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That Time I Ran Into Ernest Hemingway

That Time I Ran Into Ernest Hemingway

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Published by Connor Ludovissy
The title says it all, really. Flash fiction.
The title says it all, really. Flash fiction.

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Published by: Connor Ludovissy on Sep 23, 2012
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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that time i raninto ernesthemingway
a short . . . somethingby connor ludovissy
So, there was this time I ran into Ernest Hemingway.I walked
into my favorite bar, Jerry’
I know that’sa generic name, but Jerry loves the place, and it’sreally very classy. Anyway, so I walk into Jerry’s and
I go sit myself down at the bar and I see this fellowin a tweed jacket. I look up at his bulky frame and hisvoluminous mustache and something clicks in me. Thebartender asks me a question and I don
’t hear him.
“Holy hell!”
I say.
“I’m sorry, sir, what’s the problem?”
asks thebartender, who I ignore.
re Ernest Hemingway! The writer!
 Hemingway, or Papa, people have called him that,
let’s call him Papa, turn
s to me. He moves his wristback and forth in a free yet calculated motion,stirring his drink, sending it up and down and sloshingaround the sides.
“You know any other Ernest Hemingway?”
he asks, thenturns to face the bar again.
“Well there was this fellow named Ernest MacDonald,but he was Irish.”
 Papa must not have heard me or something, because he
say anything. I turn to the bartender, a pale,skinny guy of about twenty with a long, black haircutthat tells you he hates himself, and I order myself ascotch
no, two scotches.
“One for myself and one
ol’ Hem here.”
 Still staring ahead
, ol’
Hem says
, “Don’t call methat.”
 I shake my head. He always was a grumpy fellow.
“What are you doing at Jerry’s?” I ask.
“Well yeah, it is a bar. But aren’t you dead?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Uh, no, but it’s just kind of weird and all

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