Autumn Humphrey has flash fiction pieces appearing, or scheduled to appear, in Blink/Ink,  FlashShot, All Things Girl, Golden Visions, Still Crazy, and the Stray  Branch.  In her spare time  she plays the horses, or as someone once said, the horses are playing  her.

A Cold Day in Hell (February 20, 2009. Issue 15.)

“Global warming, global schmarming,” the old man snarled before downing his shot of Patron and slamming the empty shot glass on the bar. “It’s all a bunch of hooey!”

The other drinkers ignored him. Joe, one of the regulars, checked the streaming ray of sunshine coming through the open doorway and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.

The old man ignored those ignoring him and prophesized aloud, “By Christmas Day there will be snow in LA!”

Sam, the bartender, leaned over toward the old man. “Maybe you’ve had enough, Charlie. In case you haven’t noticed, its eighty degrees, and Christmas is two days away.”

Charlie blew Sam a raspberry, his wet tequila breath spraying the bartender’s face. “Whadda YOU know, whippersnapper?”

Sam wiped his face with a bar towel. “That’s it, Charlie, you’re outta here. Eighty-sixed until after New Year’s.”

Charlie slipped off his barstool and staggered toward the door. “Your loss, asshole. I been thrown outta better places than this!” With that, he shuffled out, escaping into the glaring sun.

On Christmas Eve Sam was kicking out the last of his drunk and lonely customers when a cold wind blew in the door of the bar. At 2:30 AM he was locking up when he felt a soft wetness touch his face and looked up to see snowflakes falling through the darkness. By the time he reached his car, layers of fine white powder sparkled on the cars and covered the fronds of the palm trees.

The snow only lasted through Christmas day, and Sam looked for Charlie every time a shadow crossed the door of the bar. A week passed, as well as New Year’s Eve, still no Charlie. On the first of January Sam was sure he would see the old man come prancing through the door, bragging about his prediction, but still no appearance.

“Hey, Joe,” Sam asked, “Have you seen Charlie around?”

Joe looked away from the television. “Who?”

“You know, the old guy who predicted the snow. I eighty-sixed him, remember?”

Joe turned back to the football game. “I don’t remember no old man predicting snow, Sam, and you haven’t eighty-sixed anyone since 1997.”

Sam, familiar with the memory loss of regular drinkers, shook his head and moved back up the bar, only to find Charlie sitting there.

The old man smiled, his blue eyes sparkling like the Christmas snow. He held a conspiratorial finger to his lips and whispered, “You know, for the price of a Patron, I can predict more than the weather.”