July 28, 2014 Comments Off on An Arranged Marriage By Roy Dorman
He had found her in an alley he often used as a shortcut on his way home from work. Partially clad and lifeless, she was lying next to an overflowing dumpster. He had brought her home with him, cleaned her up, and bought some new clothes for her. That was three days ago; now he was following through on a promise made to her on that first night.
“It’s a symbol of my love for you; a symbol of our relationship. Now, it’s not a real diamond; we talked about that,” said Randy, slipping the ring onto her finger. “I really wanted to get you a real diamond,” he started to explain, lifting her and then positioning her to sit on a chair at the kitchen table. “But with just my income, we can’t afford a real diamond.”
He then bent her head and arm so that she would appear to be admiring the ring. “I now pronounce us man and wife. This calls for a celebration!” Randy exclaimed while rushing to the refrigerator. There was only one beer left, but that would be enough for the both of them. He poured a little beer into a glass and placed it in front of her with the flourish of a waiter in a fancy French restaurant.
The mannequin continued to admire her ring; a vacant little smile on her face. “If you don’t like it, just say so; I can always return it,” Randy said, laughing at his little joke. Randy finished his own beer, and hers, and then stood up to carry her into the bedroom. On just Randy’s income, they couldn’t afford a romantic trip to Niagara Falls.
A week later, the strength of their new relationship would be tested for the first time. Randy would be taking that same shortcut home from work this afternoon, and Randy would be performing another ceremony that night. Randy didn’t think that there would be any problems though; the two would probably have a lot in common. And because they were the same size, they could even trade off and wear each other’s clothes.
© 2014 Roy Dorman
Roy Dorman is retired from the University of Wisconsin-Madison Benefits Office and has been a voracious reader for 60 years. At the prompting of an old high school friend, himself a retired English teacher, Roy is now a voracious writer. He has had poetry and flash fiction published recently in Apocrypha and Abstractions, Burningword Literary Journal, Drunk Monkeys, The Screech Owl, Crack The Spine, and Lake City Lights.
July 17, 2014 Comments Off on Ready or Not By Roy Dorman
Stepping down from the footstool, Edward Warner walked over to his apartment door and undid the dead bolt and also the chain lock, leaving only the key lock still locked. The landlord had a master-key for that one. Once he was missed, he didn’t want people to have to break in the door to get to him. Edward was a considerate kind of guy. As long as he was down from his perch, he also decided to move the note from the kitchen counter to the coffee table near the couch. They wouldn’t be able to miss that. He’d worked long and hard getting the note just right. He went into the bathroom to see if he could pee just one more time. He’d heard about bodily functions making things yucky and he didn’t want a mess. Very considerate. He’d actually thought about getting some of those adult diapers, but then thought wearing one of those might be construed as maybe being just a little too persnickety. He’d settled on an enema and hadn’t had anything to drink for the last couple of hours. He took one look around to see if there was anything else to be done to make this whole thing come off as smoothly as possible. He was back up on the footstool with the rope tight around his neck, ready to go, when his cat, Mister Jones, sauntered out of the bedroom. Damn! He’d forgotten to put food and water out for Mister Jones. While squatting down to spoon out the cat food into the bowl, Edward noticed a couple of dust bunnies near the refrigerator and some crumbs of some sort under the kitchen table that Mister Jones had missed. With a sigh, he decided the living room could probably use a quick vacuuming, too.
© 2014 Roy Dorman
Roy Dorman is retired from the University of Wisconsin-Madison Benefits Office and has been a voracious reader for 60 years. He has had poetry and flash fiction published recently in Apocrypha and Abstractions, Burningword Literary Journal, Drunk Monkeys, The Screech Owl, Crack The Spine, and Lake City Lights.
June 12, 2014 Comments Off on Location, Location, Location by Roy Dorman
When the sexual tension finally became just too much for him, Albert decided the only thing to do was to sell the house. He would rent a one-bedroom apartment downtown while he decided what to do next. He placed an ad in the real estate section of the local newspaper’s want ads that read:
For Sale By Owner: Nice three-bedroom cape cod at 1130 Jackson Street.
Has attached garage and large backyard. Neighbor lady most often does her Saturday gardening naked.
Asking price is $175,000.
Call 555-3750 for appointment.
Saturday morning came and Albert was not at all surprised when he stepped out onto his back porch and saw ten or twelve men lined up along the fence that separated his lawn from his neighbor’s garden. There was quiet conversation going on and Albert supposed it was speculation as to whether they would or wouldn’t see his neighbor, Melissa Logan, naked. There was some shushing and then complete silence as Melissa stepped out of her back door carrying a hoe, dressed in a tight fitting lime green running suit with a matching lime green baseball cap. As she walked across her lawn to the garden, there was murmuring and muttering to be heard coming from those gathered along the fence. Melissa stopped as if noticing the group for the first time and looking over at Albert, gave him a theatrical shrug and an exaggerated look that said, “What’s this all about?”
Albert sighed, shrugged, and walked to his front yard where the “For Sale By Owner” sign was planted. He pulled it out and deposited it into his trashcan.
Later that afternoon, Albert was mowing the lawn in his backyard wearing only some grass stained sneakers. Two could play at this game. Mowing back toward the house from the far end of the yard, he saw Melissa come out her back door, naked, and start a series of cartwheels into the center of her yard. He left off mowing and applauded wildly, yelling encouragement to her. Melissa was distracted a bit by Albert’s applause and cartwheeled into a stump that was all that remained of an old elm that had been removed last year. Albert looked on in horror as he saw her slump to the ground with her neck at a very nasty looking angle. Running into the house, he called 911 and gave them a sparsely detailed version of what was going on and then quickly put on some clothes. He then retrieved the “For Sale By Owner” sign from his trash can. He replanted it where it had been and sat down on the curb to wait for the rescue squad.
When the emergency vehicle pulled up, Albert was startled to see that one of the EMTs, a young woman, wasn’t wearing any clothes. A twitching started in his right eye as he watched the EMTs load the lime green running suit-clad Melissa onto the rolling stretcher they had wheeled through the back gate.
© 2014 Roy Dorman
Roy Dorman is retired from the University of Wisconsin-Madison Benefits Office and has been a voracious reader for almost 60 years. At the prompting of an old high school friend, himself a retired English teacher, Roy is now a voracious writer. He has had poetry and flash fiction published recently in Burningword Literary Journal, Drunk Monkeys, The Screech Owl, Crack The Spine, and Lake City Lights, an online literary site that he has just agreed to be the submissions editor of at the request of its publisher.
May 29, 2014 Comments Off on Join The Club By Roy Dorman
The light turned green, but the car in front of me didn’t move. Probably texting, I thought, so I waited a second before giving a short, polite “Let’s go” tap in the horn. When the car still didn’t move, the car behind me backed up a bit and pulled around me into the oncoming traffic lane, which had cleared by this time. Car trouble? With a sigh, I put on my emergency flashers and got out of my car.
I was not prepared for what I saw when I got to the window of the misbehaving vehicle. A woman not much older than me had both hands on the wheel and was staring straight ahead. She didn’t turn to acknowledge me as I came up to her window.
The window was down, and after doing that clearing of the throat thing people use to announce their presence, I said quietly, so as not to startle her, “Is there a problem? Something wrong with your car?”
She continued to stare straight ahead as if she hadn’t heard me.
“If it’s stalled, I might–” but before I could finish, she slowly turned her head and gave me a look that told me, yes, there was a problem.
“I just saw my ex-husband,” she whispered as if she were afraid someone other than me might hear her; afraid he might hear her.
“I’m divorced myself,” I said with a lightness I didn’t really feel. “It can be upsetting running into your ex unexpectedly. Creepy even.”
At that, she allowed herself a little smile.
“Thank you for that,” she said. “He was an awful man. But I think I’m ready to move on now. Thank you, again, for your understanding . . . and for inviting me into the group.”
© 2014 Roy Dorman
Roy Dorman is retired from the University of Wisconsin-Madison Benefits Office and has been a voracious reader for almost 60 years. At the prompting of an old high school friend, himself a retired English teacher, Roy is now a voracious writer. He has had poetry and flash fiction published recently in Burningword Literary Journal, Drunk Monkeys, The Screech Owl, and Lake City Lights, an online literary site at which he is now the submissions editor.