dalecoz (dalecoz) wrote,

Experiment-Flash Fiction: Two Letters In A Fireproof Box

Dear Martin:

I have a confession to make.  Remember the time you came home and thought you saw my car outside, but went in and your wife denied that I had been there.  I feel a little guilty about that, especially since I gave her syphilis, which you got and since you didn't get it diagnosed in time it ate enough of your brain that you're now permanently incarcerated in the state mental hospital for your own good.  I did get my dose diagnosed and it was not antibiotic resistant, so I'm fine.  Your wife is okay too.

As I said, I feel a little guilty since we were best friends and all, but your wife is really good in bed, and you've been around me long enough to know that good in bed consistently trumps conscience in my case.  I'm not a bad friend.  I'm just a bad friend to let be around your wife.  You should have known that, so it's all really your fault in a way.

In any case, we still celebrate your birthdays with champagne and an exchange of bodily fluids.  She's gotten over the whole STD thing and gets quite lonely on most holidays without male companionship, so I kindly oblige her.  It's the least a friend can do.

Oh, by the way, your son and daughter are both mine, just in case you were wondering.  I can set your mind at ease in that regard.  Your savings are safely in my name now, so you can rest easy about that too.  I do have a bit of bad news.  I had to have your dog put down.  He never liked having me around, so it just didn't work out.

Oh, and your lovingly restored 57 Chevy?  I'm sorry to say I wrapped that around a telephone poll.  I was kissing your wife at the time.  I'm sure you'll be happy to hear that neither of us were hurt.  Your mom and dad were in the back seat when the wreck occurred, and I'm sorry to say that they were thrown from the car and never woke up from their comas.  I do feel bad about that.  On the bright side, the police ruled it an accident and the insurance company paid up, so financially things were a wash.

There is another upside to this.  Your wife inherited everything and we are currently living in the house you grew up in, the one that has been in your family for five generations.  It's a nice place, but a developer offered us a couple of million for it.  He is going to tear it down and put in a mini-mall.  I'm sure you'll understand.

Let's see.  Is there anything else?  No, I guess not.  Confession is good for the soul, but I suppose I probably shouldn't actually send you this letter.  You might get agitated.  I'll just leave it in the fireproof safe for a decent interval, then burn it.  I did mention that I was sorry about the syphilis, didn't I?

Your best friend.
Dear James:

I escaped.


By the way, I posted this as part of a multi-author blog hop. Links to the other authors and their stories follow.

Katharina Gerlach: Canned Food

Rabia Gale: Spark

K. A. Petentler: The Twisted Tale of Isabel

Shana Blueming: Paper & Glue

Amy Keeley: To Be Prepared For Chocolate

Cherie "Jade" Arbuckle: After I Died

Karen Lynn: The Family Book

Angela Wooldridge: An Alternative to Frog

Thea van Diepen: Are You Sure It's That Way?

Paula de Carvalho: Body Double

Kris Bowser: Tantrums

Virginia McClain: Rakko's Storm

Grace Robinette: Georg Grembl

Elizabeth McCleary: The Door

Dale Cozort: Two Letters In A Fireproof Box
Tags: writing

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