flash fiction

(posts tagged)


– brianprince

alpine type stereo. glaring sunbeam reflection. ideas vibrating. reaching for my pen. write:

an idea of cruelty to me is to ride up on a car with ‘student driver’ placards plastered to all four sides. get real close. and upfront-personal like a hoe and pitchfork in the garden. give them the feeling of the heart’s farming every spring’s plough stop in their track like a woman pissing in a john deere. shock. surprise. a soaking wet liner. sprinkled by words. my words? but i’m only a designer…

sweet whispers to her back. then next to her. as if i were. rubbing her…

it was a middle-
aged indian


with an asian


oh, lord

protect her



i wish i

– brianprince

i wish i could hug the world. and kiss it’s cheek. i wish i could say that loving jesus was easy. i wish i could feel like everything would be okay. if i just stayed the same. i wish i didn’t have to worry about eating sweets. i wish i could become a bird. tasting with a beak. flying to be free. i wish i learned to break dance better as a kid. or be a mime with sealed lips. i wish my expression in pop-locking. was like one of knowing that no one is watching. i wish i could echo my song across the earth. mode: random and repeat. i wish i knew my place of birth. the soil and seed. i wish it was easier to be good. and not flirt with every beautiful girl. i wish i was stable enough to hold a job. and complete one project at a time. just to be good at one thing. instead of starting a million. leaving them unfinished. i wish my bedroom roof was a convertible. i wish my thoughts right now were not fatal. i wish i didn’t always write a bunch of nonsense in rhyming phrases. i wish all married men didn’t have to masterbate. i wish i didn’t think that these word formations were great. or worthy of any kind of prose. because really. know one will ever know. unless i post. them. i wish i wasn’t such an addict. to this myspace. blog page. i wish i could stay. suspend. but i’m gone. away. i’m dead. the ink is dried up. it’s empty in my pocket.



– brianprince

i had the night off.
so i called greg to come celebrate
my acceptance into the m.f.a. program.
we planned to grab a
smoke at Red Cloud then
hit Stubrik’s for a guiness stout.
he flaked. to play
poker in orange.

i kept moving forward.
caring less about the present.
not looking back.

so i took my night to the a.t.m.
pulled out a grand from my savings.
ten benjamins stuffed into my jeans.
i hate money. but this made
me feel good.
like i could
do things
i normally wouldn’t.

taking my confidence for a walk in my city.
thinking it would be cool to boost the commerce.
receiving a thrill from spending a bill
at the local gift shop.
but when the night came to an end
i still felt empty within.

later. much later. i had nightmares.
of hotels. NFL franchises. and war in Serbia.
hiding in disguises. running for freedom.
the details would make anyone sick.
i tossed and turned awaking at six.

i slipped on the cashmere sweater
with the moth hole in the back. and
my isotoner slippers that grandpa had bought.
headed to downtown
with nine bills in my pocket.

there was no sunshine.

i saw a woman. but couldn’t
make out if she was physically homeless.
i could just tell that her soul was alone and empty.

i took a picture of her. with
my camera phone.
she returned a blank stare.
her hair was duotone.
died red. but growing out at the roots.
born in the late fifties
but very very cute.
the tattooed teardrop
next to her left eye.
i could see her life was much more different
than mine.

i proceeded to hand her nine
one-hundred dollar bills.
they could have been one’s
and she still
would have been grateful.

she spoke. i listened.
she was the world’s biggest
loser magnet. except
today when it was a savior
she attracted.

this morning i saw the glow
of eternity. i took another
picture. but it came out blurry.

the internal happiness rushed.
on this day marked december sixth.
a feeling no camera could capture.
not even words. the meaning
of kindness
with acts
that are
not only

a grand.


– brianprince

dwelling in the bull’s pen. lie
the very peculiar mr. prince.
finding himself in a situation.
hiding from a potential mess.
this rodeo. in his imagination.

next to him sat a nasa spaceship.
wrecked. with lettering that stated
“New England 7” and a sign, “Come In.”
without hesitation, he stepped into this
decorated racing striped thing and crazy

lights were blinking. as he was thinking,
“what happens next, a visit from Hal Fishman?”
bam. on the console. pops out a television.
with a mercury reflective surface as he sees
his tears drip an unusual color of crimson.

on the screen. level with Hal’s lazy eye.
read a bold italic caption, “Want To Fly?”
electricity streamed as he touched it.
he belted a good scream as he felt it.
tingling. pins and needles. numbed.

a thought bubble above his head read “yes.”
suddenly the sound of an engine and
computer’s voice shouting, “New England 7”
a switching sound, then “Activation.” his
only words, “good ghosts in heaven!”

shaking. rumbling. mid-air suspension.
grab something. quick. anything connecting with
the microphone. sand-bagged stand in an orange
construction cone. a little bird. one wing. broken.
xxtreme emotion. no one understands. hold on.

speak: he was silent.
unique: be a puppet.
mescaline: tranquilizer.
wresting: pile driver.
ecstasy: pacifier.

reality: he was no higher
than a 5 and a half foot stage.
towering over people half his age.
his mind went blank. as he shot
into space. seeking the truth.

without a parachute.

he fell.

onto a cloud.

avoiding hell.

with his choices.