Viral

Viral

by

Gary V. Powell

“Look,” Allison explains. “You hum a tune into the mic, the app recommends the best genre, orchestrates your tune, and creates lyrics.”

“How’s that possible?” As if I care. What I’m really interested in are her full red lips and the luxurious curve of her bottom when she leans over to show me the screen on her smart phone.

“Fuck if I know. But there’s more to it. The app uploads your song to CoolTunes where people can buy and download it. Royalties are automatically credited to your Paypal account.”

 I like a woman who uses the “F” word. It suggests possibilities that transcend the walls of this office where we work.

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Physical

Physical

by

Gary V. Powell

Dr. Fox’s face was smooth. “You’re here for the Big Six Oh.”

Wilson nodded. “That’s right.”

The doc leafed through the file. “Cholesterol’s good. You’ve lost weight, and your blood pressure’s down. Liver function’s fine.”

Wilson smiled. He could continue to down that bottle of wine every night.

“Lay back,” the doc said.

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Fleur de Sel

Fleur de Sel

by

Gary V. Powell

Sandra stands at my shoulder, fresh from work in a tight skirt. We’ve got an hour before she heads home to her husband.

“You made your own caramel?” she asks.

I should have been working, but I’d rather cook.

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Jack's

Jack's

by

Gary V. Powell

Me and the other old guys come for lunch at Jack's on Fridays. It's touted as a gourmet pub, but there's no gourmet here unless you consider fish tacos with tazicki sauce gourmet. It's basically a sports bar with decent food. On Fridays, drinks are two for one starting at noon. Plus, on Fridays, the girls wear their lowest cut tops and shortest Daisy Dukes.

They know their audience

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Whole Life

Whole Life

by

Gary V. Powell

(This story was originially published at DOGZPLOTZ Flash Fiction)

In 1987, we sold life insurance. After selling family and friends and the few easy marks they referred us to, we cold-called, my partner Mahoney and me. We stalked the chiseled streets of Chicago, coked-up predators in wool-blend suits.

We overcame objections: You don’t mind your wife whoring herself out after you’re gone? We closed with: No one plans to die, but you can plan for death. We carved the hearts of guys with mahogany desks and suburban aspirations.

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