Three Flash Fiction Pieces by Gabor G Gyukics

 

rather be a night shift clerk in the post office...

no drink, no nothing, no red stripe, no beer from milwaukee, no jazz from new orleans, no friends if you ever had one to count on, not even a barfly, only delirium as you stare at the wall that over time becomes several 16-inch television sets showing different programs and you are not capable of turning them off, no switch no remote control, only your will, but that’s not enough after all it was your brain that turned all of them on at the same time, it is no dream no hallucination it is reality but only for you, only you can see them and no one else but you, they are audible too, you can see and hear them just the same, the actors the anchors the commercials the movies the soaps the beats on a reality show, the games, everything that goes on, what is weird though that what you read in the paper during one of your clear moments in the morning is suddenly being broadcast on every television channel, every article every word is being shown in every country, every one watches the same damn programs, the only difference is that they are able to turn off their TV sets, not only that, but they can switch from one channel to another while you cannot until you start screaming and that is the time when two burly male nurses walk in, you want to fight them with your rigid fists and bare knuckles like in the olden times in front of some bar, but these guys easily punch you out and give you a shot that knocks you out and now the TV sets are off and you are falling down into an abyss without a parachute and there is not even one friendly giant to catch you before you hit the bottom, if there is one. 

When you get to your senses you have no clue where you are, what you notice is that you are tied to a solid narrow metal bed, the walls around you painted goose shit green, your throat is dry, your tongue is sawdust, you got no beer handy, your eyes are glued with goo yet as soon as you blink the TV sets are visible again showing the same god damn programs over and over again on all of the four surrounding walls, on the floor, on the ceiling too, among them a beer commercial from st. louis you open your mouth trying to get some drops when you feel your ass start itching because the male nurse didn’t wipe it shit clean, but you are not mad at him, you are thinking of your last lady who left you to screw another guy because you ran out of wild turkey that you never even liked

 

Flying Trapeze Clubs

A usual night on the New York subway. Almost the same crowd every time, yet new faces show here and there. One emerges. A tall, lean, well-dressed black man with whiskers on his chin. Obviously, he plans to throw himself under the commuting spotlight. Everyone is waiting, staring at him. He takes his time, smoothens his trousers then he goes off. “Ladies and Gentlemen. This is not the ten o'clock A train, this is a moving condominium where I'm hiding from my wife. She lives in South Carolina. She’s so fat I walk around her, and I can't find my way back. It means I'm not homeless. I'm lost. Man, I'm so broke I can't pay attention.” It seems he timed it; the train stops, he gets off and disappears. Everyone's teeth are hanging out of their mouths. He got what he begged for and escaped with an encore.

a phone call from the rez

In the spring of 2011, I had the privilege to visit Jim Northrup in the Fond du Lac Indian Reservation where he lived with his family on Northrup Road. One of the reasons for my visit was to ask him to allow me to translate his poems to Hungarian and to find Adrian Louis for me because I simply had no luck getting his address from any source I had, which was not much. Jim looked at me saying, okay, let’s call him. “You know his number?” “Of course, I do, I’m your wise Anishinaabe elder.” So, he dialed a number and when Adrian picked up the other end, they started a funny conversation. Finally, Jim said. “Hey, Adrian, would you wanna talk to your Hungarian translator?” “I certainly would, -Adrian said, but I ain’t going to call him in Hungary.” “You don’t have to; he is standing right next to me.” Adrian laughed. “Yeah, right, very funny joke by good old Jim, the jester.” Then Jim handed me the receiver. “Good evening, Mr. Louis, I’m Gabor from Hungary.” I heard a short silence then a gasp and after that Adrian started laughing. “Had no idea Hungarians were allowed to enter Indian reservations, but since you’re there, I’ll send some poems your way.”

By Gabor G Gyukics 

One Poem by Antonia Alexandra Klimenko

 

For Openers 

 

Hello    again 

my friend 

I’m still here-- 

still waving a fond farewell 

after we  

like smoke in the distance  

have already left the station 

 

How to say goodbye 

Is the part  

that's never easy 

Is the art 

of staying open 

even     

as you recede 

into the tunnel--

that black hole 

of space 

 

There are many holes 

In my story-- 

ones i have dug for myself 

(and have left out altogether) 

ones so deep 

I am still trying  

to find my way      back 

In the dark 

 

How i long to be  

like a flower 

to burst forth 

Into the light 

to unfold 

to peel back  

each moment 

(yet another threshold) 

another horizon) 

slowly   mindfully 

to open myself up 

to each day--  

every day-- 

a brand new Spring 

 

Instead 

my mind 

opens and closes 

like a window  

stuck in winter 

like a grave 

i have crawled  

In and out of 

sunken into 

too often 

for who knows  

how long? 

 

My eyes    

these dry empty sockets 

will open  

again   and again 

like wounds 

gushing  

with blood     

with technicolor dreams  

bursting 

onto sidewalks 

(in between the cracks) 

bursting 

Into hospital and hotel rooms 

and yes 

train stations 

dragging all my old baggage 

sometimes never 

but always 

gushing into you 

 

Even at the very end 

there is that beginning 

that opening  

that    

see you on the other side 

that comes all too soon  

 

Every day 

we open ourselves 

to the mystery of the Gift    

slowly unfolding   

the life we come wrapped in 

Every day 

I tear at the wrapping 

I untie the knots 

I open myself  

to a world 

with 

and   without you 

 

Of course 

whenever 

I feel empty 

If ever 

I find  

the moment  

wanting 

Something  Holy 

Someone  Holy   

fills my life 

with rain or tears 

and yet   again 

that damn gushing wound  

that budding new promise 

that bursts like a miracle 

that sings its little heart out 

 

Hello   again 

it says 

here  I  am 

 

Are you 

still 

There?

  

Antonia Alexandra Klimenko was first introduced on the BBC and to the literary world by the legendary James Meary Tambimuttu of Poetry London–-publisher of T.S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas, Henry Miller and Bob Dylan, to name a few.  After his death, it was his friend, the late great Kathleen Raine, who took an interest in her writing and encouraged her to publish.  

A nominee for the Pushcart Prize, The Best of the Net, and a former San Francisco Poetry Slam Champion, she is widely published. She has been a featured guest at Shakespeare & Company, on a number of occasions, as well as performed or read in other literary venues in the City of Light and elsewhere. Her work has appeared in (among others) XXI Century World Literature (in which she represents France), Jazz and Literature and Maintenant : Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and Art archived at New York’s Museum of Modern Art. She is the recipient of two grants: one from Poets in Need, of which Michael (100 Thousand Poets for Change) Rothenberg is a co-founder; the second—the 2018 Generosity Award bestowed on her by Kathleen Spivack and Joseph Murray for her outstanding service to international writers through SpokenWord Paris where she is Poet in Residence. She is also Writer/Poet in Residence at The Creative Process.

 

Her selected poems On the Way to Invisible was recently published by The Opiate Books and is now available. Her selected poems The Looking Glass is forthcoming in 2026.

Four Poems by Michał Kaczmarek

The boy 

 

mature enough to feel 

but not mature enough  

to take the blows 

when alcohol causes grudges 

against the wife who is your mother 

and against you when you say 

using your young imperfect tongue 

daddy please 

daddy please 

 

an example of perfidy 

a four-year-old who has no idea 

how to use cynicism to defend 

look at you 

your father didn’t give a bloody penny 

 

no motion 

dripping saliva  

a pathetic picture of being powerless 

the snail crushed on purpose 

the legs torn out of insects 

give hope that he will improve 

his methods of fighting off aggression 

and will become one of us 

 

 

The most popular 

 

the girl jumps out the window 

on the tenth floor 

jeans 

a light sweater 

white sneakers 

well groomed hair 

 

I can see as much 

in an amateur video 

different is the picture of deep sadness 

when she passes her waste in the bed 

does not take care of the appearance 

stares at the wall 

 

a usual day 

breakfast 

make-up 

a radio audition 

 

the man who weighed the cabbage 

changes paper in the cash register 

a bus splashed the woman 

who greeted her yesterday 

 

a failed attempt  

Peter help 

I won’t hold it 

 

she climbs  

falls 

climbs again 

comes off 

 

the video ends 

with scream 

a vague image 

 

a thirteen-year-old boy 

in an empty flat and dim light 

touches the cold 

 

 

The youngest life 

 

it threw teddy bears all over the room 

without any reason but persistently 

it was carrying the toys form one place to another 

from the pram to the coffee table 

from the coffee table to the chest of drawers 

 

it was standing on its legs 

falling on its bottom 

showing its teeth 

 

removing the bowel is not a disaster 

you’ll have a bag 

you’ll be fine 

 

the death too weak to be fulfilled 

was looking through the window 

it was snowing 

 

the youngest life saw her 

gasped 

put its hands up 

and focused on the interactive board 

with a handle a wire a plug in a socket 

 

 

Mathematics 

 

we were lucky 

we arrived ten minutes after it happened 

 

the fate did not want to involve  

anyone more than required 

by the multiplication table  

 

the firefighters looked vague from a distance 

they gave us instructions 

which did not make us change our plans 

we passed 

 

mathematics was helpless 

we did not feel guilty 

about the excessive number of beneficial circumstances 

 

we survived 

like blind animals 

touched by a noun 

but an abstract noun

Michał Kaczmarek (1986) was born and raised in Głogów, Poland. He graduated from the University of Wrocław (Faculty of Philology, English Department). He is an office worker and a tutor. His poems have been published in Polish literary magazines such as Afront, artPAPIER, eleWator, Migotania, Odra, Pro Libris, Protokół Kulturalny, Śląsk, Tlen Literacki.