She has me at a disadvantage. She can always create other characters, but I cannot go to another author; I am forced to do what my author wills.
So if my actions seem a little stilted as you read my author’s story, please blame her rather than me.
Friday Flash Fiction |
|
|||
|
Of course my author has writer’s block: She keeps thinking of me as a character and not as a person. I try to tell her what I mean to do, but she dismisses me because my plans don’t mesh with her preconceived story ideas. We seem to have reached an impasse.
She has me at a disadvantage. She can always create other characters, but I cannot go to another author; I am forced to do what my author wills. So if my actions seem a little stilted as you read my author’s story, please blame her rather than me. The sounds of sighs, coughs, hair flicking, fingers clicking, paper rustling like birds in the undergrowth. The click-click of a ballpoint, frustration hanging in the air, inspiration playing hide 'n' seek in the clouded mists of the mind. A mosaic of memories, fragments of ideas, a jigsaw in the head, pieces waiting to fit somewhere, somewhere...
Finally the slumbering brain revives, reboots, rejoices. Fingers wield frantic pens, a frenzy of sqiggles spreading tentacles across the paper like an octopus after its prey. Words of knowledge, understanding and creativity careering along on a magical pathway to the future... She lives far from anybody. No neighbours pop in for cups of tea.
Thick sea fog menaces, slinking in from the rocky coast. It persuades the day away from its natural light and distorts the landscape. And then she can no longer see anything but whiteness as it gradually envelopes the house and pushes thickly against the windows. It is eerie. Uncannily quiet. She is cold and alone. She wonders about lighting the fire, but she would have to go out in the mystery of the mist; a blanket will do. There is a sudden loud hammering at the door. Paddy O’Doyle dozes in his worn leather armchair. Eyes closed he dreams he’s playing in the forest with his best friends, Seamus Molloy and Effie Donovan: cowboys and Indians, patch-eyed pirates, three sword-wielding musketeers.
The musketeers went to war. Seamus lost an arm, a leg, his life. Effie informed Paddy in one of her erratic letters that she was driving a Red-Cross ambulance. His mum sent a postcard. Effie and her ambulance had been blown to smithereens. “Is that you, my friends?” “Come play with us,” Seamus and Effie lift him from his chair. Paddy O’Doyle’s eyes have closed forever. Grandma arrived home bubbling over with excitement.
"Well, don't you love my new hair color? It's the latest fashion trend, Fiesta Pink! I loved it so much, I brought home pizza and Prosecco so we could have a party." "Kathleen, daughter dearest, hurry and pop the Prosecco." "Now tell me, Maria, what do you think of my new look?" "Well, Grandma, it's…..well…..Barbie would be jealous!" Taking that as a compliment, she turned to Kathleen. "And what do you think?" Kathleen quickly responded, "Time for a toast! To us! Cheers!". She knew honesty could wait for another day. They were in hiding for years. Every time they thought they could come out, they’d hear the shouting, the crying.
So they stayed hidden. Cowering in the dark, in corners where they could protect themselves. They whispered and kept each other company. Encouraged each other to stay alive, just hang on until… They were good, and given a chance, they would work, make a difference. There were lots of them. But the shouting and crying kept them back. One day, the shouting stopped. So did the crying. The door opened. Light shined. Out they tumbled, happy, free-flowing. The ideas. The external world literally pulses on my walk to the park. I see fall birch leaves covering the sidewalk between each cluster of white bark, the tree limbs holding a crown of yellow. I walk through the tunnel of leaves, below a gray sky, the wind still wet this late autumn afternoon. I feel like I am in a globe that you can shake and tiny yellow leaves will swirl like snow. After going back and forth through the leafy tunnel, the smell intoxicating, I turn around and walk to my office building, brushing leaves off of my clothes.
They dated throughout high school and accumulated a list of firsts: first kiss, first love, first sex. But like many high school love stories, space and time had taken their toll, and both went their separate ways. He heard she married the quarterback from a rival school a few years ago and left him last fall when he became physically abusive. She took their daughter with her. Looking at the news headline again, he wondered what their daughter would have looked like had he not left for college. DAD LEAVES HIS DAUGHTER ORPHANED AFTER KILLING HIS ESTRANGED WIFE AND HIMSELF When Amanda's alarm woke her, her back screamed in pain. Unfortunately, she still had to work.
Her boyfriend Kevin was pissy and wouldn't talk to her, just occasionally grunted. After a cold shower, stubbing her toe, and finding she was out of coffee, she headed to the cafe. She got soaked in the rain, then had to serve customers who were either rude, perverts, or slobs. When she finally got home, a note on the door said 'Can't deal anymore. Bye bitch. Kev.' She had a bad day, but it just got a lot better. First time today she smiled. You appeared to me as a dream in a dizzying array of visions. Yearning for your essence was creating such torment that I pursued the road to freedom, until one day, I watched as you emerged from the ashes of despair.
How was I to navigate the broad spectrum of fire and ice?! I have since learned that you are not of this world. My love for you remains deep and unknowable like a light that fills my heart and radiates throughout my mind. You are nowhere and everywhere. I have ceased my escapades in the face of this acceptance. In a late afternoon, photojournalist Mr. Partha Ghose was walking along the bank of River Ganges. The virus that was devastating the rest of the universe, morphed into a more lethal form inside his country, infecting several thousand every day resulting in hundreds of death. From outer space, the whole country appeared like an erupting volcano from the fire of countrywide cremations. He himself observed innumerable non-cremated bodies floating downstream the river.
Later, the disappearing sun immersed the surrounding into a mysterious dark blue shade. Soon a rising sparkling moon began to illuminate, as if to lift the country’s gloom. The monkey was given a serum to increase her intelligence, and access to children’s television and books. Day by day, she was taught and given more to solve, like mazes, math equations, and logic games. She got a pet puppy, whom she helped to train. She selected her own name: Stella. She had a dedicated museum exhibit. But one day, through the two-way intercom, she overheard people discussing current events such as the climate, overpopulation, and wars. When asked what she wanted for her birthday, she said: “Please restore me to what I used to be. I want to forget.”
An elderly woman sat hunched over on a bench at the waterfront with a thermos in one hand and a cloth in the other. As I approached, I saw that she was polishing a brass plaque inscribed with the name “Joel.”
“Someone you know?” I asked. “He was my husband,” she said. “Loved to sit here and look at the bay. Been gone for twelve years now. Every week I come and polish his name.” I lifted my paper cup of coffee. “Here’s to Joel,” I said. “To Joel,” she said, smiling broadly. She touched her thermos to my cup. It’s a year today since he left. It’s still not easy on her own. She works extra hours at the salon.
It’s Thursday evening; dark and wet outside. She’s about to lock the door when the girl flies in. ‘Can you do something with this?’ asks the girl, pulling on her hair. It’s warm in here, and dry. She’s in no hurry to get back to the empty flat. The face in the mirror is familiar. She’s seen pictures, mostly late at night, online. She smiles. There is no hint of recognition from his new girl. She raises her scissors. “Do you have the time?” I had never seen this youngster before – I would have remembered. “Of course,” I replied. I looked at my watch and told him the exact time. “No, that’s not what I meant. I would like to know if you have the time.” “Well, I’m a bit ahead of schedule right now. So, yes. Sure. I can spare a few minutes. What is it you wanted to talk about?” He shook his head and walked away slowly. “Judging by your answers, you are not the one who has the time. You’re the one with the watch.”
In the 1700s, a vaccine was developed to combat smallpox.
In the 1800s, new vaccines began to keep other dreaded diseases at bay, and governments started mandating vaccinations for the public good. In the 1900s, the number of new vaccines exploded. Millions rolled up their sleeves. Nightmarish diseases were wiped out. Countless lives were saved. But from the start, for a host of reasons, some people opposed vaccinations and government mandates. By 2100, though, the anti-vax movement was over. After decades of highly contagious new viruses, sadly, most of its proponents didn’t make it, having chosen liberty over life. I smell it, that vile stench. It mocks me. I don't know what caused it to begin with.
Neither man nor beast died to produce it. There's not enough filth around to blame. I've torn my home apart, scrubbing it raw. Yet that stench persists. It's my nemesis. All I know is that stench, that of my decay. It's seeped into my flesh and distorted it. I scratch tainted flesh, trying to cleanse it. Is that stench mine, that of dying organs? By the time I find an answer, it might be. I grow weary, haunted by that horrid scent. Terror.
My eyelids snap up, but register no light. I paw at my face. It’s back again. I try to pull it off, but it snaps back, digging deeper into my cheeks. I reach for the tube at its base that feeds it. I push it away but it coils around my head. I pull it off and throw it, but it snaps back, it's ribbed exoskeleton flexing and curling. I give in and drift toward unconsciousness. Finally... light. It's over. It lies there, unmoving, no longer hissing. I hate it. But without it I might die. Damned sleep apnea. Jacob, being rushed along by his nervous parents, enjoyed looking at the various species of fish on both sides of him. He couldn’t understand why his parents were in such a hurry. He could have stayed there for hours. It was almost like he was in the water with them. He felt like he could actually reach out and touch them but everytime he tried, one of his parents would pull his hand back.
As they exited this wonderful experience Jacob glanced over his shoulder and saw the Red Sea come crashing down on the Egyptian army. They were from Bracknell (I heard them say), walking along the lanes of my town, cottages huddling close, (not one house ‘younger’ than 350 years), their faces like a pair of spanked arses.
“Stinks of fish,” he muttered (not the first ‘muttering’ he’d made as I walked behind them). “There’s a fishmonger over there,” she snapped back. A car weaved slowly towards us. “Why do they let cars down here?” My patience broke. “Because we live here, dipstick.” She smiled at me. “And lovie, please consider divorce as an option.” Reasons to love living in a seaside town No172. Hustling through the woods, Jeb and I stumble upon the coven. We stop. Through a gap in their circle, I spot something squirming on their altar. Damn! The tall, robed woman at the center approaches us and takes a long look. The High Priestess maybe? I’d heard stories in town. Thought they were just stories. My heart races faster than I can remember. Jeb mutters we should run. Finally, the woman nods. I nod back. We’re in agreement. They go back to their business at the altar, and we take off with our shovels and weighty wheelbarrow.
Annabelle leant forward on the stool. She rested her arms on the kitchen island and wrapped her hands around a decaf coffee. ‘Don’t feel like cooking.’
‘No?’ said Steve, who slumped opposite her, exhausted from work. ‘Maybe we should get a takeaway,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’ He lifted his glass of red. ‘Sure, sounds good. I’m happy to do whatever.’ ‘Hmm, maybe. We should probably cook. I do fancy a takeaway though…’ Steve didn’t bother answering; a takeaway mentioned is a takeaway materialised. ‘Yeah,’ said Annabelle. ‘I’m thinking Indian.’ I stroke her head just to her shoulders. Sometimes she doesn’t like it if I pat any further. Leaning close, I whisper an acknowledgement that I recognize it is unfair that I, the higher evolved species, (yeah, I use those words), get to decide exactly when she will die.
The vet will be here in one hour. I whisper that I am sure she will go to cat heaven. But then I almost laugh as I tell her that even though I am the ‘higher species’… I have no idea if there will be any heaven for either of us. Tears dotted the woman’s weathered face as she remembered her son skipping pebbles on a creek’s surface.
The footbridge she stood on was an improvement over the original they visited. With new wooden boards and reinforcements, it displayed a number as part of the city park grid. She felt someone stretch an arm across her back in a comforting embrace. Turning to thank, she realized no one was there. Sunset looming, she commenced her return walk through the forest. A boy resembling her son strolled ahead in the same direction. His transparent form stepped through a tree trunk and disappeared. 5-year-old Jonathan sat alone watching Dr Who on tv. Tense. Jumpy. Anxious.
“Yarrrrgh”, came the sudden chilling scream from the Monster. “Arrrrrrrrrrgggghhhh”, came the scream from Jonathan, running to hide behind the settee! Terrified, Jonathan nervously peeked out at the TV from his hiding place. Tap-tap on his shoulder. “Arrrrrrgggghhhhh,” he screamed again. “Hahahahahaahahahaheeeheeeheeeheeee,” whooped Richard, his elder brother, eyes crying with laughter. Click! Lights out! TV off! Total darkness! Both boys screamed! “Hahahahahaahahahaheeeheeeheeeheeee,” laughed Dad, “bed-time you two, if you dare!!” “Daddy, you’re horrible,” shrieked Jonathan! “Yep,” replied Dad. “Shall I read a bedtime story?” “Noooo!” they screamed back! |
"Classic"
|