FLASH FICTION SERIES

A suburban saga of secrets, sequins, and sabotage

Episode 2:

Capote’s Gambit

The next morning, Myrtle’s voice pierced the cul-de-sac like a foghorn with unresolved trauma.

“He’s three-legged, Gerald!”

The mayor stopped mid-prune, trowel frozen above a wilting azalea.

“Capote is a disabled romantic, not a threat! You try balancing courtship on a tripod!”

Gerald—the mayor, though the title now felt more like a technicality than an achievement—turned around slowly. Myrtle was in her driveway wearing orthopedic sandals and a shirt that said Let Love Limp. Capote stood proudly beside her, his one front leg planted like a noble tent pole, the other side bare as truth.

Capote barked once. A dramatic, Shakespearean “AY!” if ever there was one.

“I’m not arguing with a dog, Myrtle.”

“You’re arguing with a dream, Gerald! A dream that hops.”

Gerald sighed. “This is not about Capote’s leg. Or Misty’s…whatever Misty’s going through. This is about you blackmailing me with the kimono.”

Myrtle stepped forward. Pont and Pint, the other two Cresteds, flanked her like fleshy gremlins.

“You mean the bold pink kimono with the satin sash that said ‘Yas Queen Chemistry’ on the back?”

Gerald turned redder than his begonias.

Myrtle continued, undeterred. “The one you punt-kicked into the rhododendron trench like it was evidence from an interpretive crime scene?”

Capote barked again—once, then twice—then hopped forward on his three legs toward Misty, who was sprawled in a sunbeam like an aloof queen. The Chow lifted her head, sniffed, and did absolutely nothing.

Capote lifted one paw in slow motion. Time froze.

Myrtle gasped. “He’s doing the gesture. He saw it on The Lion King!”

“Oh for God’s—”

“Look at him, Gerald. That’s love. Pure, deformed love. Don’t you dare deny him just because you’re ashamed of your weekend show tunes and your precious kimono’s untimely burial!”

Gerald looked at Capote. At Misty. At Myrtle. Then at the patch of dirt behind him. The kimono lay there in silence beneath the earth, like a secret in drag.

His voice came out hoarse. “He deserves… happiness.”

Myrtle nodded solemnly. “We all do.”

“Even three-legged, bug-eyed horndogs?”

“Especially them.”

There was a long pause.

Gerald reached into his garden bag, pulled out a small plastic baggie, and unzipped it. He held it up slowly.

Inside: a single, glitter-covered, rhinestone-stitched sash.

Myrtle gasped again. “You kept the sash.”

“It still smells like applause,” he whispered.

Capote barked. Misty let out a low, rumbling groan. Somewhere, possibly in Myrtle’s house, “Hopelessly Devoted to You” began to play softly from a Bluetooth speaker.

And just like that, the feud was over.

For now.