be any better. He straightened his spine with pride and said, “I wish I didn’t have Metabolic Disorder so I could eat liver and cheese.”

I told you.

Catarona turned her head in complete rejection, but, just as my heart swelled in anticipation of the win, Tubby said, “Let me try again, please.” To this Catarona’s expression softened, and he began a new sentence.

My anger shot out before I could control it. I arched my back. I hissed. Pointing a threating claw at the orange menace, I yelled, “Liver alone! Cheese mine!”

That night’s liver-and-cheese date with Catarona, at the famous restaurant Chez Paw, changed my life. I soon changed my social media status to “married.”

What a wonderful day at the museum!

Flash Fiction -- Uncle Seamus Gets in Trouble on Saint Patty’s Day

As we know, on St. Patty’s Day, too many people get  woozy with the boozy. Cops in patrol cars roam the streets trolling for inebriated drivers. 

The last St. Patty’s Day, my neighbor’s, friend’s uncle, Seamus, celebrated at a local Boston pub. He was driving to his suburban home at 2:30 a.m. when a female cop came up behind him and flashed her lights, telling him to pull over.

He rolled down his window and reached for his wallet—knowing the drill. Seamus heard her ask him where he’d been and where he was going at this time of night. 

He had learned to slow down his speaking to control his drunken slur, and with precision he said, “I was coming from my friend’s house.” (The local bar was called “My Friend’s House.”)

She waited, flashing a light in his eyes. Blanching, he said, “And now I’m going to a lecture.”

An “I-gotcha” look crossed her face and she said, “What lecture are you going to at 2:30 a.m.?”

Seamus controlled his trembling and spoke as slowly as he could. “I am going to a lecture on self-discipline and the negative impact of alcohol on your body, and the importance of setting a good example for children.”

The cop, eyes widened in disbelief said, “And just where is this lecture taking place?”

Uncle Seamus felt smart. He knew the answer to this one. “In the entryway of my house as soon as my wife opens the door and sees my condition.”

After her long-winded, cackling laughter dissipated and she wiped a tear from her eye, the officer exclaimed, “Oh my gawd. I have got to see this. Move over, I’m driving!”