Serving House: A Journal of Literary Arts
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Flash Fiction
351 words
SHJ Issue 6
Fall 2012

Unheard Concert, or Dead Rock Stars Return on a Ghost Plane

by David Memmott

It isn’t an easy landing. They miss the runway entirely. No one hears the crash. On the threshold of the sprung door a half-naked Door screams “jettisoned in mute nostril agony...” and leaps, eyes closed, down the chute in a puff of smoke. A soft croon that could be mistaken for a moan arises weakly resurrected in the back of the plane. Frankie staggers out, black bowtie unhitched, rubbing his eyes. Looking over black horn-rimmed glasses, Buddy hollers, “Didn’t you get on the wrong plane?” “What happened to the Rat Pack?” Frankie croons-moans, sitting down on a flat rock, hands in his head feeling for the last of anything profound left from profound memory loss. A desert wood rat climbs up the rock, whiskers twitching, and lays down an offering of bones. “I said Ratpack, not Pack Rat,” Frankie cries, smashing an empty bottle against the weak beam of a landing light. Behind him white blues, hair in flames, belches fire like a dragon. She offers Frankie her bottle and hotly blows into his ear, “Honey, here, have a drink. Maybe it’ll help you remember.” “How far are we from the Strip?” Frankie asks. “I don’t remember getting on a plane. Sammy and Dino are waiting at The Sands.” With neon butterflies detonating from his Afro and blinking out in a riff of stiff wind, Jimi exhales Purple Haze. Morrison, now totally naked, runs off into new moon madness, accompanied by howling coyotes. The soft-spoken Nashville boy, missing the splendid chaos of the living and finding no frenzied fans waving lighters in the air to keep his spirit alive, pulls his superhero cape over his head. “I told you to turn left, you simpleton!” Janis shouts at him. “It was on autopilot,” the King mutters under his cape. Squinting at a strange sky filled with stars he no longer recognizes, Frankie suddenly starts, pointing toward a diffuse crown of light on the horizon, “Look,” he says, “The Sands.” And so it is. Sand and more sand. Sand and more sand.


SHJ Issue 6
Fall 2012

David Memmott’s

newest poetry collection, Lost Transmissions, is available from Serving House Books. He is a Fishtrap Fellow, Rhysling Award winner, a recent Playa resident, 2010 Spur Award finalist for best Western poem, and recipient of three Fellowships for Publishing from Literary Arts, Inc.

Poems recently appeared in on-line journals, Elohi Gadugi and Fiddleback. He is editor and publisher of Wordcraft of Oregon, LLC and managing editor of Phantom Drift: A Journal of New Fabulism. He lives in La Grande, Oregon.

“...we have been born here to witness and celebrate. We wonder at our purpose for living. Our purpose
is to perceive the fantastic. Why have a universe if there is no audience?” — Ray Bradbury