Flash Fiction: "The Weirdest of Weddings"

There had been a crime and the green light which spilled onto the cobble stones of the square was evidence enough. A crime against nature. A tragic, sad… Strange crime. 

At least that’s what the guests whispered as they glimpsed it. 

Squeezed between jewellers and cafes, all closed for the day, was a neon sign which read: Lady Garden, encircled by green glowing leaves. Below it stairs plunged down towards a basement door. Each guest bathed in green light as they entered, sick to the stomach was the phrase her mother used and it matched. 

A most inappropriate place for a wedding.

“I’m too old for this Romeo and Juliet shit” Nana grumbled 

“I don’t think they had underground nightclubs in Verona in 1955” Grandpa chuckled 

“Who invited the smart ass?” she croaked back

“Erm… You did. He’s your date” her grand daughter explained, nana signed 

“The salad bar assistant at Pizza Hut was busy” she grumbled. 

The salad bar assistant, on his summer job before university, had managed to escape her. She was faster than the other pensioners given her electric scooter. Nana was ninety three, but she was still out there - stripped butt naked at the tanning salon, with two receptionists holding her up out of wheelchair as they sprayed her down. Her scooter lined up with plastic chairs across the dance floor.  

In a back office the bride stood on a chair with her head squashed under the ceiling, angled towards the basement window - her cigarette hand hanging out of it.

“I’m not into all that Romeo and Juliet shit” she said cooly

“I think they refer to it as a ‘sweeping love story’ rather than shit…” I muttered “actually I think they refer to it as a two hour Baz Luhrmann extravaganza with a look that defined the 90s” the maid of honour corrected quietly.

“oh… Straight to the Bar Luhrmann… Forget all about Shakespeare” best man chimed in.

The bride blew smoke emotionlessly out the basement skylight. Her dress foamed with lace like the ocean in a storm or a rabid dog in the street. They called her Miss FANGtastic. Because her attitude made it seem entirely possible that she would spend her free time sharpening her teeth.

“Ugh” she signed “perhaps you just can’t put a silk hat on a pig…”

Nana looked around.

“This proves it… You can’t put a silk hat on a whore”

Her granddaughter gasped.

“It’s a pig! Can’t put a silk hat on a pig!” she hissed

“Not in my day…”

“Not in Verona in 1955” Grandpa chuckled.

By Sophia Nottingham

Sophia reads anything and everything she can get her hands on and that love has recently turned into experimenting with writing.

Sophia welcomes your comments and ideas on how to expand this introduction below...