Trais Pearson, PhD
Flash Fiction
The Groucho of Garden City
[Original submission to NYC Midnight's 250-word Microfiction Challenge (2023)]
Photo by Ajay Suresh. Used under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.
“This seat taken?” he asked in a gravelly slur.
“Uh, no,” she replied. Looking up from her phone, she saw a tall man draped from shoulder to shin in a trench coat, a Nietzschean moustache and Groucho glasses perched above the popped collar, bowler hat atop his head.
“Please, by all means.” She uncrossed her legs, suppressing a laugh.
With a “Thank you” he folded himself at the knees and waist into the open seat, placing the hat in his lap. She spotted a blue feather tucked in the side knot.
“So, have you ever been seduced on a train?” he asked, with practiced profundity.
“I beg your pardon,” she gasped.
“I said, have you ever been to Toulouse, in Spain?”
“I’m pretty sure Toulouse is in France.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, Toulouse is definitely in France. But no, I’ve never been.”
“Hmm.”
“Is that all you’ve got? Let’s start over. Is that a blue jay feather in your hat?”
“I believe it is.”
“Did you find it yourself, or did it come with the costume?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Madame.”
“Okay, I’ll play along. But who’s got the kids?”
“Kids? There’s no way a woman with a figure like yours could have kids!”
“Come on, Jay, be serious for a second.”
“Who’s Jay? My dear lady, I’m a tall, dark, and handsome stranger who happens to be riding the 5:29 express to Garden City.”
“Well, I’m just a poor, lonely, neglected housewife from Garden City.”
One Tale of Newt
[Original submission to NYC Midnight's 250-word Microfiction Challenge, Round #2 (2024)]
Photo by sethoscope (https://www.flickr.com/photos/57845051@N00/3125442099). Used under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.
“Look, I don’t like it any better than you,” she said to the empty, smoke-filled room as shadows from the hearth danced across the earthen walls.
Removing her conical black hat, she wiped sweat from her brow with the collapsed peak and carefully wrung a few drops into the cauldron boiling in the hearth.
“See for yourself. It says right here: One tail of newt of Fennario."
From behind a cluttered shelf, a salmon colored salamander whipped its tail sending glass jars crashing to the floor onto a growing pile of glass shards and inscrutable curios.
“Oh, come on now—please stop that!
"Look, if I had any other option...
A spurt of liquid shot into the cauldron from the ceiling.
“Urine? Oh please, urine is no substitute—as you well know.
“It’s right there under wool of bat, which I am dangerously low on thanks to your little tantrum!
“Yes, you have been a loyal companion.
“The very hardest of times.
“Of course they hated me. I was evil!
“But I was! I was positively wicked! I poisoned the princess, remember?
“Please! Those poor people will be torn limb from limb and eaten alive!
“Of course, being boiled in a cauldron is no picnic. But it’s nothing compared to what will happen to those villagers if I don’t stop that hoard of ogres!
“I’ll make it as painless as possible, I promise.
“Anyway, your tail will grow back! Just be glad the recipe doesn’t call for an eye!”