flash fiction » jentropy

Spoke

Jun 242009

His finger man tripped through rainbow carwash bubbles up to the second knees. Tyler bridged his other hand across his eyes and squinted at cul-de-sac baseball. He felt safer on the moss-cracked curb. The fresh stripe was tacky dry but water wet. Finger man swerved from a folded band-aid shark and climbed the slick red wall.

Tyler dug his thumbnail into the paint, peeling unjust summers year by year until he found the crackle of eight. Eight was a good summer. Girls were boys and boys were kings and fair was getting to pick the first popsicle next time. Ponytails begged pulling, not broken promise. That was before the arms and legs and whispers.

Barefoot pipe cleaner legs splayed beyond the rushing gutter and he rubbed his colty knees. He was the fastest runner back then and his decent swing always got him an early pick. A silent pact now kept his early-in but always placed him on Austin’s team. Balance.

Finger man plunged into the receding flood, headless, alone, arms behind in contemplation. A miniature maple leaf spun and dipped and emerged modestly plastered to the web between Tyler’s fingers. He sloughed it free and sat on his hand, ashamed at his childish puppetry.

A Frisbee base skidded into his bubble, followed by Austin flicking pebbles from scraped palms. Both nodded their dance, eyes averted. Summoning courage, Tyler stood. He lifted a curious grin at flecks in Austin’s eyes. Crushed with Tyler’s truth, Austin tracked denial backwards to the game. Eight was a good summer. When Tyler was eight, he still had a mother.

Five Acres

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Jun 222009

The pasture sloped gently before him, fruit-laden autumn branches bouncing glimpses of snow-capped peaks. He toed the soil and sat, twisting an alfalfa sprig between his fingers. Nettie, the dog-brained alpaca flopped down beside him for a rub. She was the last of the livestock and spent her days close to the farmhouse.

He had cultivated the land with dreams of generations, posterity and promise. Josh and Cameron kept to their city skyline views now. Neither seemed destined for seed or soil. He lifted the single picket, squaring the crooked cardboard to the horizon, winking condos brushed in place, layered over red barns, river, and mountains. Lowering the sign in optimism, he pictured a small farmhouse and yard full of children.

He raised his weight on creaky knees and waved at Midge in the kitchen window. She blew a kiss as he walked down the gravel drive, balancing mallet and sign. When he reached the tall grass near the main road, he cleared a space and hammered the picket home.

Agency

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Jun 222009

She lifted her arm again and selected one, darker and larger than the first. Her tongue confirmed the choice and she thought of swallowing the seed. Who taught her not to swallow the seeds? It must have been her mother, but she couldn’t remember now. She had trusted and complied, a choice removed.

A paved path wound before her, possibly the way she’d come. Behind her stood a fence. She sucked the juice down to the pit and spat, considering another. The first had puckered her mouth in shock and the second delivered relief. A third tempted and risked unknown. Maybe she should stop at two. The rain collected in her plaid pajamas and pooled inside her rubber boots.

Motion in fog distracted from the decision and she watched the approaching dot. The dot swelled into a fluid shape and then a man. The man stood dry before her, lowering her arm and slipping wet strands from her face. She blinked away the blur and shifted her legs, rubber boot squeaks breaking raindrop drone. Noise accompanied movement of his mouth, but wisped away before translation. “Well, what did you decide?”

Recycled

flash fiction 12 Responses »

Jun 192009

She was absolutely normal. She grew up without a dad, but so did they. They crushed her pansies down with shoes she couldn’t name, right heels rubbed commuter raw. There was nothing to envy in those jacket-wrapped silk-satin shells. Her life was exactly what she wanted. The earth accepted her gifts, returning favors with blossoms and symmetry. Each morning, she stepped from her patio into her temporal office, pruning thoughts and whetting desire.

Her mother asked, “When are you going to grow up? You’re 34 years old and you still live in an apartment alone. How are you going to find a man when you’re covered in dirt and smell like a farmer?” A man. She had one once. Once was enough. Those women in stockings wilted in mailroom scowls and swimming pool anxiety. Moist skin hid molding despair and regret. There was no jealousy in her coveralls of invisibility.

Her patio blooms mocked pale waxed handbags, scarves, decapitated cherry bubbles. They left in bouncing curls and limped home at night with gray pencil men, ghosts with heads of numbers. Transactions traded figure for figure then burst for winter’s frost. Painting pastel paths, her living colors on flesh taunted theirs chafed dead under layers. She worked in soil unsoiled and watched the others swallowed by worms.

Half Brewed

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Jun 182009

He set his mug on the counter, picked up the empty carafe and poured a cup of nothing. Raising it to his lips, he breathed invisible steam and anticipated liquid scald. That’s when he woke up. She must have been running late. The filter drawer limped toward him begging for grounds. Maybe they were out of beans. He opened the cupboard and removed the sealed bag of beans, grinding some for today and tomorrow, in case she was late again. He filled the carafe with water and poured it into the machine, halting at the overflow. She had filled the water, inserted the filter, but not ground the beans.

Mail blanketed the counter and he sorted it into piles while he waited for the bell. He placed the bills in her purse and tossed the junk mail. The timer beeped and he poured a new cup, savoring the scald. Lounging, he sipped and read. The front door leaked a sunshine stripe across the rug. Tripping over her laptop bag, he closed the door and returned to his morning ritual. He would email from the office to tease her about oversleeping.

High Gloss Ashes

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Jun 162009

The sky was definitely yellow, but the time for agreement had passed. She stepped back through the sliding door, still eyeing the courtyard below. “Did you take out the recycling?” She heard the truck a few buildings down and spun to face him. He wasn’t looking.

He spent more time erasing than drawing. The rubber crumbs doubled in reflection on the dining table, the one piece of real furniture she owned. She unearthed the brush from his satchel and thrust it under his nose. He accepted it without looking up and swept the crumbs onto the carpet.

He noticed the sky, or a spider web, or a crack in the ceiling, but she was invisible. She collected the recycling and dropped it near the front door while he labored over his final project. Six years. She worked and paid the bills while he fattened himself on knowledge.

She changed into her uniform, saffron sky parching bitter lines in the bedroom mirror. Dust scuttled as she slung the drapes across the track, willing the sky black. He was smoking on the patio again. He smiled and told her she looked pretty. Pretty. Pretty enough to scrub some rich guy’s toilet. She glared and stomped to the kitchen.

His drawing spread tempting on the table, now clear of crumbs. Finish spray moistened the dark secrets of the body he created from living dreams. He lived while she stood in decay. She surged with power, knowing his weakness. Testing the moment, she spoke, “You’re right. The sky is yellow.” The truck choked and bellowed as it passed.

The sky darkened when she left. He stuffed his satchel and stripped the pillows of their cases. Cramming clean clothes in one case and books in the other, he debated nothing. He squeezed onto the old pickup bench with his accumulated years beside him. The recycling truck ground its way back again as the wind whipped garbage across the courtyard.

In a slice of clarity, he braved the storm and returned to the apartment. He wrested the key from the ring and plunked it down on the wilted drawing. Swinging the recycling bag over his shoulder, he walked away without closing the door. Dark wind swiped his burden and splayed the contents across the disappearing pavement. Entombed in the truck, he lurched through the parking lot, impotent headlamps challenging speed bumps and swirling debris. A potted cactus rushed at the windshield and he held his breath, eyes open. In the quiet of that moment, the dregs parted. He exhaled and drove from the screeching menace and into the yellow sky.

Then he remembered. He returned and removed the key, placing it on the table next to the prone body. He swung the recycling and left the front door open. Wind swiped his burden and splayed it across the disappearing pavement. Entombed in the truck, he lurched through the parking lot, impotent headlamps challenging the speed bumps and swirling debris. A potted cactus cracked the windshield and he held his breath. In the quiet of that moment, the dregs parted and revealed the yellow. He exhaled and drove away from the screeching menace.

In Threes

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Jun 112009

This story was written for the Editor Unleashed Flash Fiction 40 Contest.

She cradled the cracked plastic wagon like a fetal twin. An unlikely rose bush stood sentinel, wilting yellow petals onto the earth of this mobile womb. He would have made the call immediately, had he not discovered her while urinating in the alley. The patrol bike leaned lazily against the brick wall, while he stepped around the bizarre scene, radio in hand, words evaporating with the evidence of his detour. The woman was dead. He made the call and waited.

The cramped alley soon swarmed with experts and he repeated his brief account to each as they filtered through the crowd of onlookers. A detective asked if he knew the identity of the victim. He didn’t, but he caught a glimpse of Magda in heated discussion with a phantom. He motioned with his head, “Ask Magda. She knows everyone around here.”

Magda never lied. Sometimes she refused to speak, but she never lied. He watched the detective approach and touch Magda on the shoulder. She transferred her verbal assault from her invisible opponent to the unsuspecting detective, and he stepped back and returned to the scene, rolling his eyes at Kettering as he passed. Kettering crossed the street and sat on the curb, straightening his yellow shirt, acutely aware he’d been wearing it for fourteen hours.

Magda was the cleanest homeless person he had ever met. She wore three layers of clothing and washed the innermost layer each night. The others respected her, needing her information and fearing her knowledge. She stood over him, hands on hips, “You found Miss Elizabeth. Good. Good.” He waited for her to continue, but she stepped away and resumed her dialog. He went back for his bike and the detective’s card, before returning to Magda’s lair.

She was oblivious and he walked away. Before he reached the end of the block, she shouted, “This way!” He followed and she led him briskly up the hill and away from the bay. They left the heart of the city and she remained silent. They entered a neighborhood of stately brick homes, and he wondered why he was there and not at home, asleep and clean. This was his last shift. Monday held new promise.

Magda stopped in front of a restored Tudor, violent growth punctuating vacant windows. He fingered one of the realtor flyers and noted the historic home would soon be up for auction. Magda flopped down on the stone steps and arranged her skirts with her good arm. She removed a cigarette from an inside pocket and chewed it peacefully. “Miss Elizabeth home.”

Kettering controlled his twitching eyebrow, “She lived here?”

“Stole that wagon. Watched her do it, too. Come up here and dig that plant. Soft white hands. Say her mama give it her.”

He nodded, steady hands offering a lit match. They sat silent and watched the crossing ferries on the bay. Sunrise painted a thousand blushes on the towers of the Emerald City. Kettering worked nights, bar fights and crowd control, keeping things pretty for tourists. “I hadn’t seen her before. Was she around long?”

“Few moons. See her days. She turn nights for Doc.”

Doc ran one of the elite social clubs in the city. His best girls worked and lived in the cliff-side home, where he had no tolerance for substance abuse or disease. Doc’s place was squeaky. Frequented by politicians and the techno-riche, Doc’s was only available by invitation, and transactions involved trade, not cash. Girls and guests were treated like royalty. Doc was untouchable, like Magda.

She rose and started the trek back down the hill, her posture discouraging company. He heard the faint statement to the water below, “I give her wings.” Magda was a liaison, a distributor. She worked for a clean needle project, gathering waste from the street zombies in exchange for pristine hope in plastic wrap. No one really knew if she used or carried or dealt.

He knew her words were true, but didn’t know if he cared any more. He finished the tedious out-processing, without divulging his knowledge. They would figure it out eventually, if they hadn’t already. He returned home and steamed away fifteen years, cleansing his mind and body before burying himself in dreamless sleep. He spent the weekend in bed, attempting to adjust to the new schedule.

On Monday, Mr. Kettering mounted his bike to ride into his dreams, and then abruptly halted the habitual process. He decided, instead, to break in his new shoes, stopping for coffee on the way. Pulling his card from the thin wallet, he noticed the detective’s card and remembered Magda’s broken story. He felt a sense of responsibility in his new shoes.

He visited the lounge on his lunch break and waited to use the only public telephone. The detective was in, and remembered him from the scene. Mr. Kettering gave him the woman’s name and address, and prepared to hang up the phone. The detective spoke, “We’ve got everything. It was all there. She kept it in the dirt under that plant; passport, jewelry, empty prescription bottle. Huh. Even a few of those posh-red fingernails.” He paused and Mr. Kettering remained silent, hoarding his knowledge. “Her ex says she was addicted to pills. She lost her job, some mortgage scam. Lost it all. He took the kids and moved in with his folks, down in New Mexico. He thought she was with friends. Didn’t know she was on the street. Too bad, really. Looks like she only used a few times. Bad stuff.”

Mr. Kettering thanked the detective for the update, and replaced the handset in the cradle. He stood and walked from the room, glazed eyes translating his image in the polished shoes. A single scuff obscured reality. He breathed the elements of his new life; burnt coffee and stale popcorn, anxiety and hope. He pulled open the metal door, his own door, and consumed the view. A room full of expectant young faces offered the promise of perspective.

Waiting for Knowing

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May 222009

Sometimes you find meaning as your senses absorb the world around you. Your brain clicks, tags, and files everything, pulling up distant memories and associating them with new sensations. Other times, things just float around, spots in the vitreous jelly. You notice it, chase it, but it’s always a bit ahead of you. Every once in a while, I hear a song from my childhood and start singing along, proud for keeping a memory for thirty years. Then I discover the words in my head are nothing like the actual lyrics of the song. I’ve filed away a faulty memory for thirty years, kept it pristine and then recovered it in all its uselessness.

Maybe that’s the case with my memories of those mornings on the island. Did Betty really come to school in second grade and tell everyone her mom discovered a dead body in the trees behind their house? Did we really shrug it off because the man was just a drunk old homeless guy? I was afraid of those trees after that, and afraid of the playroom in her attic. The adults told us not to be scared, he died because he drank too much. They did not explain why his face was all swollen and bruised, and why she discovered him because of the awful smell.

We speculated. Why should we trust the adults? These were the same people we overheard talking about Kevin’s mom running off with Lisa’s dad. Kevin’s dad let his mom come back, like nothing had happened. Happily ever after. And what were those morning parties all about? I remember the women showing up in their curlers and nightgowns. My mother told me to stay upstairs, it was a, “come-as-you-are,” party. I thought, if there was a party, there must have been invitations, and if they had invitations, didn’t they know when to arrive? Why wouldn’t they have gotten dressed?

The island was a picture. Brilliant colors, light and shadow and silence. Even the waves were still and hushed when the adults gathered. We pulled down the staircase to the attic, and dressed in their abandoned negligees and high-heeled shoes. Our chubby fingers smeared on lipstick samples. Sheer pinks glistened and spread, while reds clumped up to mimic the lumps in my clumsy red crayon drawings. We tried to listen through the attic floor, but only heard the clinks of glasses and muffled voices. The tiny window framed a magical picture, at once the forbidden trees, and then the benign ocean waves. We waited for knowing. Knowing would happen when we were older. Knowing is now. But now, I wonder if those were really the words I heard.

Kaleidoscope

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May 172009

On parallel paths, they pulsed through the thickening crowd. Swirls of light and color gave rhythm to the coarse, moonless night. She marched toward a dream, glancing off elbows and shoulders, spinning in distraction, but not losing sight of her target. The purple tent in the foothills of the great machines promised forbidden wonders. The center pole stretched deceptively high, limp streamers glinting silver, then gold, now silver again as the spotlights passed.

He moved his foggy form through the bodies, not touching, not seeing, but sensing proximity. For him, there was no destination, only escape. He did not run, because there was no fear of pursuit. He just moved, deeper into the crowd, into his head. A thousand lights captured his scowl and he didn’t seek cover of shadows. Instead, he pocketed sweaty hands, fingering stones and willing belief.

She reached the pavilion, surprised to see no others waiting to discover their future. The ground was flat, littered with popcorn and popped balloons. She reached for the flap, slowing fingers as nerve melted. A voice invited, “Welcome,” and she halted, turning an about-face. She looked at the crowd before her, faceless swarms, backs turned intent on shared experience.

He looked up as he moved, noting faces, empty expressions, neither pained, nor satisfied. They moved in the opposite direction, seemingly of their own free will, parallel, but not together. Who were these people and why were they here? Why did they choose the heat, lines, noise and frights, instead of peace at home? He slowed and watched them move.

She spun back around, rejecting the crowd and entering the tent to find it surprisingly light. The woman seated before her on the ground, seemed peaceful surrounded by a rainbow of jeweled satin pillows. Spying the fishbowl, the girl unfolded her last dollar and placed it in the bowl, surrendering herself on a jade pillow. “Your first time?” The woman seemed to grin as she spread the stones on the dirt before her.

“Yes.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I know. I mean, how do you know?”

She definitely laughed this time. “I’ve been doing this a long time. I can always tell.”

The woman asked her to touch the stones, as many as she wanted. She hesitated at first, and then tapped four stones with her index finger and clasped hands in her lap. The woman turned the stones over, two at a time, and arranged them in a cross, selecting two additional stones and then placing the rest in the bag. The girl fingered the gold crucifix at her throat.

As the woman spun a tale, weaving past and future, the girl’s shoulders began to shake, and tears splashed, mixing with dirt and stones. She asked no questions, but thanked the woman gracefully as she lifted the tent flap and stepped into the kaleidoscope. A sudden breeze broke the night and the flag streamers crackled and flashed. She stepped away from the crowd, clearing her mind.

He moved hastily now, leaving the human sea behind, his path blocked by a wooden wagon, displaying trinkets and treasures, both old and new. A breeze picked up and an amber teardrop spun, catching his attention. He reached for the jewel, but instead of the expected hardness, he grasped warm flesh, the fingers of the girl. Startled, she tried to withdraw, but he held tight. “Go ahead,” he smiled. “You saw it first.” She hesitated, then touched the pendant where it dangled, almost out of reach. He took it down and placed it in her hand, his composure now relaxed, hopeful.

She stroked it lovingly and met his eyes, the color of the stone in her hand. The vendor coughed, shuffling her feet and tapping the counter. He spoke, “You can take it. I’ll find another.”

“No, really. I was just looking. Thank you.” She placed it reluctantly in his palm and spun away, disappearing into the human sea. Stunned for a moment, he asked the vendor the price, and quickly paid. He clutched the warm stone in his hand and ventured into the sea after the girl, flowing into the bodies before him, becoming one of them.

Any Day

flash fiction 6 Responses »

May 102009

She held the pen lightly between her fingers as she waited for the struggle in front of her to cease. Lips spread wide in a patient grin as the father winked in her direction and proceeded to wrench the slippery menu from the mouth and fingers of the baby in the high chair. A young girl with wires trailing from her head loudly belted the words of a pop tune. The mother was performing a crayon sweep in the mouth of a toddler who swung his head violently from side to side. “I think we need another minute,” the dad apologized.

She nodded and looked up to see her manager motioning from the reception desk. She moved to the front of the restaurant where the crowd of people was quickly overtaking the alley of parked strollers. Young patrons gave up their seats on the bench for the elderly, as the wait list continued to grow. Her manager informed her she needed to do her best to free the tables to accommodate the Mother’s Day guests as quickly as possible, suggesting take-out dessert when possible.

She tripped over a cane on the way back to the frustrated family, but didn’t lose her concentration. For three years, she had worked this shift, bringing home more tips than she could earn in several weeks waiting tables during the average lunch shift. She stood again before the family, remembering to blink a sparkle into her eyes as she took their orders and brushed off the repeated apologies. She next served a table with three generations of women, proud mothers and a young daughter, hopeful with swollen belly and flushed cheeks. They laughed as they finished their meal and she loathed the thought of rushing them to eat their cheesecake at home. With a pinched smile, she handed them the dessert menu, relieved they already knew what they wanted to share. No take-out today.

Rushing from table to order station, to the kitchen, to her manager, there was little time to reflect. If there had been, she would have become lost in the hurt of a day designed seemingly in ignorance of women like her, both motherless and childless. All her extra money from this, her second job, fueled her dreams of conception. For four years, she and her husband had tried to bring new life into their little family. Countless losses, painful treatments and decimated hopes should have broken her, but she remained hopeful. Miracles happened every day, even to people who didn’t deserve them. She deserved a miracle.

She helped elderly twins to a booth near the front of the restaurant and wondered about their children, who were not present. Were the pair here to celebrate, or was this just an average day? A baby cried from the back of the room, and her senses rebelled, even while her smile stretched wider and her voice remained calm. The harried family was now leaving, and she remembered the digital stick she had hidden in the restroom an hour before. How could she have forgotten? She delivered boxed and bagged desserts to tables, all with a friendly smile and casual stride. A sudden lull in the restaurant indicated the end of the rush. She noticed a mother in a booth nursing her blanket-draped baby. Removing her apron, she strode purposefully toward the back of the restaurant, anxious to read the digitized adjectives that would describe her future.

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