WRITER @Large with flash BLOG
Tushi Bushi is at it again. Winning the challenge with a big old swarm. I'm sure our hero soldiers are doing great. I just wish that we didn't have to spend all this money on "democracy" for people that didn't want it. Who made us the king of the world? Maybe democracy isn't such a good idea in a tribal or stone-age community.

I can't believe the gall of the uglies. The Paris-it's all about me syndrom for the Tushi Bushi croneys.

flash fiction:

The Curtain Falls
By
RD Larson

Slowly as the lights came up, the woman in center stage began to move, her arms a white as the necks of swans. Her breasts swung free and her triangle of dark hair gave the viewer pause. From the dusty floor, she rose first to her knees, her hair falling backward over her buttocks as she leaned toward the red velvet curtain that covered backstage.

The black hair glistened like dark wings of a nighthawk. Her eyes stayed closed, hearing some silent music as she swayed rhythmically forward and backward. Then her legs split and she slid backwards, slowly drawing up her knees to make a peak, her thighs meeting in the center to hide her private self.

She bared her teeth as she rolled over and up into a crouch to face the nearly empty theater. Her eyes flew open. Their black depths glared with madness and fear. As she whirled to her feet, she began to spin in slow circles.

The woman spun faster and faster while the man in the heavy coat watched. Twirling as though she were a flame drawn up by a draft, the woman’s hair spun out free. A black wave of wonder that concealed and revealed much. Faster she spun. Faster still.

As the shot rang out, the woman was already falling into the orchestra pit. As she landed her hands reached the piano, and in a single movement fired the .38 straight into the face of her tormentor.
end

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