Lost in Translation

My first story for The Angry Hourglass in quite some time is based on prompt below and received runner up. I tried a little something different this time, playing with language as I did (The first half of the story uses slang from the 1920s.)

photo courtesy Ashwin Rao
photo courtesy Ashwin Rao

Even an alibi full of her favorites and more than a spoonful of applesauce couldn’t convince my air-tight fire alarm to button shine while everyone else gave the knee. My blue serge just stood there, pulled her fan to her face and the door on the bank.

Charlie with his cheaters screamed “Get hot! Get hot!” as his keen little floorflusher in her glorious regalia and lamp posts wrestled to the whangdoodle. I was more than ready to blouse the blow.

I ain’t normally a billboard, let alone a sharpshooter, but that night I had all the prunes. I’d gandered myself up and took her to the finest nosebaggery before I, already goofy after our first date, asked her to drag a sock.

She’d said yes and smiled, the color on her lips as pronounced as her hips. “Well ain’t that the monkey’s eyebrows!” I’d said and ran outside to call for a ten cent box.

I followed her eyes and understood why she overdosed on the shellac.

A ten minute bust loomed with his nut cracker.

“My ex.”

—-

Even a box of chocolates full of her favorites and more than enough flattery couldn’t convince my date, a recent divorcee, to dance close while everyone else danced cheek to cheek. My sweetheart just stood there, pulled her fan to her face. There’d be no kissing or petting tonight.

A man with a moustache and glasses encouraged his attractive, insatiable, flamboyantly dressed and ostentatiously bejeweled girlfriend as she shimmied to the jazz. I was more than ready to leave the dance.

I’m not normally a flashy man, let alone one who spends a lot, but that night I had all my money. I’d dressed myself up and took her to the finest restaurant before I, already in love after our first date, asked her to dance.

She’d said yes and smiled, the color on her lips as pronounced as her hips. “We’ll isn’t that great!” I’d said and ran outside to call for a cab.

I followed her eyes and understood why she wore too much makeup.

An exceptionally tough prize fighter stood there with his nightstick.

“My ex.”


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