Pool, Punctuation, and Citations
Flash Fiction
Gwenny-Bird? Yeah, I subscribe. She's a real Annie Oakley on the tables. I saw her first big showdown. The one where she took down that cranky Winter fella. It really put her on the map. That's how a good Cinderella story starts, right?
Anyway, I was tending at the Chunky Monkey, a hideaway entertainment hall nestled in the pines off of 58. I was supposed to have the night off, but Claire asked me to cover for her. Had something to do with catching a virus while writing an essay. Why wouldn’t I want to, you know? It was a Wednesday and those were league nights.
That meant the joint would be packed with the usual freaks, geeks, and hustlers. The atmosphere in the building hummed with electricity on nights like those.
I didn't even realize she was there to start with. I was so busy slinging drinks that both her and her winning streak slid under my radar. It wasn’t until she stood in front of me that I took notice.
I had just pulled a rack of sippy cups and mugs from the dishwasher. Through the billows of steam, I saw her emerge from the fray. Her gold skate shoes, ripped jeans, and an “I Survived Vogon Poetry” tee said it all.
She jockeyed up to the bar and ordered a chocolate milk, shaken with two marshmallows, as if she was some grunged-out Double O Seven.
While I blended milk, chocolate syrup, and marshmallows together inside the silver shaker, Gwenny-Bird leaned over the counter, dropped a crisp C-note from her recent winnings into my tip jar. She wanted to know where the holes were in Winter’s game.
I fished the fresh bread from the tip jar and, in place of a napkin, slid it between the black marble bartop and the base of her chilled mug. Gwenny-Bird’s blue eyes shimmered with curious delight.
A slight tilt of her head caused stray, cherry strands of hair to escape the tuck behind her right ear.
She swept the runaways back into place and watched the viscous liquid flow over the pair of toothpick-skewered marshmallows and into her glass.
“This one’s on the house,” I told her, “but I need a favor from you.”
She nodded.
“Winter,” I continued, “has forgotten the virtue of a good nap. I need you to remind him. Do it slow. Leave him a shot here and there. Maybe even let him win a game, but make sure you stick the cue ball to the rail. He misses three out of five citations like that. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
Gwenny-Bird raised the mug to her lips and took a sip. Before returning the glass to the bartop, she pushed the watermarked bill back in my direction.
“You earned that,” she bubbled. “This milk has been perfect—present perfect. I was already keyed into Winter’s shortcomings. He’s an easy read. Thanks for confirming my intel, though.”
A knowing smile crept onto Gwenny-Bird’s face. She rose from the bar stool, winked, and waded into the shark-infested waters that led to her table.
At about four minutes before seven, the crowd had begun to migrate away from the bar and school around the back two tables. On my way to investigate the cause of the mass exodus, I stopped to feed the jukebox.
The hungry machine inhaled the hundred. I opted for the dealer’s choice. The analog DJ flipped through a stack of vinyl discs and settled on “Squid Wiggle” by Ninjastroni.
I cut my way through the cluster of zoot-suited spectators and ended up six, maybe seven feet from Winter.
Gwenny-Bird had taken a 2-to-1 lead in a race to three. She was well on her way to cleaning Winter’s clock in the fourth game.
“Quotation without citation. Corner pocket,” Gwenny-Bird called after eyeing the remaining essay components scattered across the red felt-covered table. She placed her left hand on the oak rail, bent her knees, leaned in, and lined up her shot.
The 19-ounce pearl-inlaid walnut cue slid back and forth between her index finger and thumb.
“I’m going to have to use a little English on this one,” she joked. The blue chalk-dusted tip plunged into the cue ball.
Her call was right on the money.
Winter jabbed his straw through the lime in his seltzer. “Lucky shot.”
“You after me lucky charms? Ha! There ain’t nothing but skill in my game,” Gwenny-Bird replied.
Winter laughed and shook his head. “That’s the trouble with you newcomers. You got jokes, but they interfere with your leave. Look.”
Winter pointed at the cue ball. It had crept its way behind the component marked FS.
“All that extra backspin put you in a bad position. You can’t even see the splice from this angle. Even if you could, there’s no way you’ll get around that fused sentence. I got this thing in the bag, baby. Mr. Tally Man, tally me a win-uh.”
“Not so fast,” Gwenny-Bird answered. “I’m about to split that up with a little fission. Allow me to introduce you to a little trick I learned in the Nevada desert. I call it my Atomic Drop. You might want to put some sunglasses on for this one.”
Gwenny-Bird paused her dig at Winter. She settled into her shot. “Bank——splice——side pocket.”
The cue’s tanned leather tip kissed the lower right quadrant of the cue ball and released a plink loud enough to be heard over the squid ditty.
A fine puff of blue chalk dust wafted into the air above the stick’s tip.
“No way she makes that bank,” I heard someone murmur.
Rings of light pulsed from the core of the white sphere as it twisted forward. A pinwheel in a hurricane, the ball ricocheted off three rails.
“Well, look at that” Gwenny-Bird resumed her dig at Winter. “It’s time to sizzle-izzle-izzle squid!”
The comma splice rebounded. It crept toward the pocket but dangled on its edge like a misplaced modifier. Time grew thick.
Gwenny-Bird showed no concern.
Grinning, she watched the cue ball wobble out its remaining energy against the side rail.
The corners of Winter’s lips curled downward the instant the splice thunked into the pocket.
An explosion of cheers rang out from my fellow onlookers.
The exhausted cue ball came to a halt a couple inches from the last component.
A coarse voice from behind me yelled, “That’s what’s up right there!”
Gwenny-Bird sank that unsinkable shot and left herself with a lemon-squeezie final play.
She put her right hand on her chin, tapped her index finger against her cheek, and asked, “Who’s got this thing in the bag now, baby? Are you going to make me take this final shot, or are you ready to hand over the title?”
Winter grinned, but he didn’t answer. In fact, he didn’t even watch Gwenny-Bird’s winning play. Instead, he took apart his cue, returned it to its velvet-lined case, wrapped himself in his black duster, and dissolved into the night.
© Ninjastroni 2026
Read the conclusion to this story: Apples and Trees.
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