Solidarność!

story segment

Madame Python says: It’s time for another segment and I’ve got a story for you, Wicket.

Miss Cricket says: I thought today’s segment was supposed to be about female fulfillment – in a sexual sense. In a sensual sense, by men. The “how to find things” and…

Madame Python: No, Wicket, we are not having women’s orgasms yet. An interesting manuscript came across my desk this morning and it is completely unpublishable, but I thought you might enjoy it.

Miss Cricket: Oh, by all means, let’s take a look, Py.

Madame Python: Thanks, Wicky! There’s no title, so I’ll just start in:


     I had a dead Polish woman on my hands and a husband who was glad about it.

     “She was going to divorce me! I found out! Now that she has her green card, she was going to divorce me!” Herbert Fleck spat as he was being led away.

     But all that Yetta Szczepański was actually going to do right about now was get taken down from the bannister where she was hanging. It was an all-male forensics team that was with me at the pink ranch house at 347 Oak Ave. Rościsław was helping Banes, the medical examiner, get Miss Szczepański into the body bag.

     “She was killed before she was strung up,” said Banes as he zipped up the body bag, “Blunt force trauma mostly to the head. Nothing on but a locket and her pajamas.”

     Delgado motioned me over, “The mother-in-law is in the kitchen if you want to question her. Seems that Herbert lived with mommy.”

     “Now look at what she’s done!” Mama Fleck castigated from the kitchen, “Defaced my house by killing herself in the foyer! How can I ever be at peace in this house again?”

     “I want to look at the body before I question Mommy Dearest,” I told Delgado, “Go make sure she doesn’t run away.”

     Rościsław was starting to zip up the body bag. I stopped him. “Where’s Banes?” I asked.

     “Went to the van for something,” Rościsław said.

     I looked down at our victim. Nothing around the neck now, not even much in the way of rope marks. Banes was right. She was dead before someone carefully dangled her under an expert knot.

     “Delgado!” I called back to the kitchen. He walked toward me with his hand on his side arm. We’d been working together for a long time. He didn’t know what was up, but he knew I wanted his bulk standing between us and the front door.

     “Why’d you do it, Rościsław?” I held out my hand, “Give me the necklace.”

     Rościsław let the locket fall into my open palm before Delgado expertly had him in cuffs.

     “Tell me what happened,” I spoke as if to someone sleepwalking. Rościsław was the new guy on the team but had come with excellent references. He was an expert marksman with a quiet demeanor.

     “She was the love of my life,” Rościsław stared at nothing, “She was my whole life. And she left me in Warsaw eight years ago. Just left. A week later I got an email from her saying that it was over and not to try to find her. She tore my heart open. She ruined my life. I vowed I would find her. I followed her here. I let that fat bastard believe she was going to divorce him so that he would go down for this, but I did it. I had to speak to her, but she screamed when she saw me….”

     Delgado just looked at him like he was scum.

     “You don’t understand!” Rościsław began to weep, “You can’t imagine that week in Warsaw. For a whole week I thought she was dead.”

     “Well, there’s no doubt about it now, is there?” I said, “Take him away.”


And then

     A big pair of perky Polish tits sidled out of a black Audi that had been parked along the road. She wore only a St. Jude metal and a pair of thigh-high black patent leather button-up boots. She aimed two modified full-auto Colt M4 Carbines at the house and shot the hell out of everything. She fucking almost cut the house in half. She killed everyone except the Chief Inspector.


Miss Cricket:

Madame Python: What?

Miss Cricket: You added that last part with the Polish, you know, lady. That wasn’t in the original story.

Madame Python: Well, what if I did?

Miss Cricket: Everything doesn’t have to be about violence, you know. The story didn’t need a bunch of people being killed needlessly.

Madame Python: Okay… "She aimed the rifles into the air, yelled 'Solidarność!!' and shot 500 rounds into the air. She was arrested without incident and patted down very slowly."

Miss Cricket: She isn’t needed. Who is she anyway?

Madame Python: The dead woman’s sister, of course. And she is needed. I am sick to death of mamby pamby writing in my industry! I would rather choke on a horse whip than read more mealy-mouthed stories. We need more “R” words in writing! Retribution! Redemption! Religion! Relish! Rastafarians!

Miss Cricket: Really. Thank you, Py, for bringing this spot of clarity to the publishing industry and for sharing this lovely story with all of us.

Madame Python: Rhinoplasty! Ribald! Rip! Rut! ‘Roids! Rutabagas!

Miss Cricket: Muzzle.

Madame Python: That doesn’t start with an “R”. Rick roll'd!

Miss Cricket: Muzzle and a horse whip.



Copyright 2012, Elizabeth Cricken, All Rights Reserved

Sports Analogy for Women’s Orgasms

overheard conversation

Madame Python says: Why are you eating miso soup again?

Miss Cricket says: Because it reminds me of Ed. Reminds me of when he was stationed in Okinawa. I was pregnant with Charlie at the time.

Madame Python: But you don’t like it.

Miss Cricket: True.

Madame Python: I was thinking about what to do for our next segment.

Miss Cricket: Right. You were very expressive in the last segment. I think that went well. I’m losing my hair.

Madame Python: Oh, for God’s sakes, you are not.

Miss Cricket: I am. The only reason it still looks good is because I had so much to begin with. And don’t tell me to stand naked in a courtyard showing all my glory to the world along with my bald head. That doesn’t work for women.

Madame Python: You look fine. You look good. What should we talk about in the next segment? I was thinking about women’s orgasms. How important they are… and how utterly important they are... and that they are important….

Miss Cricket: Okay, good topic, but difficult to handle properly. I mean, if you are talking about a, you know, you can talk about bananas or something. Or how to put on a condom – you can use the banana thing.

Madame Python: How about a sports analogy. Men understand sports.

Miss Cricket: That’s a good idea. I am reminded, however, that some people do not understand analogies of any kind. “Concrete thinkers” I think they are called.

Madame Python: Idiots is what I call ’em. Okay, for them, we’ll spell it out with a chart even.

Miss Cricket: You know those charts from school – or really they were diagrams of private parts – those have to be some of the scariest things I ever saw. And all the teachers being embarrassed by the whole thing only added to the problem. But even if the teachers had been fine, those diagrams looked like alien beings or something. I knew I’d run screaming if I ever saw anything like it in real life, and, of course, no one has ever seen anything like it in real life. “Boys have lateral view grey line drawings between their legs.” Good grief. No wonder people don’t know what they are doing.

Madame Python: Okay, no charts. No line drawings. I think we’d better break it into two segments: 1) how to find what’s important, and 2) what to do – and not do – once you get there.

Miss Cricket: Like don’t bring your rough stubble anywhere near, thank you. whoa.

Madame Python: Soccer.

Miss Cricket: What about soccer?

Madame Python: Well, it’s a good analogy. In my experience, good soccer players are always good lovers. They know things take a long long time, but it’s worth it. There was Leo and Pablo and Mario and Federico for starters. There's a lot of o’s in there.

Miss Cricket: Oh. But some things shouldn’t take a long time.

Madame Python: Okay, another segment: things that should take a long time and things that shouldn’t. I forgot Ricardo.

Miss Cricket: Not soccer. Soccer goals take too long. Football is out. Too much stopping and starting. Cricket is out – same reason. Although the friendly attitude is good. Tennis is out. Bunch of bouncing around. Track and field. Run and stop. Wrestling. Not unless it’s sumo, but then that’s too short. Baseball. Not unless we are just talking about one pitch. Hockey. Tiddlywinks. We’re not going to find a sports analogy.

Madame Python: Diego.

Miss Cricket: What did you do, have the entire Argentine soccer team over for tea one day?

Madame Python: No, I was in Uruguay in 2003. Guest of the Gloodtdofsky’s. “Libertad o Muerte” they say. Uruguay had a friendly with Argentina and I had a friendly with both. Almost made me muerte.

Miss Cricket: You have too much libertad.

Madame Python: Oh, right, and we need to include in some segment somewhere bits about how sometimes it’s fun to have less libertad. What’s that thing with the brooms and the ice?

Miss Cricket: Oh, that might work. That might work.

Madame Python: You didn’t finish your miso soup.

Miss Cricket: Not gonna.

Madame Python: Claudio.

Miss Cricket: Christ.


Contact Elizabeth Cricken: ElizabethCricken@gmail.com
Copyright 2012, Elizabeth Cricken, All Rights Reserved

On Balding

advice segment

Madame Python says: Miss Cricket, how many times have we heard men complaining about how they don’t look sexy because they are losing their hair?

Miss Cricket says: Py, I thought we were going to start out with a segment on getting over lost love?

Madame Python: Wicket, the men who are complaining about losing their je ne sais quoi with their hair are either about to lose their love life or have already done so. They need a hair intervention. They need a sex rescue. They need a sexcue. They need Madame Python.

Miss Cricket: They need to take time to get to know themselves.

Madame Python: Like hell. They need to get their head out of their ass.

This goes out to all you men who are fretting about losing your hair. First, no one gives a shit about your hair. Save your money. Do you think Michael Jordan needs hair to be sexy? You don’t need hair. You need posture. Get yourself a military bearing. Like the world is your oyster. Walk tall, gently and with style. Then you can forget about your hair. The balding is now an asset.

Miss Cricket: Tell them about the combing over bit.

Madame Python:

Miss Cricket: Okay, I’ll tell them. It’s probably not a very good idea to try to do any combing over – you know, combing the hair that you have so that it covers up parts of your head that have less hair. That’s probably not ideal. If you feel comfortable with that, sure. But being okay with yourself is very attractive. Being okay with yourself is a…

Madame Python: Oh, for fuck sake, don’t comb over, color over, cover over, hat over, fake over, fart over or fruit cake over anything. Get the hair you’ve got cut short short leaving the bald spot as obvious as possible. Imagine two naked men in a courtyard in front of a bunch of women. One is hunched over and he’s got his business all covered up. The other is standing tall with his feet shoulder width apart, hands on hips and ready to take all comers. The women will be attracted to which man? Oh, yes, right, the one who flaunts his God-given "lordy!" all over creation. That’s who. Be that guy.

Miss Cricket: Are we done now?

Madame Python: Last words, Wicky?

Miss Cricket: Women notice you. If you don’t mention your hair or lack of hair, women won’t notice or care. Don’t mention it ever. Women notice you. And that’s a nice thing. Back to you, Py.

Madame Python: Nicely said, Wicky. Flaunt it, men! Flaunt your bald!

Miss Cricket: Lordy!


Contact Elizabeth Cricken: ElizabethCricken@gmail.com
Copyright 2012, Elizabeth Cricken, All Rights Reserved

Madame Python and Miss Cricket

In getting underway, I just want to say that everything in this blog is fiction.  Madame Python and Miss Cricket, for example, are characters.  If they remind you of people you know, oh, dear, you run in some strange circles.  I will write and post a lot of flash fiction which, for me, means fast fiction.  Short stories, chapters of books, poems, fake articles, fake advice columns, letters, nasty tweets, etc.  Shall I repeat - it's all made up.  For example, if I say this and that happened when I met the Mayor of Mumbai, it's a fictional story.

With regard to comments, Madame Python doesn't give a rats ass about any of your comments and will never read them.  Miss Cricket will want to read all the comments but then will get depressed if any are rude - which is why Madame Python discourages Miss Cricket from doing any such thing.  If either of them respond to a comment, it'd be a miracle.  But miracles have been known to happen.

Madame Python and Miss Cricket live in Beecher, Illinois, USA.  Madame Python owns a large house and keeps a pool boy even in winter.  Miss Cricket lives in an apartment with three cats and is shocked that people sometimes jaywalk.  They are best of friends because they've been friends since second grade, but otherwise they have almost nothing in common.

Well, here we go!  Merry Christmas 2012, dear friends!  May the flash fiction begin.

Oh, and this stuff is all copyright protected.  Link to the stuff, tell people about it, share it on Facebook, be a tweet about it, buy it in a book format, but just don't say you wrote it.  If you do, Madame Python will hunt you down and the rest of us will have to avert our eyes.

Contact: ElizabethCricken@gmail.com


Copyright 2012, Elizabeth Cricken, All Rights Reserved