Viewed from distant Tuesday.
Friday Flash Fiction |
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Friday. Such a wondrous word. Code for ‘in a few more hours I won’t have to adult’. Shorthand for ‘the weekend starts here’. Ah… ‘weekend’ a universally appreciated concept. Unless you work in retail. Roughly translated; ditch the tie, don’t take the commute. Breathe. Play. Be yourself, not a corporate entity. Stay up late; get up much, much later – nursing the obligatory hangover. Then enjoy a leisurely full English brunch when the stomach’s finally forgiven you. Football in the afternoon. Clubbing in the evening… rinse, repeat, repent. Friday. Light of my life, hi-light of the week-
Viewed from distant Tuesday. A giant meteorite will crash onto Earth tomorrow, knocking it off orbit and triggering a chain of eruptions that will blow it to smithereens. Scientists and authorities have scrutinized all methods to avert the catastrophe but finally decided to do nothing.
I’d love to stay home to witness the historic moment, with a bottle of champagne, caviar and Wagner’s Requiem. The extraterrestrial TV has been live-broadcasting the development since December 31, 23:59:59 cosmic time. And I’ll try not to be too sentimental while watching the curtain falling on that dark planet our ancestors abandoned some 200 years ago. I am trying to forgive you for what you had done to my husband and my son.
I am trying so hard with all my heart and soul but it is such a long, arduous journey to Forgiveness that I don't know when I'll arrive at that destination. Tomorrow is another day, but is that so? There isn't any tomorrow for my husband or my son, but still I am trying to forgive you. Out on M87, the Central Committee fretted: how to promote a positive image of the celestial body and its massive attractions?
"Our tourists can't leave M87, so they don't come back," Secretary-General T-2398 explained. Heads nodded: T-2398 was not to be trifled with. Fearing imminent execution, the Minister for Tourism and Marketing suggested, "Perhaps a re-brand, Ma'am? Costa del Virgo? Black Hole dans Ciel? We can hardly produce a holiday brochure with photographs." "Nonsense!" T-2398 said. "M87 sounds sexy to me. Let's just copy the politicians on that stupid planet and make it up. Use Photoshop and send something out." Having outlived multiple generations beneath her, the blind and mute woman became an enigma. It was certain, however, that each member was welcomed into this world by her artistry.
A sparse hut, in the heart of the village, glowed as her wrinkled fingers raced against fading embers nestled within the grate. A flickering candle whispered to her spirit. She acknowledged, yet remained steadfast, for the chief’s daughter was coming at any hour. When the congregation called the following morning, she lay clutching a brilliant garment. It was complete, as was the life of Mother Weaver. See the old man.
White hair. Band-Aids covering lesions on forearms. Pre-cancerous, probably. JVC headphones. Watching cello lessons on YouTube from laptop. Scribbling notes. I’ve three work emails open. Cold coffee. Exhausted. Look left—pink-haired woman glances at me. Away. Then back at me. Smile. Mohawk man—Pink’s beau?—follows her glance. Registers me. Glares. You’re the cog of a disastrous quadrangle, I think. Mohawk reads my mind, seemingly. Stands. Haven’t stopped smiling. Smittenness contagious. Look right—old man remains preoccupied. Scribbling furiously. Lifelong student. Mohawk grabs my shoulder with sizable paw. Pink gasps. Instant adrenaline. Jiu-jitsu training > reason. I was playing opera singer Madame Ernestine in Little Mary Sunshine. During Act II, I walked across stage behind the curtain, heading for my next entrance. In the dark, my foot hit the edge of the platform, and I fell to the floor three feet below. Fortunately, my voluminous skirts cushioned my fall. Trembling, I stood up, made sure I could walk, and heaved my body back up to stage level. I hurried to stage right, arriving just as I heard my cue. Smiling, I walked out and spoke in my best diva voice.
The show must always go on. Carter turns eighty today. He is stoked to have reached this milestone but frustrated. You see, his reflexes haven't been all that great lately, and he requires more time to complete his tasks of daily living.
Slowly he climbs into the driver's seat of his car, starts the engine and presses his foot down on the accelerator. He groans as he loses control of the car and it crashes into his garage door for the second time this week. Frowning, he rubs the back of his neck. "It might be time to surrender my driver's license," he mutters to himself. Lars, via Kathmandu (Nepal), arrived in Namche Bazar to begin his third Everest-expedition. Historic snow on surrounding low mountains melted from planet’s recent warming, revealing their nakedness. In last expedition, Lars lost his friend Pierre in a snow-blizzard, while descending.
In current expedition, a sudden avalanche would separate Lars from his team. Fortunately, he’d recover by hanging on to a cliff. Darkness approaching, he noticed an unexpected uphill red marker. He climbed the distance, only to realize it was the red-gloved frozen hand of buried Pierre. Global warming brought him out too, now signaling the current climbers to right direction. Once at the park he threw the ball out into space.
The dog watched for a split second then raced away to retrieve it. This was what life was all about he thought – being outside on a sunny day, with the flowers in full bloom, the grass warm beneath his feet and to cap it all a game of fetch to play. He just hoped his best friend was as happy at this moment as he was. For over a year the house stood silent and I imagined the old woman's ghost smiling in the doorway then "new" people arrived, a young couple with two children.
Every week something changed to the house which really was a museum piece of the 70s. Windows appeared in the roof, a new garage, front door constructed, the interior unrecognisable. Last night I dreamt I saw the old woman's spirit. She drifted back to her "home" after a daily walk but the whole place was unfamiliar. "I don't live here. I've been erased," she said softly to herself. Uproar in the village. Someone in the church committee suggested that interior refurbishment of St Michael’s church included the removal of pews, replacing them with padded chairs.
Horror! Maybury village was divided, for and against. “Pew’s aren’t original parts of the church,” thundered the church warden, but the ‘keepers’ weren’t convinced. The vicar settled the dispute with this little ditty in the parish magazine: A Maybury church with old pews Asked Almighty God for his views He said “I don’t give a sod, ’Cos I’m Almighty God, Just burn ’em and put in some loos. The ‘removers’ won – hands down. I watched Tracey place her head in her hands and sigh.
‘Oh, my withering life. Cruel outlook. The gods themselves are contriving for me a barren wasteland of fathomless sorrow. Such is my path, such is my destiny. My life’s moments are but footsteps into an unknown abyss, my journey one of haste and diminishing tomorrows to a future of decaying mortality.’ I stared at her. ‘Have you quite finished?’ Tracey nodded. ‘Okay. Three things: first, stop reading so much Shakespeare; second, you need to quit that acting class; and third, you’re only 40 today, so stop being so melodramatic.’ She holds up two dresses. ‘The blue or the red?’
‘You look gorgeous in either,’ he says. ‘I think I’ll wear the green one.’ In the restaurant, she can’t decide between the sirloin steak or the lemon sole. ‘But if I have steak, which sauce do I choose?’ ‘Why not try the beef stroganoff?’ he suggests. ‘Good choice, but I fancy chargrilled chicken tonight.’ Later, they pore over the dessert menu. ‘I hate making decisions.’ She looks up. ‘Why are you smiling?’ ‘I have a simple question, just answer yes or no. Will you marry me? Another job interview. But for this one I like my chances. Been looking in the wrong places. I revel in sales talks. This will be my best shot after a month of ‘see ya laters.’
The recruiter over the phone liked my voice. Said I sound like George Clooney. Said make sure to show up ten minutes early. The interview’s at nine. I plan on arriving by 8:45. 110 th floor. Imagine the view from my desk. Look at that deep blue sky. Feeling lucky today. There’s the lobby. Wait. Is that a plane? Heading toward the building? Oh God. 'Quite honestly dear if you don't get a move on it will be too late'
'Really mother! I am thirty-five and just maybe I don't want kids', replied Vera. 'Look, I am past even caring if you marry first, a grandson, just the one' 'So what if I had a girl?' Vera sat stirring her coffee while her mother digested that one. 'I don't think I'd mind if it was a bloody alien at this point, you know me, I move with the times." Vera shook her head. Nobody she knew had ever given birth to an alien. A lovely co-worker had three single daughters and offered to set me up with one.
She handed me a family picture and pointed out their names and ages. Seeing that I had trouble deciding, she gave me the photo to take home. It was difficult. The youngest was pretty, but I wasn’t sure we could relate. The second had a sinister look, and the third seemed too fussy. When I arrived at work the next morning, I had my choice. “Well, who’s the woman of your dreams?” asked my co-worker excitedly. I looked into her eyes, “You are.” Dr. Prashant Kumar sighed.
Not even a month into his experiments on theoretical physics at the Indian Institute of Science, and already the equipment required for his dissertation had faced considerable pushback from investors. Very well. Kumar would use the mathematically equipped electron microscope he had constructed from available PhD funding. Tuning the fine focus to maximum, his hypothesis was confirmed: The single atom’s electrons orbited their nucleus at a proportional ratio identical to the orbit of planets around their sun. Kumar stared in awe at the evidence that atoms were, indeed, solar systems on the subatomic scale. Barry became a cop because his mother was a victim. He became a prick when his partner became a victim.
Ten years on the force taught him that possession was nine-tenths ownership by normal law, but Barry didn't live by normal law. He lived and worked within the shrouded world of incorporeal law. The slightest percentage of a possession was a violation illegally obtained. It was his job to retrieve possessed bodies and give them back to their rightful owners while bringing those who illegally possessed them to justice. He wasn't just a paranormal cop, he was a Demon Hunter. Their hearts pounded excitedly, anticipating a spiritual experience as they climbed up the steps, gazing at the lavishly adorned temple. They remembered their first visit and the tremendously strong bond they each experienced. Since then they religiously attended every Sunday. It became their sole focus in life. The couple would do anything for that relationship, in fact, they pretty much did. They increased their financial donations until they were forced to sell off their assets, eventually becoming homeless. All this sacrifice to continue their relationship in the name of the temple. The temple’s name – The Starlight Casino.
On what would have been my mother’s eighty-seventh birthday, I attended a computer workshop. When I touched the mouse, a green screen came up. Pristine handwriting said, “Hello, Lynn.”
How did they do that? I leaned in, whispering, “Hello?” The message stayed there until the workshop started. Later I would realize the screen looked like the high school blackboards my mother had once written on. When I told a work colleague she said, “Nice of her to drop by.” Mom was telling me she was on the other side and fine, as I’d requested during her last days. Todd was a self-declared computer nerd. Every minute possible, he parked himself in front of his system playing games or networking on social media. People told him to go out, but he was addicted.
One day at his station, Todd started coughing and hiccuping incessantly. Pounding his chest, he raced out the door and was blinded by the sun. He hadn’t been out in days. “Todd! Are you OK?” his neighbor Amy questioned, concerned. “About ... to die ... from coughing,” he panted. “And you came ... outside?” Amy asked slowly, not believing it. He grinned. “Does your mother know where you are?” “I’m really not sure we’re the best qualified to judge this contest, you know.”
“But we have to have a winner.” “Why - it is an impossible task. Whoever we choose the others are likely to be offended and possibly so much so they’ll seek some form retribution later.” “So what do you suggest?” “Choosing them all.” “But that will mean no one wins.” “Yes - but no one loses either – it’s a win-win-win, 3 contenders, 3 winners.” “But will that work.” “Of course - we’ll call it the Grand Compromise – everyone wins by not winning. Might just catch on!” It hung in the corner. A gift. A dress of dreams. Dress enough to give her confidence and courage. So, she hoped. She slid it on, it flowed down the length of her body, slipping around every contour. This would work.
Slowly she strode across the stage. The sea of eyes looked back at her. Her tongue caught. The words were gone. The room grew restless. Then the words began. To flow. They were enraptured. Under a spell. Under her command. To rule. And yet, she had not uttered a single word. The Dress Spoke For Her . . . . . Della couldn’t believe she was 78, though her knees reminded her whenever she took the stairs. She knew she should choose senior housing while she still had the health and wits to orchestrate a move. But she loved her condo.
She watched the auctioneer haul away her good china, crystal, and silver. Her antique washstand with bowl & pitcher. Her wine glass collection. Her round coffee table, and more. How painful it was to give up cherished possessions that held a lifetime of memories. She looked around her living room, warmed by the friendships symbolized there. She would be ready. |
"Classic"
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