DTW’s Flash Fiction


Shortest Memoir Ever by Douglas Thomas Wallace

I was once asked to write a memoir on how cool I was. It was the shortest memoir ever.


DEATH for Breakfast by Douglas Thomas Wallace


He sat down at the breakfast table, grabbed his spoon and stared DEATH in the face. His eyes drifted off into the white liquid in the bowl. DEATH floated inches from his eyes.


I’m too young for this crap, he thought as he snapped himself out of his trance.
“Hon!” he yelled. “Don’t ever buy Alphabet Cereal again.”


Better Late Than Never by Douglas Thomas Wallace


“Hurry up will you?” the husband said waiting for his wife’s makeup to be applied. “Everyone will be here soon.”


He looked down at the wooden box and fingered the white velvet lining.


“I always said she would be late to her own funeral,” the man said to the mortician, “and now she’s not around to say I told you so.”



Mind Your Manners by Douglas Thomas Wallace


I’m from the Midwest. Missouri to be exact. We’re Mid-Western with Southern tendencies. Yes, some people marry their cousins here, or at least have played around with’em a little. But besides incest, in Missouri we also are polite and have manners.


But you know what I hate about having manners? When people take advantage of it. Like when you hold the door open for a lady. Just like you always would, it’s just second nature. But then her husband and full-grown son just follow right behind her, not even taking the door. Then all of a sudden six more people come walking out and you’re stuck there. You don’t want to let the door slam in their face, but you’re thinking to yourself, God Damn it! I’m not the fucking Wal-Mart greeter! So you let the door go and it slams in some lady’s face. Then she’s looking at you like, “Thanks, Asshole!”


I blame it all on my mother. She’s the one who taught me I’m supposed to do these things, that there’s some kind of secret code that real men are supposed to live by. This secret code’s like a dying language, like Latin or Gaelic, or something. Oh sure, some people know it but for the most part the kids think it’s outdated and useless, “Nice to know but when are you ever going to use it in real life?” kind of thing.


So for the few who still know this secret code…pssst…the password is, “Thank You.” No praise or blowjob required. Just a thank you will be sufficient.


But for you—the rest of the world who this secret code goes unnoticed, the occasional, “Thanks asshole,” will suffice.


Kustom Kulture: A Tribute to Robert Williams, Von Dutch and Big Daddy Roth


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