About Red Tales

Here's an evolving electronic collection of short prose pieces, with a poem contributed occasionally. Brevity guides. Although sometimes a piece will run to 900 words, most pieces are much shorter. Here one may find erotica, flash fiction, brief observations, and modest improvisations. Another rule is that each piece must have something to do with"red"; at least the word has to appear in each piece functionally. . . . All pieces are numbered and titled, so there's a de facto table of contents running down the rail below, under "Labels" (scroll down a bit). Browse for titles that look interesting, if you like. Thank you for stopping by. Look for some red today, tonight.

"Flaming June," by Frederick Lord Leighton

"Flaming June," by Frederick Lord Leighton

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

258. What Some Rainbows Become

Yellow squash, red peppers, eggplant, green beans, blue potatoes. These are what some rainbows become after they ease their arcs, depart from mist and light, and return to ground. It is an unassuming, necessary pot of gold into which they transform. 

Monday, October 10, 2016

257. How I Like My Blue

I prefer blue to be chilled.  When blue gets too warm, it tends to turn purple, which is less appealing than blue, as you know.

Room-temperature blue? Tepid blue? Please. That kind of thing can make you want to run to red or green.

"What kind of blue"? You'd think that would be the more difficult question, perhaps. But it isn't. (Cerulean.)

hans ostrom 2016

Friday, October 7, 2016

256. Of Veldon Windright; or, Not

No one else seemed to perceive the intersection where I stood in the city. I saw it, and I stood there, waiting for a bus because I saw a bus sign there.

No bus came, at least while I waited. I walked home.

Weary, I climbed musty stairs toward my scuffed apartment. Mrs. Bile came out of her apartment, saw me, and cried, "Veldon Windright, you're a scoundrel!" In response, I merely told her the truth: that I wasn't Veldon Windright.  She used to know that.  At least she used to know I wasn't he. I don't know who he is.

A corner of a red envelope slid under my door protruded. Perceived as V. Windright, I uncoupled myself from the conversation with Mrs. Bile, and I went inside my place, where I picked up the red envelope.

Inside was a note on gray paper. It read, "Sir: We have good and bad news. First, we agree that there is an intersection and a bus stop where you waited recently.  We commend your powers of perception and your independence of mind. That said, and second, a bus will never pick you up there even though it's true you saw a bus sign there. It's all too complicated to explain, so just accept the fact.  In fact, accept all facts! Good luck. Sincerely, Your Friends at the Veldon Windright Foundation."

hans ostrom 2016