Smirk Fiction Johnny Roque

Written By: Johnny Roque


Growing flowers or any plant might take a certain green thumb, however it also depends on the love that the flowers receive verbally or lack of love.

This episode is also available as a blog post: https://smirkfiction.wordpress.com/2022/01/01/flowers-grow-wilted/



My neighbors flowers look so beautiful. They grow effortlessly out of the ground, in boxes hanging, and even wildly off the tress in her yard. Every single one of them stand out shooting bright vivid colors into the sky attracting little birds and angels. They hover over the yard singing in delight. I see this everyday while I water my flowers. My sad flower garden that grow more stems than peddles.

I put effort into my garden. The best dirt, clean water, and an awesome playlist of music, but still every day nothing really stands out. Not the buttercups, nor the Peruvian Lilies, not even the petunias. The petunias! A large bed of petunias surrounding the dahlias haunt my dreams. Seeing the beautiful image in my head every time I close my eyes to only open them to a dirt patch makes me not want to open my eyes. I spend all my free time outside taking care of them and talking to them, sometimes hours at a time.

My flowers listen to me daily, sometimes twice a day. I tell them about the heartbreak I experience every weekend on failed dates. My tears pour out of my face. Each drop landing in the soil that now holds a piece of my soul. I just know that a good date starts with a fresh bouquet of flowers, but until these bloom my love life looks grim. I need to ask my neighbor her tricks, maybe over a cup of coffee.

Written By: Johnny Roque

Church shoes means the entire experience of church varies between clean and dirty like ones soul.

This episode is also available as a blog post: https://smirkfiction.wordpress.com/2022/01/02/dirty-church-shoes/



Stepping into Church means walking into God’s house. The house of the almighty, the Alpha and the Omega, the Father; a house of reverence that deserves respect. Everything stands out in Church, the things on the inside and the out. The most holy people in Church know right away when someone walks in holding sin in their heart. A single glance that inspects you up and down lets them know who needs prayer the most in the entire building, starting at the head all the way down to the toes. Normally I make sure to match, iron, and shine everything I wear on Sunday the prior night. It makes everything move along much faster. Everyone gives a big smile, a hug, and a warm send-off. Unfortunately today I slipped on my work shoes in a rush and those shoes, though comfortable, look like a cowboys favorite belt.

I tried to clean them off in the parking lot. A good spit shine seemed to make sense, but that only added a filthy yellow tint. Luckily an old newspaper I picked up leaving the office waiting room hid between my seats. Unluckily the newspaper smudged dirt that I used it to clean my back window all over the outside of my retched black leather and yellow tinted shoes. I shamefully admit I walked into God’s house in these unholy soles.

Each and every step I took I heard the murmurs. All the women wearing a freshly pinned wig lowered their glasses. Their focus beamed on me. It took ten minutes just to find my seat. I held their hands in prayer, even after I insisted everything in my life followed God’s plan. They prayed even harder. I shook hands on multi-million dollar deals that felt softer than these elderly women’s grips. It seemed they tried to squeeze the devil out of me. At the end of the service I quickly left. My hands felt like they might break after another spirit lead prayer. I drove straight to the shoe repair shop around the corner and I pointed at the Sunday special. He looked up giving a devilish grin and took my shoes. The Sunday special cost twice the price, but I know that after the cleaning and polish my soles never need that amount of prayer again.

Written By: Johnny Roque

Finding a family means a lot of love, but sometimes families fall apart. The moments that live tightly in our chest usually revolve around simple things like hotdogs. 

This episode is also available as a blog post: https://smirkfiction.wordpress.com/2022/01/03/hot-dogs-for-breakfast/



Spending quality dad time means the world to me. I see my kid every other weekend like most fathers. At first I felt a bit ashamed and embarrassed to not see my child every day of her life. I saw all the beginning stuff, her first steps, first words, and even her first bike ride, but now I only see her first thing on the weekend. I know her mother and I slowly started to resent one another over the years. Personally I dreamed of more kids, but I also wanted more alone time. She never spoke of kids the way I spoke of them, she spoke of them in a practical way.

I brought up kids one day and she never stopped talking about the bills that followed the shrieking cries. My points of cute one inch feet and chubby cheeks hit a brick wall of complaints about sore nipples and restless nights. Marriage to me only meant kids and a wife that made more kids. I love my ex-wife and I know she loves me, but looking down the timeline of our old age followed through the mapping of the wrinkles that started to branch out the sides of our eyes, we saw that they pointed to a different direction.

At night I sleep in a bed alone, even on the nights a girl stays over, those nights still feel alone. On the weekend though I pick up my daughter and we eat breakfast. That moment I see her and her mother it feels like a moment of family once again. Saturdays I always cook hotdogs. Sadly that meal, a meal in definition only, reminds me of the Saturdays I made breakfast while her mother slept in a bit longer. Now we eat hotdogs at the table in my single one bedroom apartment and talk about the activities we need to finish in the next day or two and I pretend, just pretend, that her mother needs a little more sleep in the next room.

Written By: Johnny Roque

Food sometimes runs out, but at some point a burnt piece of toast makes a feast. 

This episode is also available as a blog post: https://smirkfiction.wordpress.com/2022/01/04/burnt-toast-and-an-empty-pantry/



“Enjoy it while it last” applies to so many things that it often loses its meaning. Most often people use this phrase to refer to love or an unexpected good time like making love. It rolls off the tongue of a weary parent that knows all things in the world find an end eventually landing on the ears of a carefree child rolling in mud crying about chores. I heard this the last time the toaster forced the aluminum carriage through the top double slits that only held a single slice. A loud “shrush, clink, cha, ching” echoed in the kitchen, bedroom, restroom studio apartment of mine, but it sounded like “enjoy it while it last.”

In complete hunger that followed me throughout the night and haunted my dreams I reached to pick up the seven grains end piece of bread. I saw the back of it first. A nice brown curve that called my name to it in a sultry sizzle, more enticing then the women I pass walking home after midnight. The difference though, the curves on the bread made my mouth water and the curves on the women made me cross the street. I flipped the bread over to discover a blackness resembling a scab my knee grew on it after the last time I fell off the curb crossing the street after midnight.

Instinctually I grasp at a butter knife to scrap off the layer of crumbs. At first I thought the layer might only add up to a quick thin swipe, but after a second my hunger took over my hand. I saw each crumb flake off and felt like I tossed the first course of my meal into the trash. My empty pantry reflected my empty stomach. Each and every bite I took, I heard “enjoy it while it last”. At the beginning of the meal today seemed grim, but that last bite of enjoyment made tomorrow inevitably bleak.

Written By: Johnny Roque

Family time means a lot of things to different people, but the one thing that helps keeps families together usually revolves around fun, even with guns.

This episode is also available as a blog post: https://smirkfiction.wordpress.com/2022/01/06/gun-shots-celebration/

Families gather around to watch the magnificent display of lights in the sky to symbolize a yearly tradition of an independence that brought more slavery and slaughter to this land than at any other time in its history. The potato salad helps numb that terrible history. Picnics during the day time smother parks in a haze of bar-b-q that covers even in thickest pine trees in a smell of charcoal. Never the less, once night falls upon the frantic children, fathers hold the hands of their wives to watch a display of blooming flowers in the sky that show up in every color possible. This sits the kids down on their grass stained jeans to look up in amazement providing the miracle of a little peace and quit to every parent under the sky's magnificent glow. I look forward to this moment every year, but this year, that moment slips away due to bills that cost more than the holy amount of fancy gunpowder.

My family understand the situation. They see the tired look in my eyes that our woes forces each eyelid to stay open. We ate potato salad still, just not at a park and not during the day, at night after my double that I gleefully volunteered to take ended. Every single smile at that table said "good job". I told everyone that the fireworks might still make an appearance. My wife shot a look of confusion at me, she knew the house better than anyone and knew that not even a sparkler hid in any of its cracks. I smiled at her, then I looked at the kids. I told everyone to meet me outside.

Standing outside they all shared excited giggles. Even my wife wanted to know the surprise. I brought out my handgun and shouted, "I have all the fireworks we need right here." Then I let off a single round. My wife grabbed the kids and dropped to the ground. I felt her anger rising like a volcano. Then the giggles roared out of the kids. Those giggles settled the volcano. One at a time, we took turns firing rounds into the sky at an angle. Fancy gunpowder might cost too much this year, but plain old regular gun powder still made the celebration possible. Like my grandpa told me the first time he taught me to shoot to keep me calm, "gun shots are just fireworks without the lights."

Written by: Johnny Roque

Proposing to someone means a lot of expectations exist, but the ability to keep a magical moment in tact usually depends more on the magical people.

This episode is also available as a blog post: https://smirkfiction.wordpress.com/2022/01/13/ring-in-the-disaster/

Ordering the champagne might change my life forever. Sitting next to the woman of my dreams, a woman that I only saw in meteor showers that caught my wishes of a beautiful, caring, and understanding bride, I nervously look over the menu. I know that nothing on the menu matters more than the champagne. My hands pore out beads of sweat through the pours of this once poor young man that now saved up enough to buy a ring, put a down payment on a house, and secure a blessing out of the people that created such a magnificent beauty. After several years of living with one another and a year of dating prior, I no longer see any years in the future alone, nor want any years without her. She looks at the menu and smiles.

The waiter ask her about wanting anything to drink. I interrupt with a goofy smirk and suggest champagne. She laughs, we never drink and on a Tuesday during lunch hour made no sense, but she opens her eyes in excited agreement. One of the many reasons I love her so much, she makes everything feel like an adventure. Walking away the waiter shoe looks loose on him. The slight diversion eases my brain.

An overload of thoughts usually push on my skull during stressful situations. I glance over at her. I move back a string of hair that dangles in front of her face. Her eyes pop a little. At that time we notice the waiter walking back to the table holding up two champagne glasses of destiny. A busboy almost runs into the waiter, but they narrowly miss one another. Their shoulders brush in a flirtatious chuckle. His eyes refocus on us. A wave of comfort washes over me knowing he takes this holy duty seriously. The left shoe, now a little looser flops underneath his serious brow. A woman sitting two tables ahead of us drops her napkin. Just like a match hitting a bale of hay soaked in oil, the entire plan turns into a situation worse than a barn burning. Down the waiter drops tossing the glasses into the air.

Champagne falls all over the restaurant. I rush over almost in a sprint leaving my table in a robotic fashion. To everyone else it looks like drinks were splashed. A common situation in a restaurant. I saw two empty glasses and over three thousand dollars on the floor somewhere. The waiter on the floor tries to stand up, but I crouch down next to him. He remembers the ring. A moment passes of us pushing chairs out of the way. I stand up to hunt on the tables around us to find a piece of jewelry that nobody knows exist. I just look like a guy that really wanted to hangout on the floor next to my waiter. Lifting the bread baskets around me, the people at the table tell me that they still want their bread. I almost yell at everyone to jump up. I wanted them to empty their pockets, but I also wanted my love to not feel embarrassed at this ape pushing everyone's night to the side. I finally spot a sparkle in the soup of a child.

My hand moves faster than a hustler trying to make his next buck on the streets pushing back a Queen of Hearts. Knuckles deep I feel a hand touch my shoulder. I turn to see her face. Through the chaos I feel calm again. Now more than ever I know why every day of my life I need her. This brings me down to my knee. I pull out a hand full of green pea soup and a 24 karat ring that still shines under the lights. She smiles at me. No answer, just a smile, a tear, and a crying baby that lost pea soup.