FlashFicFeb, Day 3

Three days in, three stories out! Keeping the stories between 300 and 500 words is trickier than I thought. My stories ended up at 1004, 642, and 361 words.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Front and Center Girl



“Hey Lisa, it’s Pauly from LA-Looks. How you doin’?”

Yes! I mean, great! Is this about a go-see?”

“Well yeah, but don’t get your hopes up. It’s for Victoria Secret’s next ‘Front and Center Girl,’ to rep their new line of ‘Front and Center’ bras.”

“Wow! Victoria’s Secret? You mean the Victoria’s Secret?”

“Yeah. But like I said, don’t get your hopes up. You’re not exactly ‘Victoria’s Secret’ material, but since I haven’t sent you on a single go-see since we signed you, I figured this would be a primer on what to expect at any other go-see.”

“Gee . . thanks.”

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re plenty busty enough, but they also want a model with curvy hips and a round butt.”

“I don’t have any one of those things.”

“Er . . isn’t this Lisa Marks?”

“This is Lisa Marklestein.”

“Oh. Sorry. I was looking at the wrong number.”

“Not a problem.”

“I’ll tell you what, Lisa, go ahead and give the ‘Front and Center’ go-see a try. It’s in a couple hours. It’ll be a good experience, and you and the busty Lisa can see what working models look like. Breast and butt implants are the norm in the fashion industry, you know. You might want to think about that. You can pick up a ‘Front and Center’ demo bra at the agency. It’ll give you something to aspire to.”


So today will make or break me as a model. My credit cards are maxed out. I emptied my savings account on last month’s rent. My fridge is empty. If I don’t land this modeling job, my flat-broke butt will be on the next Missouri-bound bus. Then, back at home, Mom will smile, shrug her shoulders, and sigh. Dad will just shake his head. And I’ll have to grit my teeth through an endless chorus of “I told you so!” from my bratty kid brother.


Okay. I have the demo bra and the directions to the audition- but it’s all the way across town, and I don’t have bus fare. And the “Front and Center” demo bra isn’t even my size. It’s a 34-C. I’m a 36-B! But I’m not through yet- I have breast forms and flip-flops in my purse, so I’ll stuff and walk. If I can manage to jog in flip-flops for thirteen blocks, I figure I’ll only be a few minutes late. Plus it’ll give me time to get used to this bra and perfect my breast form jiggle.


Finally here. I sign the check-in sheet. Cripes. A waiting room packed full of gorgeous models. And they’re all incredibly busty- all of them at least double Ds. Maybe Pauly is right. Maybe I should save myself the embarrassment and just turn around and-


“Oh, hi, Lisa,” I answer.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” busty Lisa says.

“Oh really? Well, Pauly called me-”

“Yeah, Pauly called me too. He told me he accidentally called you first. Gosh, Lisa, I would’ve died of embarrassment if I was you. But you’re not only alive, you even have the guts to show up. Now that’s brave!”

“Well . . you have a flat butt . . ” I trail off.

“So do you. But at least I have real breast implants.” Busty Lisa smirks and juts her chest out. “And your fake forms are showing.”

I look down and see my breast forms have worked themselves out of my bra, and are on display on top of my chest. I shove them back in my bra and run down the hall to the restroom. I’m not giving up without a fight. I kick open the stalls and grab all the loose toilet paper rolls I can find- four of them- and dig a nail file out of my purse. I get to work sawing the rolls in half and stuffing the crescents in my demo bra, under and around my breasts, stuffing and tucking the tissue paper into the bra cups. The bra band digs and cuts into my back, but this audition should only take an hour at the most. ‘Beauty before comfort,’ and all that. I check my reflection in the mirror and unbutton my shirt to expose my cleavage. Not bad. A little red-faced and sweaty, but my boobs look huge. I check my side view. Top heavy. But it’ll have to do. I’ve padded my bra, but I will not stoop to pad my butt. Big butts don’t sell bras. Big boobs do. Or, in my case, big-padded boobs. Besides, I’m out of toilet paper.

I trade my flip-flops for my stilettos, take a deep breath, and run back out of the restroom. This is it- my modeling career future is riding on toilet paper-padded boobs. Bounce-wobbling down the hall, I hear the Victoria’s Secret rep is already addressing the ‘Front and Center’ hopefuls.

I bust through the waiting room door,

“-and we want our ‘Front and Center Girl’ to hit them right between the eyes-”


The front plastic clasp on my ‘Front and Center’ demo bra breaks, goes flying, and hits the rep right between the eyes. He staggers backward and hits his head on the wall. Out cold.

Cripes. I pick the toilet paper chunks up off the floor and walk out of the waiting room, out of the building, and back across town. At least I got some toilet paper out of my modeling career. I was out of toilet paper. Maybe mom and dad can wire me the money for a bus ticket back to Missouri.

Back in my apartment,





“It’s Pauly from LA-Looks. Congratulations. You landed the Victoria’s Secret ‘Front and Center Girl’ gig.”

“This is Lisa Marklestein.”

“I know. B-cup, flat butt. I don’t know how you did it, but you did. You’re the new ‘Front and Center Girl.’ I guess you’re just what they were looking for. They said you hit them right between the eyes!”

* * *

Whale Tale


“Yeah. Come in, Jim.”

“Me and the guys were wondering if the suspect is still in interrogation.”

“He’s still in the interrogation room. But obviously, he’s not still being interrogated.”

“Yeah. So he’s… still having the polygraph reaction?”

“Yes. And I’m keeping wet towels on him. I don’t know what else to do.”

“You sure you don’t want me or somebody to examine him? You know, just to verify…”

“No. Too risky. He’d probably think we’re ganging up on him, and thrash around and knock this whole building down. We can’t let word of this get out. The government would seize command of this station to get their hands on that machine, then they’d use it to control the world. They’d call it an accidental raid, and deny confiscating or even finding the machine.”

“I just don’t understand how this could happen. I mean, you say he’s-”

“I don’t understand it either. I asked the suspect if he was a killer, and he laughed and said, ‘Yeah, I’m a killer… whale.’ Then the polygraph made a ba-da-bing-POW sound, and the guy changed into a damn killer whale right before my eyes! What are we supposed to do with a killer whale?”

“We could donate him to SeaWorld. We could say it was a gift from an eccentric millionaire.”

“I don’t think that would be wise, Jim. Killer whales kill humans in captivity. Wouldn’t want to risk another killing. Assuming he’s the killer – er, was the killer.”

“How about we each take home some whale meat? Take him out back, and me and Grant can hack away at him. I hear whale meat is a delicacy in Japan.”

“How would we explain all the spilled whale blood? Killer whales are endangered. The animal rights activists would have our photos on the front page news. I believe our only choice is to dump him in the harbor – alive. I’ll take the responsibility and do it myself – the less people that know about this, the better. I’ll have to do it tonight. Hopefully he’ll swim away and not attract too much attention.”

“You’re a brave man, Adam.”

“Thanks. I learned to roll with the punches after last year’s giant squid incident.”

“Yeah. That was weird. And I still don’t know how a giant-”

“If you could call Vick from transpo – I don’t have his number – that would help me get this ball rolling. Tell him to show up tonight, alone, with his truck and his industrial pulley. And his K-20 saw – the outside wall’s gonna have to come down.”

“Moving a killer whale… that’s gonna be expensive.”

“Yeah, but there’s no other option. We’re running out of time. I bet Vick would do it and keep his mouth shut for fifty grand.”

“Fifty grand?!”

“A low-ball estimate. And you could tell accounting to file it under ‘incidentals.’ And one more thing…”


“Could you destroy that damn polygraph for me? It needs to be destroyed immediately, before it can do any more damage. I’m too shell-shocked to do it myself. I’m gonna need a vacation after this. Paid.”

“Of course.”

“I knew that polygraph was trouble when Karen told me her team found it in the basement of the New Yorker Hotel. Rumor has it that nut job Nikola Tesla squirreled away some of his wacky contraptions there.”

“Adam, are you sure you don’t want me or one of the guys to take a look-”

“I hope Vick is still in his office when you decide to call him. The fate of the world depends on Vick coming out tonight.”

“Yes. I’ll call him now.”

“And Jim…”


“Thanks for being such a level-headed, rational boss.”

“And thank you for thinking on your feet, Adam. You’re a real asset to this division.”

* * *

Rouge Zygote

“Congratulations, it’s a girl. Would you like to hold her?”

“Yeah. But wipe ‘er off first. Make sure she’s dry.”

“Here you are. Your new baby girl.”

“I tol’ you ta wipe ‘er off.”

“I did. She’s clean.”

“What’s that on ‘er head?”

“That’s just fuzz. She has a little bit of hair already. Some babies are born bald, some with hair.”

“Red fuzz? But I want a baby with choc’lite-color hair!”

“I’ll just look at your chart here- says here you requested cocoa eyes, chestnut hair, and-”

“Whateva- as long as it looks like a perfect combo of me an’ my ol’ man, not some red-head stepchild.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Davenport-”

“That’s Mrs. Davenport.”

“I’m sorry, but sometimes rouge zygotes slip by. Our karyotype selection process isn’t foolproof.”

“Well that ain’t my problem. My ol’ man didn’t pay twenty-five thou’ to make an accident!”

“Would you like something to help you relax, Mrs. Davenport?”

“And its eyes are blue. It looks nothin’ like a Davenport.”

“Many babies are born with blue eyes. They could change color in a year or so. Perhaps after you rest, you’ll feel better.”

“And its earlobes aren’t even attached. You’d think you’d at least get somethin’ as simple as that right! Take it away.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Davenport?”

“Take it away.”

“Here’s Dr. Kildare, the geneticist who assisted your case. Perhaps she can explain what happened.”

“Hello, Mrs. Davenport. Congratulations.”

“Congratulations? Yer congratulating me fer birthin’ that?”

“She’s a beautiful baby- looks like she’s healthy too.”

“I don’t want it. I didn’t order it. I ordered a baby that looks like a Davenport. It’s all on yer chart.”

“I’m sorry- if you could tell me the date of your last implant, I could look up the batch number in the zygote database.”


“Yes, when you had your last implant.”

“I didn’t have any implant.”

“But you were assigned implantation appointments, weren’t you?”

“Yeah. But I thought those were optional.”

“You can’t have a custom-made baby if you don’t come in to implant the custom-made zygotes.”

“You mean . . you didn’t fix all my eggs while you had yer tools all up in there?”

* * *

Leave a comment


  1. Ben

     /  February 3, 2012

    All three of these are awesome!

  2. Loved them all. And that last one, ay-yi-yi! Mrs. Davenport is firmly in the “should not reproduce” category.

    • lol Thanks! Yep, Davenport is in the large category of “should not reproduce.” She’s just easier to identify than most. 😉


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