Flashing My Shorts by Sal Buttaci is a collection of 164 flash-fiction stories that runs the gamut from humor to horror with everything in between. These quick but thought-out writes have become quite popular today. They tend to accommodate readers on the go.
Short fiction at its best
Drawing on his dry sense of humor and a deep sense of irony, Salvatore Buttaci has delivered a book of sparkling gems. These quick stories make us laugh, think, and at times cry. They take us to the core of reality and at other times to the wonders of fantasy. This is a book that I would highly recommend to the reader who enjoys the art of flash fiction and to the reader who likes a quick laugh.
--Kenneth Weene author of Widow's Walk
At the Miramar Café
Till dark I riveted my eyes on Maria and the dream-like flair of her red skirt as she tangoed with Carlos. Accompanying my pounding heart were the whining pangs in my belly from all the crisp-skinned sardines and the fresh oysters I had ingested beyond count.
Miramar Café was a haunt of mine since first I saw Maria and though we so far met, something in me was certain if I could not somehow pry her from the clutches of suave and debonair Carlos very soon, I would go tango-mad, be driven perhaps
to unleash my alter ego, a not-so-amicable American from Paducah, Kentucky.
I poured the rest of my Malbec, tossing the wine down as if it were Kentucky scotch, and then stood slowly to my wobbly feet.
“Garçon!” I called. My waiter lifted the corner of his thin lip the way folks do when they’re exasperated; I knew he preferred ‘Señor,’ but if I could summon the waiters in Paducah with ‘Garçon,’ sure as hell some faggy oil-haired Buenos Aires pretty boy could skip to the loo and respond to any name I damn well chose.
“Si, Señor, more wine?”
I nodded, sat down again, gave him back my own sneering lip. When he asked if the clean plate of sardines and oysters needed replenishing, I let my mouth crumble into a drunk man’s frown, my heavy head falling chin to chest for a sleep-hungry moment.
When I looked up, Garçon was swishing towards the bar, Maria and Carlos had vanished, and San Cristóbal was just a barrio of loud diners and foul-mouthed drinkers, so I threw down an undeserved tip of eight pesos and headed out the door pretending Maria was tugging my arm towards the Hotel San Cristobal.
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