FLASH FICTION SERIES – FOWC/RDP/SoCS/FSS #203

A suburban saga of secrets, sequins, and sabotage.

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Episode 1:

The Mayor, the Kimono, and Capote’s Forbidden Love

The text the mayor received simply read, “I know what you buried, and it wasn’t just a time capsule.”
He dropped his spoon into his cereal with a neutral thunk and slowly looked toward the back garden, where the freshly disturbed earth sat like a guilty secret under a patchy rhododendron. He took a deep breath and tugged at the collar of his robe—not the pink kimono, no, that one was currently six feet under with a copy of Mamma Mia! Live at the Greek in a glittery DVD case.

He clutched his phone with one hand and his cereal tube with the other. The mayor didn’t own bowls. Too vulnerable. Too open. Like a confession with handles.

Across the hedges, Myrtle McKlusky—seventy-nine, semi-retired, fully judgmental—was watching him from her sunroom. She sat in her recliner like a falcon in a floral nightgown, sipping from a pint glass of prune juice and fanning her three Chinese Crested dogs, each trembling with a different neurosis.

The largest, Capote, was vibrating like an old blender. He had recently discovered his feelings for Misty, Myrtle’s black Chow, and now stared out the window with the unrelenting passion of a Tennessee Williams heroine.

Capote had needs.

The mayor knew Myrtle had seen him. She always did. She had binoculars shaped like opera glasses and judgment shaped like artillery. He had tried to be discreet, but it’s hard to bury shame quietly when you’re panting in crocs and elbow-deep in mulch.

The kimono was silk. It had a peacock on the back. A punt of brandy had been involved.

And now someone was taunting him.

He stormed out of his house in cargo shorts and a tank top that said “Hot Dogs Over Handguns,” and made a beeline for Myrtle’s porch. She met him at the screen door, holding her smallest dog, Pontius—Pont for short—who barked like he was doing Shakespeare.

“Spying again, Myrtle?” the mayor growled, wiping sweat from his forehead and trying not to pant.

Myrtle narrowed her eyes behind rhinestone bifocals. “I would hardly call ‘having working eyes’ a crime.”

“That text wasn’t funny.”

“I didn’t say it was,” she said coolly. “Capote typed it. He’s quite dexterous. Especially since he caught your Misty presenting.”

The mayor’s eyes widened. “That’s my dog.”

“And that’s my Capote,” Myrtle said, lifting him proudly like a neurotic Simba. “And he’s in love.”

“She’s fixed.”

“So is he. Love finds a way.”

The mayor clenched his fists. “Call off your pervert dog or I swear, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Myrtle leaned forward, dangerous now. “Threaten three hairless angels with names from the Harlem Renaissance? Do it, Mayor. The HOA already wants your head after that incident with the inflatable disco duck.”

He froze.

She smiled.

“You wore the kimono to Dancing with Myself, didn’t you?”

Silence.

“And you did the full choreography. With backup. Solo.”

He turned and stormed away, sweat rolling down his temple, heart pounding, ears pent up with the ghost of Billy Idol.

Capote licked the glass longingly as Misty rolled in a pile of mulch. Somewhere, a wind blew through the garden. Somewhere, a love story had just begun.

And under the rhododendron, a peacock shimmered in the dirt, waiting.

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