#fridayflash: Infamy

By Lily Mulholland

You had always wanted to be famous. At thirty-seven, with two kids and stretch marks, you thought you’d missed your chance. That was until a chance incident made you the most famous woman in the world in the short space of forty-eight hours.

What had started as a headline beloved by sub-editors of newspapers quickly became the story of the year, with interview requests rolling in from around the country. As exponents of new media awoke to their multiple news feeds, you started receiving calls from all over Europe, and, several hours later, the United States, Canada, and a ragtag bunch of South American countries. You even took a call from a news outlet in Karachi. You were big news on the sub-continent! Fortunately your melting mobile phone was saved by a call from Max Wiltshire, mega-PR to the stars. He offered to take you on for the special cut-rate fee of twenty per cent of your earnings. You were clearly out of your depth and Max offered to handle everything on your behalf. Although you later discovered his fee structure was reprehensible, you were nonetheless pleased to hand over your media responsibilities to someone of his vast experience, and girth.

You shudder at the mention of body shape. That’s what started this media hurricane. You were walking along the street on one of your rare days away from the kids, swinging your shopping bags containing loot from an even rarer retail therapy session when bammo! Looming before you was a man wider than he was tall, his belly bulging against the yellow cotton of his polo shirt, attempting a daring escape. This was a belly that moved to its own rhythm; a tummy that could influence tides. As he lumbered closer, you saw it. He had an outtie. You were swept away with the moment and before you could stop yourself your free hand reached out, forefinger extended and you poked that protruding belly button.

The man’s face registered shock and surprise for the nanosecond of time that hung suspended between you both before he exploded. Fleshy shrapnel coated you, your shopping bags, the pavement and buildings to the left of you. The duco of cars parked against the curb would never be the same again. And neither would you, forever more known as the Belly Button Bomber. You always wanted to be famous.

#fridayflash: Dog's best friend

By Lily Mulholland

Max headed into the bar. Rocky was already there, three sheets to the wind. Max nodded to the bartender, who knew to send down two of the finest. He poured the shots and whizzed the glasses down the well polished bar. It was a neat trick. One glass stopped in front of Max, the other in front of Rocky.

‘Max,’ grunted Rocky in greeting.

Max saluted his friend with the glass before downing its contents and signalling for another.

‘Wassup?’ asked Rocky.

‘Lemme just get this into me. I need it after the day I’ve had.’ Max slugged the second shot and slumped down on the barstool next to Rocky.

Rocky raised an expectant eyebrow.

‘Got the vet’s bill today.’

‘And?’

‘Five hundred. For a freaking teeth clean.’

‘Jaysus. That’s more than my kid’s orthodontist’s bill.’

‘Aint that the truth.’

Max signalled for another round.

‘Yeah, and that isn't the worst of it. Vet tells me that I’ll have to bring him in twice a year for a teeth clean – that’s ten thousand over ten years! I should’ve got me some of that pet insurance.’

‘Jaysus.’

Max and Rocky stared at the TV above the bar.

‘Who’s winning?’ asked Max.

‘Dunno.’

‘And,’ continued Max, ‘the vet tells me that I’m likely to have to fork out for a full tooth extraction after about ten years. That’s another three freakin’ thousand.’

‘Jaysus mate. Is that normal?’ asked Rocky, dragging his attention from the game.

‘Yeah, the vet says it’s normal with this breed.’

‘Shoulda got yerself a smaller pet. Like a goldfish. They don’t have nearly as many problems,’ said Rocky, with just a dash of irony.

‘Yeah, I reckon I was sold a pup.’

‘You gonna get it put down?’

‘What’ll I tell the kids?’

‘That it’s gawn to live on a farm?’

‘That oldie. Don’t know if they’d go for it. They know humans were kicked off their farms after the Overthrow.’

‘Damn. They teach kids too much at puppy school these days,’ said Rocky.

‘Yeah, not like the good old days where all we had to worry about was chasing balls and catching frisbees.’

‘Ah well, dogs rule the world now. We’d better get used to the responsibility, I spose.’

Rocky checked his watch.

‘Well the missus will be wondering where I am. Best head off. It’s bath night. My job to make sure the kids haven’t picked up any fleas at school this week. There’s been an outbreak apparently.’

‘Righto mate. Give the missus a sniff for me. Tell her Princess says hi and we’ll see you on the weekend.’

‘Save a snag for me,’ said Rocky as he shrugged on his leather coat and padded out the door.