Tag Archives: Eliot Fintushel

In praise of Uxo

Fellow Friday Flash Fictioneer (and good friend) Shaun C Green has been nothing short of effusive about Futurismic’s return to the fiction field. Shaun had this to say about Eliot Fintushel’s “Uxo, Bomb Dog”:

“The tale itself is brilliantly written, with a distinctive voice and a playful approach to its arduous subject matter […] Fintushel’s tongue is planted firmly in his cheek throughout, as evidenced by the dominant, um, pseudo-religious movement of his USA being Naderism (complete with rubber noses, street parades and general amnesties). Fintushel’s characters are endearing and lovable; they’re not whole, many missing digits or limbs or worse, but they’re not broken. Not least of these memorable names is the eponymous Uxo, the last Bomb Dog – a Colonel in the United States Military and the recipient of a Purple Heart, no less. And they’re what gives the story its heart, its love of the living over dead machines and bombs. It comes down to a contest, too, with the living breathing Uxo put up against a cold de-mining machine under the moniker Volkovoy.”

If you’ve not read it yet, “Uxo, Bomb Dog” is waiting for you – bookmark it for later if you’re busy.

And if this seems a little self-congratulatory, well, maybe it is – I’m proud we’re publishing again, and I’m proud we’re publishing such good material. But I think it’s more a case of congratulating Fintushel – and if a webzine can’t big-up its authors, what can it do, eh?

UXO, BOMB DOG by Eliot Fintushel

As promised, original fiction returns to Futurismic – and how! We’re incredibly proud to be publishing Eliot Fintushel‘s story, and we hope you enjoy it too. So please use the comment form at the end to tell us (and Eliot!) what you thought of “Uxo, Bomb Dog”.


Uxo, Bomb Dog

by Eliot Fintushel

My bomb dog Uxo, my sweetie, my pal, he sweated and huffed, tongue unscrolled, forelegs folded. His fur was matted and dripping.

I held Mumps back with both my arms around her shoulders. The kid had lobbed stones at old Ux and tied soup cans to his tail, but now she’d jump mines to pet him.

“Stay put, little one. Uxo’s pacing himself, is all.”

“You can beat that pile of tin, Uxy.” Mumps’s chin was tear wet. Her voice choked and tumbled over the words. “Damn Volkovoy! Damn him! Cheater!”

We stood on a hill overlooking the meadow. A bunch of other kids ambled behind us, rags and bones, scruffy faces, some little ones on the shoulders of the bigger. Bit by bit, as Uxo and the damn machine cleared the meadow, we’d advance to the new safe zone for a better look. Continue reading UXO, BOMB DOG by Eliot Fintushel