otoh

Phillip began to tremble and felt sick to his stomach. His front door stood ajar, the jamb in splinters. His belongings were broken and strewn all over the floor. Drapes and sofa cushions had been slashed. Walls were covered with spray-painted graffiti. The message was clear enough, he had pissed off the wrong people.

That message was explicit, albeit ungrammatically, in large red letters across his living room wall:

YOUR DEAD

“Like adding insult to injury,” Phillip muttered. “Lousy punks can’t even spell, but they can sure make a hell of a mess. How stupid do you have to be to get that wrong? The idiots probably dropped out of school. I feel sorry for the teachers that had to put up with them before they finally quit. I bet they were nothing but trouble.

“Now they roam around like packs of wild dogs. If I ever get my hands on them, I’ll teach them a thing or two. They think they can just push everyone around. Lucky I wasn’t here when they broke in. Probably too chicken to face me or take me on one at a time.

“I’ll make sure they get locked up and throw away the key. And you can be damn sure every word will be spelled correctly when I see them in court. Every ‘I’ dotted and every ‘T’ crossed. Maybe after a few years behind bars and they’ll decide it’s worth their time to pick up a damn book and learn how to read and write after all.”

Just then three gang members crowded into the room behind him, guns drawn. Phillip whirled around and opened his mouth to speak. Before he uttered a sound, the guns put a final resounding exclamation point on the message. Phillip was indeed dead. And he was the one to learn a lesson that day: Only in bad movies and pulp fiction do the villains stand still for a lengthy diatribe.

.

Follow Friday Flash Fiction on Twitter, Facebook, Google+, and FridayFlash.org

Evan grumbled more and more through the month of December. “I just can’t get into the Christmas spirit this year,” he said as if that were explanation enough for his sour mood and boorish behavior. He had no patience for the throngs of shoppers. The ubiquitous holiday music further fouled his mood. He was cross with his coworkers and crass with his friends.

Before long his friends began greeting him with, “Bah, humbug,” before saying hello. But nothing, it seemed, would bring him out of his funk.

And then on Christmas Eve he was transformed. He greeted everyone with, “Happy Christmas!” or “Have a wonderful holiday!”

“What gives?” asked his best friend Bob. “You’ve been crabby as hell since before Thanksgiving and now you’re all sunshine and smiles.”

“You won’t believe me if I tell you,” said Evan.

“Try me.”

“Okay.”

And Evan told this tale:

When I went to bed last night I tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable, much less get to sleep. Suddenly I became aware of a presence in the room. Someone — or something — was standing at the foot of my bed!

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the figure said.

“I’m not — I mean who the hell are you? What are you doing here?” I said. I sat up and inched toward the headboard to get as far away from the intruder as I could. “Get out. I have a gun!”

“No you don’t, Evan.” The figure chuckled. “And to answer your questions, I am the Spirit of Christmas and I am here to help you.”

“Huh? You mean like with Scrooge? Not that I believe you, but are you the spirit of Christmas past, present, or future?”

“Ah, well Dickens took some dramatic license in his tale. There are not three Spirits, only me. And while I could show you Christmases past or future, I’m really only concerned with the present. You see, you need help now.”

“What, exactly, do you intend to do to me?”

“Oh, dear. I really have frightened you, haven’t I? I won’t do anything to you except talk to you. I want to explain the problem. The rest is up to you to do with, or not, as you wish.”

“Is this because I haven’t gotten into the Christmas spirit this year — if you’ll pardon the expression.”

“No offense taken, but you see, that is exactly the problem. You keep saying you can’t get into the spirit. What you need to do is let the Spirit get into you.”

I pulled my blanket up to my chin. “I don’t like the sound of that. Is this like some alien probe or something?”

“Nothing of the sort. You simply need to be open to the possibility that people need the gifts you have to offer. Not the things you can buy them, although you may find some of those as well, but your gifts don’t have to cost you a penny. Just take a moment to look at the people around you as you go about your day. Many of them won’t need anything more than a smile or a kind word. And the best thing? You’ll be surprised at how much you gain by giving those little bits of yourself.”

“That all sounds a little too ‘woo woo’ to me.”

“Well,” the Spirit laughed, “the simplest things are often the most profound. All I ask is that you keep an open mind. If you look for opportunities to give of yourself, you’ll find them.”

“That’s it? And you won’t keep haunting me about it.”

“You’ll never see me again, except perhaps in the faces of the people you give to. I promise. Now get some sleep. You look awful.” And with that the figure faded from sight.

I remained curled against the headboard with the covers pulled up to my throat for several more minutes watching and waiting for any further sign of the intruder. Finally I gave a huge yawn and realized how very sleepy I was. I stretched out and fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

“It was the first decent night’s sleep I’ve had in ages,” Evan concluded. “And I found out the Spirit was right. It wasn’t that I couldn’t get into Christmas, I wasn’t letting Christmas into me. Once I relaxed and let it in, everything changed. Most people don’t need anything more from me than a smile and a kind word. And it seems I have an abundance of those to give because I get just as many in return.”

.

Follow Friday Flash Fiction on Twitter, Facebook, Google+, and FridayFlash.org

“I hate you, Daddy!” Christie glared at her father, tears streaking mascara down her face.

Danny shook his head. He looked at the girl — all black clothing, dyed black hair, black nail polish, black lipstick, and now those tragic black rivers coursing down her too pale face. He could still see traces of his pretty little daughter underneath all that, but she seemed further away every day. She wants to be a vampire? Could that be right?

“Later, old man.” Doug brushed past, ignoring the drama playing out between his father and sister. He shook back a shaggy mane on his way out the front door. “Full moon tonight!” Danny and Christie stared after him through the picture window at the front of their oh-so-typical suburban home. Doug revved his motorcycle and howled down the street.

Christie broke the brief silence. “He’s such a dog.”

“A wolf,” Danny corrected and regretted it immediately. No teenager in the world suffers a pedantic father gladly and his daughter was certainly no exception. She spun on her heel and stomped up the stairs to her room. The slamming door declared her victory in this battle. Everybody take five and the war will continue momentarily. What were they fighting about again? Danny wondered.

He retreated to the kitchen where his wife sat, zombie-like, staring at a small TV. A tall drink was sweating into a ridiculous puddle on the table in front of her. He put the kettle on to boil and rooted through the cupboard for a tea bag. A nice soothing chamomile would do nicely he decided.

He turned his back on the kettle — so it would boil, you know — and stood for a moment watching his wife watch the flickering blue screen. The house felt like a shell, a ghost, devoid of the life they had tried to build there. Where had he gone wrong?

The kettle began to whistle and Danny drowned a teabag in a cup of boiling water. He lifted the cup letting the steam wash over his face. The television droned on about the latest celebrity scandal. A car horn blasted out on the street and Christie raced down the stairs and out the front door. Danny sipped his tea as the car squealed away. I hope she washed her face.

.

Follow Friday Flash Fiction on Twitter, Facebook, Google+, and FridayFlash.org

To him, she was a puzzle he could never solve.

To her, he was a problem she could never fix.

.

Follow Friday Flash Fiction on Twitter, Facebook, Google+, and FridayFlash.org

I ain’t never been lucky.

I don’t know what possessed me to take a trip to Las Vegas, but sure enough here I am. I flew in last night with a hotel reservation, a ticket to see Johnny Mathis in concert, and ten dollars I was willin’ to waste in the casino.

I spent most of this mornin’ walking along what they call The Strip. The fancy hotels with their fountains and volcanoes and shows and whatnot are truly a wonder. And then for lunch I found one of them buffets for cheap that have real prime rib and crab’s legs and a salad with four beans, not just three. I ate till I was like to bust.

I had a few hours yet till Johnny Mathis so I figured it was time to see a casino. I had watched on the TV in my hotel room about the rules for some of the games and I had a mind to give one or two of ‘em a try. Blackjack seemed like the easiest. Back home we call it 21.

I found a $2 table so that meant I could play at least five hands even if I lost every one of ‘em. I busted the first hand and then the dealer got blackjack the next hand. But then I got a blackjack and then the dealer busted and I was right back in it. I was startin’ to see why people take a shine to gamblin’.

I kept on like that for a good half hour or so, never bein’ more than a few dollars up or down from where I started. Finally I put the whole ten bucks on one last hand. Son of a gun if I didn’t get another blackjack. I took my winnin’s and started back toward my room.

I was feelin’ kinda high from winnin’ and couldn’t resist stoppin’ up at the roulette table. Just for curiosity, ya know. Since I was ahead from the blackjack I put a few bucks down on red and won three times in a row. I got nervous and moved it over to black and won twice more. Then I moved my chips to number 17, my Momma’s birthday, and darn if that didn’t get me a whole big stack.

In spite of winnin’ like that I thought the roulette was sorta borin’ so I picked up and moved again. I watched the dice game — I don’t care for that name they call it — for a bit. It seemed real excitin’. I figured to risk another ten bucks. Even if I lost it all I’d be way ahead for the day. A pretty girl started bringin’ us drinks — just a coke for me — and ‘afore I knew what there was another pretty girl standin’ next to me cheerin’ and tuggin’ at my sleeve. Next thing I know I got my arm around her and she’s lookin’ all dreamy-eyed at me. I can’t say I really understand the dice game all that much, but the stack of chips in front of me kept gettin’ bigger anyhow.

Some guy with a coat and tie came along and said they wanted to upgrade my room since I was playin’ so well. I’d heard of that, but for sure never thought it would happen to me. He even said he would have somebody take my things over from the old room for me. Can you believe that?

When it came my turn to throw the dice that little girl took hold of my hand and blew on ‘em. “For luck,” she said and I for sure felt somethin’ stirrin’ through me. I don’t know that it was luck, but it felt pretty darn good. We kept on like that until I looked at my watch and darn if I wasn’t gonna be late for the show. I excused myself to go find my room, but that girl tagged along like a lost pup.

I didn’t know if she would wait or if I could get another ticket or what, but it felt real nice to have her hangin’ on my arm so I decided not to say nothin’ ’bout it till after we was up in my room. It was bigger than my apartment back home with a sittin’ room and kitchen and separate bedroom that held a great big bed with a mirror over it. I don’t rightly know what that’s all about.

All of the sudden there was a strange man in behind me whackin’ me on the head with somethin’ heavy. I crumpled to the floor and he rifled through my pockets for my wallet and every cent to my name. I never did see that girl again. And now here I lie, starin’ up at the ceiling with my life blood pourin’ out of my head. I swear from somewhere in the distance I can hear Johnny Mathis music wafting up from a show I ain’t never gonna see.

I tell ya, I ain’t never been lucky.

.

Follow Friday Flash Fiction on Twitter, Facebook, and FridayFlash.org