Still.
Grabbed by the softest of hands… breath in my lungs, I was carried to shore, half blind, on the hip a two-piece bikini.
“Silly thing… the tide was going out!”
Oh, what became of you, my angel?
Friday Flash Fiction |
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Gordon's Choice In the hands of an ice-cold current to a depth unknown and couldn’t remember swimming so far from the shore. I hero worshipped Mark Spitz (remember him?). I was eight years of age. Too young. I struggled to the surface once more for the dirty water to cover my eyes, turning the bluest of skies into the darkest shade of dying alone.
Still. Grabbed by the softest of hands… breath in my lungs, I was carried to shore, half blind, on the hip a two-piece bikini. “Silly thing… the tide was going out!” Oh, what became of you, my angel?
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Lisa's Choice It’s no coincidence the tulips didn’t bloom the first spring after our son moved out. Their scrawny leaves barely emerged from the hard ground. No stem followed, no petals. I miss their Tyrian purple delight.
He had planted them en masse under the maple tree when he was thirteen. There was no pattern to their placement, just a jagged ring of flowers that seemed to grow and live independently from one another, much as he did, we did. Not even an early thaw and a persistent sun could draw forth these geophytes. Without him, we all favor sleep. One last question, Minister.’ John Campbell relaxed. The interview had gone surprisingly well, considering the reporter was from a newspaper fiercely hostile to the government. ‘Some of your colleagues have confessed to extra-marital affairs. Have you ever...?’
‘Absolutely not! I would never be unfaithful to my wife.’ He was telling the truth. ‘Thank you, Minister.’ The next morning Campbell was confronted by his angry wife waving the morning paper at him. The headline read: ‘Minister Denies Extra-Marital Affairs.’ Had he ignored the question he knew with sickening certainty the headline would have been: ‘Minister Refuses To Deny Extra-Marital Affairs.’ She scanned the trees searching fro her stalker, but she couldn't see him anywhere. Was he still spying on her? She bent down and began to weed her garden, her senses heightened as she wondered where he was. His threats were becoming a daily occurence.
A droning buzz suddenly circled her. He was trying to frighten her, but she held her ground. She continued picking her sweet peas. Suddenly, she was face to face with him. A foot away, he confronted her with his bright black eyes, magenta throat and flashing green feathers. He really was a beautiful hummingbird. Every Sunday, I wake up feeling like a music conductor about to perform a renowned symphony. But instead of music, I'm crafting a simple breakfast—an egg omelet. Melting butter in the pan signaling the keyboards to start. The sizzling butter sets the stage, and when I pour in the whisked eggs, the strings—violins and cellos—join in. A sprinkle of cheese introduces the woodwinds, adding depth to the melody. With diced ham, the brass sections arrive, their notes enhancing the composition. Finally, a dash of salt and pepper brings in the percussion, completing my culinary symphony.
He calls my name like so many times before.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I roll away from the doorframe, clutching the pillow beneath me with enough force to fuse carbon into diamond. Not here. Not again. He’ll discard me tomorrow. “Are you coming?” His perfectly practiced poison floats up the stairs and into my ready ears, dismantling my defenses. “Not this time,” I say to myself, willing the lie to be true. Must not go. Must resist. He beckons again. Who am I kidding? To my everlasting shame, my traitorous fingers lessen their hold on the pillowcase. When I woke this morning and limped downstairs to the kitchen, I forgot today was Thursday, the day her favorite kibble was on sale, so after I saw the cupboard was empty, I dressed and took a bus to Walmart; even though I didn’t remember the brand name, I’m sure I’ll recognize the picture on the bag because it has a gray and white striped cat which looks so much like her and when I returned home, I opened the door and shook the bag to get her attention and called, “Here, Kitty, Kitty. Here. Kit…” before I remembered.
Her book.
The moon was full that night, spooky in the silence, eerie in the cold. Shivering, she wrapped her cloak about herself, and waited. Suddenly a sound: An echo through the centuries. Across the vast distance separating two pulsing hearts romance was being granted a last chance to blossom into love. Breathing deeply, she stood, she stepped forward, and she faced her destiny. My book. The moon was full that night. Prominent. And full. "It's a shame the Earth doesn't have two full moons." thought Jake, as he holstered his Sig Sauer p229 pistol and walked forward. Billy glanced around his apartment as My Way played. Regrets? He loved writing bestsellers his public loved.
I wish Mother could see me now. She showed stories were wonderful and I should write my own. That was one ending Billy couldn’t write. Other family wanted to see “how he was doing”, the ones who’d mocked his ambitions, who wanted his money. He told them to go to the press. He’d then exercise the right of reply. He’d heard nothing since. Mother would’ve liked that. She showed them up for the scum they are. Why can’t cancer leave nice ones alone? Last week I stood with Giants.
Not fairytale giants. These were silent silhouettes standing vigil on the hill above a D-Day landing beach. The figures of soldiers, sailors and airmen honoured 1,475 British men who died eighty years ago on 06 June, attempting to liberate France. They landed sea-sick and afraid yet determined to bring sanity to a world gone mad. Amongst the silhouettes were those of two women – nurses who died rescuing seventy-five men from a sinking hospital ship. And in the woods were figures of men, women and children belonging to the French resistance. We will remember them. “There must be some way outta here,” said my new cellmate. “Chill, welcome to Hotel Sing Sing. You’ll meet all sorts in here – ploughmen, Trump,” I chuckled. “Anyway, whatdya do?” “Stole your jokes. Why did the chicken – ?” “Fun–nee. Look, we’ve been through that. It’s late, I need sleep.” But my thieving cellmate kept peering through the bars. “Why do parapet lookout guards wear crowns?” he asked. “Stop stealing my jokes,” I replied. “Why do the women come and go on motor bikes?” “Dunno.” “Because they can’t afford Jaguars! Boom-boom! We get tornados here, too,” I added. “You’re joking!” “Listen…” The phone rings.
Unmoved, Vivian looks at it with contempt. It’s Alan. His old methods aren’t working- Flowers. Chocolates. Love notes. “More lies,” she tells herself. Alan’s used to winning her over. Vivian doesn’t miss him this time. Something’s changed. She’s numb. Tired... Wiser. Too much damage. Too much pain. Her well of tears run dry. Soon, Alan stands outside Vivian’s door, insisting they “try again.” Knowing what’s coming, she calls the police. Things unfold like clockwork: false charm, anger, rage. Pounding on her door. How did she ever love him? No matter, Vivian decides, police officers approaching her door. Forced into going to bed earlier, young Marc dreamed of his mother’s absent kisses; it was a forlorn task. Rather he might attempt to write his story in no more than 100 words, a new format a publisher had dreamed up. Yet even his title, A la Recherche du Temps Perdu, took up six words alone. He changed it to Remembrance of Things Past – much simpler. What next then? dreamed Marc; sleep itself, however, disdained him. After much inquisition, he closed his drooping eyelids and confirmed that he had at least attempted to perfect the use of the semi-colon.
Priceless. When Patrick arrived home Friday, a parcel sat in his doorway with an attached note, “Three cubes Monday.”
He hated surprises and the wrapping soon lay at his feet. An orchid? Either this was a joke or it had been mistakenly left at his door. He returned the plant to the foyer. Back from his Saturday morning run, he tripped over the plant in his doorway. He scribbled “not mine” and took it back downstairs. The orchid reappeared; “Yes, yours,” printed over his words. Defeated, he took it in, named her Chid and faithfully fed her three cubes every Monday. I enjoyed my stay at your hotel. I knew I would when I saw the porridge for breakfast, grey and lumpy with a thick skin. In the bathroom I found two species of cockroach that I’d never seen before. One of them is rare and I’ll include it in a scientific paper I’m writing.
I have one complaint. The staff were friendly and courteous, nothing was too much trouble. In the light of this I’m forced to give you four stars rather than five. I hope to stay with you again; perhaps by then you will employ less helpful people. “Don’t argue, idiot.”
Liv’s spork-ratio was waning. She viewed life as sporks - a series of jagged prods that spilt her resolve. She started every day with ten sporks, enough to see her to lunch time. By then, she had none left. Spork refilling required idiot-free time, the longer the better. Conversely, the kinder she was, the more sporks she filled. And it had to be genuine kindness – she knew if she was faking it. Her spork-ratio equated to the number of forks she had left to give before she hit someone. We were sitting at the bar at Bell's Eccentric Cafe, silently sipping beers when my brother’s phone rang. Bob answered and stepped outside for a couple minutes.
I took the opportunity to steal the last garlic mustard chicken wing. Bob came back in and sat down. Eventually, he spoke. “That was Mary Jo back at the house. Did we leave a duck in the basement?” My memory of the morning was a little fuzzy, so I had to think for a second. “Not that I recall.” “I didn’t think we did, but she asked.” He shrugged. Family can be complicated. My peaceful afternoon was interrupted by a call from my “father” from abroad. The voice sounded robotic and disconnected. My “father” said he lost everything and needed my help.
I asked, “What was the last thing you told me before you left home?” The caller said he could not remember because he was too hungry and hurt. With a deep sigh, I disconnected the phone. In the garden, tulips and lilacs were in full bloom and several sparrows were singing happily. My father promised me he would call me when the hell freezes over. And he always keeps his promise. "There're three things I want you to remember, Louie."
"What, Al?" Leftie Louie was scheduled to fight Sledgehammer Rocco in 15 minutes. Al was his manager. They were in the dim, poorly-ventilated Locker Room. Outside began the chant 'ROCCO… ROCCO… ROCCO…’ "Sledgehammer's got a vicious right cross." "Vicious doesn't sound good, Al." "Exactly. But his left hook's like a dishrag." Were Louie's chances looking up? Al seemed lost for a moment. Was it the crowd noise? "That's two things, Al." The older man remembered. "Oh, yeah… If you come to after he hits you with his left, Louie, stay down." Gare du Nord was always crowded around Christmas, yet it was particularly busy today. The couple huddled underneath an escalator in silence, her arms hanging loosely around his waist. A muffled announcement struggled to penetrate the echoes of suitcases and footsteps through the station. The Eurostar departed in two hours. They had been avoiding addressing the matter for weeks, but it could no longer be deferred. Frowning, he threaded his fingers between strands of her hair. She nestled into his shoulder with each breath growing heavier. He counted them, one by one. He had never thought to do so before.
There was something different about the curried tuna; it didn’t taste as it usually did. He looked across at Brenda who smiled lovingly at him. He dismissed the thoughts of poison that had crossed his mind in light of her anger earlier that day. She’d been very annoyed with him for forgetting her birthday but it seemed she’d forgotten about it.
He shrugged and ate on. Perhaps it was just his guilty conscience. Fluffy, in the far corner of the room, licked his bowl clean and began to purr. Now that was much better than the usual kitty seafood mix. On a foggy Jos morning, I perched on the rooftop, scope fixed on the hotel window. My mission: take out the hostage-taker. I squeezed the trigger, my bullet shattering the glass. But in a split second, she moved, shielding her husband, the knife-wielding captor. My precision failed on my first assignment. I slumped, defeated, as the SWAT team stormed in. With shattered confidence, I packed up my rifle, the fog swirling around me like my doubts. I knew I had to redeem myself to regain my edge as a sniper.
She ran fast. A pretty woman stood next to her for photos and kissed her on the nose. Win or lose, the kind young man always gave her peppermints.
She had several foals but would never know they became stake-winners or broodmares and studs in Kentucky. Some were adopted or retired to special programs with men and women who, like racehorses, had records, tattoos and deserved a second chance. She was sold, re-sold, plucked out of a kill pen and brought to a rescue farm. A familiar and kind old man who worked in the barn always gave her peppermints. Eddie, dispirited, drove home cross-country after visiting his mother languishing in a nursing home, wanting but unable to die.
He stopped for gas. Filling up, he glimpsed a mom-like figure shuffle from the store to her car to work a $20 scratch card. After fueling, Eddie searched for snacks. He held the door for the gambling granny, incoming to buy another card. While checking his emails before driving away, he saw her purchase a third one. Ed prayed: “Dear Lord, take mom. Put this woman in mom’s bed. Remember the temple. No lottery cards in the nursing home, please.” All fifty chairs were unoccupied. I was at The Good Book on a book tour when Jeremy, a little boy, happened by.
“What you doin, mister?” “Maybe trying to sell books to empty chairs isn’t the best approach.” No sales that day; still there’s always tomorrow. Next day, the kid’s back, the chairs just as empty. “Hey, Mister, things ain’t looking too good.” “I’m fine.” Using his allowance, Jeremy bought my book. “Thanks, kid. How’s about there?” We sat on the floor. Got through the title. Fifty unoccupied chairs, with military bearing, selfless beyond measure, stood guard while we slept. |
"Classic"
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