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I went to an estate sale Wednesday, filled with fine china, crystal, bad art, and very costly tchotchkes. And bought only three small metal frames, of no special value, for a dollar apiece. Then Marianne and I went out to lunch at the Chestnut Grill, where I wrote two short-shorts to fill two of the frames.
The third frame I kept as was, because the repop photo within, of an elegant and brooding woman, inspired the following flash fiction:
Closing Time
Granted, we’re none of us getting any younger. Still.
Look at me. Eyes, mouth, breasts,
all pleasant to behold and in good working order. So why am I still in the bar at 1 a.m.? When I came here, I thought that if I were
approached by someone nice enough, I’d give him my number, no more. An hour later, I threw in a kiss. By midnight, I was all the way up to a night
of passion he’d never forget. Now? Buddy, I’ll make you suffer as no man has
suffered before.
At last, I see you heading this way, ambition in your
eyes.
“Hello,” I’ll say, “My name is Jeannie. You’d know what that meant if you’d read the
Arabian Nights.”
-- Michael Swanwick,
2/27/13
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5 comments:
But... I read the Arabian nights (the actual AR cortex, not the BS padded edition compiled by Richard Burton) and I don't know what it means. Am I going to have to revisit everything I read in my twenties?
Read Jeannie's name aloud and it will make sense.
Eh, sorry you even had to write that. I'm going to go jump off a building now.
No, no . . . I knew it was going to catch some of the readers off guard. Unfortunately, I liked the story and there was no graceful work-around, so there it was.
So for better or worse, I got it fairly quickly, definitely on the second read.
You could even get it if you only saw the Thief of Bagdad (1940 )
Wayne Z
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