“Tiny House” in New Flash Fiction Review

Read Original Here

Tiny House

by Nancy Stohlman

After the rapture I decided to buy a tiny house. The realtor met me in the driveway.

That’s not a tiny house, I said. That’s a Barbie house.

You say Barbie house, I say tiny house the realtor said. Wait until you see the inside.

The realtor opened the flimsy door. The walls were made of pink vinyl with drawings of bookshelves and framed family photos and a two-dimensional television. That’s for easy collapsing the realtor said. The whole house can fold up into this suitcase—he held up a pink suitcase—which most people find extremely convenient.

The fridge door can open the realtor said, opening and closing the door several times. And your oven comes with a roast chicken already cooked.

It looks delicious I lied.

Yes, it does he agreed. The house comes with wine glasses but no actual wine, of course.

Of course.

Into the bedroom there was a walk-in closet with tiny hangers and a vinyl bed that folded down from the wall. A cat sat unmoving on the bed.

I’m allergic to cats I said.

Oh, you won’t be allergic to this one he said.

As we stood there one of the vinyl walls started to buckle and he pushed it back into place.

The best part about this house are the amenities he says, taking me outside to the carport and a pink Cadillac. The car comes with the house.

Wow, that is a perk, I say.

Yes it is. You may be asked to sell some Mary Kay skin care products, but I think you’ll find that the moisturizer is great.

Yes, I’m sure it is.

Hold on he says, checking his phone. I need to take this.

While he steps to the corner where the two vinyl walls meet, I look in the closet. A nurse’s uniform, a tennis outfit. A pink ball gown.

Good news he says, I’ve been authorized to throw in the Barbie ice cream maker—it makes real ice cream and other frozen treats.

Hmmm.

And the Barbie helicopter and landing pad.

Well I have to be honest—it wasn’t quite what I had in mind, I said. I was thinking of a tiny house made of wood or something. You know, like a tiny real house. Like they have on tv.

Oh you won’t see a house like this on tv, he agrees. And actually, you won’t find another house like this in the entire state—most of them have been recalled.

Okay, let me think about it.

Don’t take too long he says. A deal like this won’t last forever.

tiny house

The Morning After

The Morning After

by Nancy Stohlman

morning after      The last thing I heard before I went to bed the night of Super Tuesday was Hillary Clinton on the television warning Democrats –“a vote for Bernie is a vote for Trump. If you go to bed with Bernie you are going to wake up with Trump”.

Which I assumed to be a metaphor, of course.

I was not prepared for Donald Trump’s warm, slightly reddened body laying next to me when I woke up this morning. He was making some sort of half wheeze, half snore, and his hair was lying on my extra pillow like an errant wave haphazardly crashed upon the wrong sea.

I looked around for my clothes (oh thank god, they are on) and started to creep out quietly from the far side of the bed when Donald Trump, awakened by the movement, rolled over and caught the waistband of my pajamas playfully. Come back here he said, engulfing me in a sweaty, overly warm spooning embrace, his morning breath on the back of my neck.

Apparently I’m now dating Donald Trump.

How did this happen? I vaguely remember the last night’s caucus, the cafeteria of the local high school filled with tables and old ladies yelling out precinct numbers, bewildered people meeting their neighbors for the first time, the Bernies at one end of the table, the Hillarys at the other…

Over breakfast Donald Trump reads the paper, drinks his coffee with three lumps of sugar and half a cup of cream, eats a bear claw. After breakfast Donald Trump wants to take me to the amusement park. I can tell he’s trying to be romantic, even though he is still wearing a suit and tie and we are followed by a camera crew. You’re beautiful he says. Isn’t she beautiful he asks one of the bodyguards. Buy her an ice cream or something. Do you like ice cream? he asks, not waiting for the answer. Get her a banana split with an extra banana—do they still have those? he says, dragging me to the Wild Chipmunk roller coaster. Here, you like roller coasters, right? She’s beautiful, take her picture.

The camera crew takes my picture and I’m hoping no one recognizes me. Donald Trump’s talking to the ticket taker at the merry-go-round—what do you mean I have to buy tickets? I have dollars, see, do-llars. Habla Ingles? Dollars aren’t good enough for a carousel ride these days? Where’s your manager?

The ticket taker waves us through and Donald Trump tucks his arm through mine and I smell the aftershave that I won’t be able to stop smelling for the rest of the day. Hey, I got you a present. You like presents, right? he says, handing me a giant purple stuffed giraffe. I don’t ride those things myself, I get indigestion he says as I climb onto a waiting horse, waving as I disappear.

 

“The Fortune Teller”

Originally published in Flash Frontier. Read original here

by Nancy Stohlman

The Fortune Teller

The fortune teller looked at my hands, smoothed them onto the table. You lost something, she said.

Yes, I said. I want to get it back.

But you can’t get it back, you know that.

That’s not true. Don’t say that, I said. That’s why I’m here.

Look, she said, pointing to the fleshy part on the outside of my palm. It’s gone. I don’t decide these things but I’m telling you what I see.
So what do I do now?

She patted my hand. It’s just part of your story, now, she said.

fortune teller

 

The Vixen Scream now available!

vixen cover final
The Vixen Scream and Other Bible Stories
(Pure Slush Press, 2014)
“Hilarious, irreverent, twisted, bawdy, brilliant – these short shorts by Nancy Stohlman feel like a series of off-kilter encounters with the strangest characters you swear you’ve met before in a previous, more interesting lifetime. With sly humor and daring, Stohlman weaves tiny tales reminiscent of Etgar Keret, but with her own inimitable stamp. The Vixen Scream and other Bible Stories is an amazing collection. Do not deny yourself the pleasure of reading it.” – Kathy Fish, author of ‘Together We Can Bury It’

“The Vixen Scream is a collection of compelling and strikingly original stories – an imagination functioning at full throttle. Nancy Stohlman is a word-alchemist, and here is her book of wonders!” – Robert Scotellaro, author of ‘Measuring the Distance’

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Two Micro Fictions by Nancy Stohlman

indexIndentured

“How much are you getting paid to do this?” he asks.

“Enough to pay off my student loans,” I answer, as he begins to tattoo the Coca-Cola logo across my face.

Published in Blink Ink

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True Tales From Therapy #5

Though there was absolutely no correlation between seeing a new therapist, and that therapist killing himself with a shotgun the following week, Mr. G couldn’t help wonder, for just a fleeting second, if his wife’s claim that everyone was sick of listening to him whine about his problems had some validity.

Published in Right Hand Pointing