DOGZPLOT FLASH FICTION

ADOLF WOLFLI

AN ACCIDENTAL MORNING BATHROOM MEETING - shelly holder

She was exposed. He hadn't seen her parted thighs in almost 21 years since the baby was born, and more than just aging had happened in that time. The weight gain. The accident. One or two affairs that he knew about. One or two that he didn't. Maybe even one or two that she forgot herself. It was hard to tell what happened to those thighs. Wars had taken place there but the media isn't interested in small scale tragedies. She quickly peed and wiped and flushed, cheeks burning and praying he hadn't turned around in the shower stall. But she knew he had. When they first starting dating she thought she understood. Now she had learned that he was just comparing the spider veins and cellulite on each thigh, ticking off mental assumptions into fact. She washed her hands and left.



Shelly Holder
www.shellyholder.com

LOVE AND COMPUTERS - robert john miller

She's shooting Paul Auster quotes at me like I give a fuck. It's 5 AM and we haven't slept since yesterday's 5 AM. I actually like Paul Auster so it's nothing personal against him and nothing personal against her either, or her needs -- which for the record I've tried to put before my own for the last 7 hours -- but I tell her she needs to get some sleep soon to reset the fucking programs running in her fucking head before they completely fucking crash, because worst-case-scenario some people accidentally wipe their heads clean and have to reinstall everything that ever made anything make any fucking sense at all to them, not that we're probably going there right now but I ask her are you understanding what I mean? She tells me that being tired is no excuse for gratuitous use of the word fuck and I tell her good night. Then she says he says, "There is nothing people will not do, and the sooner you learn that, the better off you'll be," and do I agree? I tell her it's an obvious fucking no, because the one thing she won't do right now is sleep.



Robert John Miller
http://bobsoldout.com
Poetry! Poetry! Poetry!
Peter Davis

CREDITS - parker tettleton

I fuck myself. I say never three times. There is a movie in this movie in this. I say hello. Fish are named after capitals of invisible cities. I say so. There is a movie in this movie in. I say flush for a dumpster. The sound of a sound never made. I say equations for haunted mice. Toupees & hookers bubble I‘m too tired not to do this. I say quite jelly. There is a movie in this movie. I say your sleeve in my combination platter. Nothing is an even bigger loser. I say trees rhyme. Microwave the lovechild of platter spackles. I say bubbles in a fence. Garbage is an impossibility. I say possibility in Spanish. I am nothing is. I say you licking my third missing popsicle. There is a movie in this. I say movie for fish capitals. Oil combines your slight uncle. I say bits of apartment roof moon. I bite. I say I forgot where to end. I leave sperm where it can meet fish tacos. I say angle you angel this. Fish are a refuge flooded. I say you meet me invisible. There is a movie in. I say merely. Nothing is love. I say baked goods are hookers. A dumpster requires an adding machine. I say breathe in rhythm to hospital sex. My Spanish is a very attractive popsicle. I say oil your sister weekend. Taco garbage is hello from the haunted. I say jiggle on my twist with your choice of aperitif. There is a movie. I say mice love is uncle. Dead trees are garages your attorney drinks through. I say bubbly vegan inferiority tape. Angels are licking limerick tacos. I say add me never. Once a microwave is in the dark. I say toasted boulevards. Trains are flower pots on a ledge outside in thirteen beliefs. I say scream the window Pulitzers. There is a. I made a you out of refrigerator convicts. I say hooker jelly requires toast. A double negative is baking popsicle degrees. I say cracks in the window unit’s outlook. Spackles fish in hospital sisters. I say ledge intuition. Flush bubbles through moon inferiority. I say my sperm is toasted floods. There is. I say quiet homely impossible. Three loves flower mice. I say sex spackled roof trains. Fences lick inferior weekends. I say refugees fuck eight capitals. Bake doubled sperm platters in toupees. I say dead tacos slightly drink. Nothing myself. I say rhythm garaged pot angles. There.

Parker Tettleton
http://parker-augustlight.blogspot.com/
Ray
Barry Hannah

URSULINE - michelle reale

Ursula is loveless and covered in fur. She knows just three people in the new country. In my country we all look like this, she says. She invites them to her apartment luring them with vodka, deep tissue massage and haircuts, her specialty. “Oof”, she says to one, his hair like a big hat , just like the kind they wear in the old country. She begs to be stroked. They grimace, but begin softly. Then, harder, as though she is a dirty stray off the street. They drink and talk amongst themselves. She catches a word here and there. Ursula swigs vodka and croons a sad song in a language that makes her throat hurt and her eyes tear. The more she cries, the more the hair grows, thick and lackluster. The fur under her eyes is wet and matted. Her friends’ feet shift in their cracked little shoes, looking to escape. One of them takes the scissors, attempts to cut the thickest parts. Ursula, hysterical, pushes the foreign hand away. The blades are dull anyway. She hears their voices from the dimly lit stairs. They leave just enough vodka to get her through the night.



Michelle Reale
Aliens in the Prime of Their Lives
Brad Watson

CLOUDY ALL DAY - howie good

The Wild West, I tell myself, never existed. Hearing that, the six Indians get up from their table and leave. The bartender, suddenly trembling, spills some as he continues to pour. I feel like I’m crossing the Sierras alone, but also upstairs riding the pretty saloon girl. She sees a glimmer of something that no one else does, the hangman placing a black sack over my head.



Howie Good
http://apocalypsemambo.blogspot.com/
White Shades of Pale
Christian Landers

THE WAY IT CAN BE - gay degani

Josh fired a blunt, sucked it down, exhaled a borealis of smoke. A trick, she thought as he moved on her, his hands pirating her breasts, her belly, her legs, between her legs; him constructing crystal edifices; her fingers stretched taut in search of sparklers, prism splinters, clusters of coincidence.



Gay Degani
www.gaydegani.com
About Things That Are Lost and the Places That Things Get Lost By
Andrea Kneeland

MIDNIGHT AT THE BETHLEHEM BAR & GRILLE - ryan ridge

From the smoking section came a trio of wise-men dressed as wise-guys in impossible track suits. They carried gifts of Goldschl├Ąger, Tic Tacs, and rum, and they stood there stupidly, staring at my wife writhing on the floor by the foosball table. When the doctor arrived he extracted a stethoscope from his satchel, followed by a pair of pilot's headphones, and said: Damn this birth is loud! And it was. It was so loud, in fact, you couldn’t even ascertain which eunuch was whining on the jukebox or the two teenagers from Texas puking in the men’s room. No, tonight all you could hear was a brand new light screaming into the world like it already hated the place. If you shut your eyes everything sounded so severe, but if you opened them just right and let them readjust to the beerlight, you could see the makings of a miracle as it happened. And it happened to be a boy, or at least we thought so for many years––until he began running around with prostitutes and tax collectors and raising the dead like a roof.



Ryan Ridge
rridge@uci.edu
Nietzsche's Horse
Christopher Kennedy