"Oh shit, JRap – I got to jet."
"Good man. Excited to close this thing... make us super-rich motherfuckers."
"Sounds amazing."
Those were the words that came out of Bugowski's mouth.
Words he could not actually believe he was saying out loud.
Friday Flash Fiction |
|
|||
|
"I was the inspiration for Brad Pitt's character. We hung out in H-Wood. We even went a couple of rounds...I broke his nose...Almost got sued up the ass but the director was there and Pitt was cool about it...they just took him to a plastic surgeon I'm friends with and no one was the wiser.
"Oh shit, JRap – I got to jet." "Good man. Excited to close this thing... make us super-rich motherfuckers." "Sounds amazing." Those were the words that came out of Bugowski's mouth. Words he could not actually believe he was saying out loud. I found the advertisement for monster repellent in a magazine. It was just a spray bottle pre-filled with water but the packaging was good enough to convince my son it would do the trick.
The trouble is, now my son won’t enter his own room. He says something smells revolting. He heard a gunshot. Screams heard from all over the building. He took a gun from a drawer.
“Go!” He told a stunned man but he was too scared. Hesitantly, he gave his gun and told him to use it if he sees the shooter. Unarmed, he continued playing the hero. Suddenly, he heard another gunshot. He turned around and saw the terrified man started to shoot with his eyes closed. He shouted to stop him. Hearing the shout, he opened his eyes and pointed the gun. A bullet nested in his heart. The SWAT team entered and released fire. I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling. They are coming. The experiments at the lab revealed the creatures that live in the shadows; I saw them, and they saw me. Now, I sleep with the lights on.
The power cut strikes without warning. I light as many candles as I can, but dark fingers writhe and reach for me. They touch my skin with their icy grasp. They crawl from under the bed to silence me. They smother me with their pestilence. I try to scream but cannot. The power returns. I gasp. I live -- for now. To him, sky diving is unremarkable.
To me, trying a new shade of nail paint is daredevilry. Should I, zig-zag through free-spirited rides of discovery, as he does, with a casual disrespect for life’s certainties? Or be fixed to my joys of constancy, clock-watching and sure-footed schedules? He is easy with defining himself by his irregularities. I intend to impel my distinctiveness by plunging headlong into writing. Risking its frightful cliffs of fall, putting on view my vulnerabilities and disrupting my heart and soul to believe in my creation. I will not have my life's script measured against his. Growing up poor, owning nearly nothing, he didn’t miss the things that other kids enjoyed or took for granted.
But he never forgot the pain of waking up hungry, with nothing to eat. As a boy, he couldn’t wait to get through his morning classes so he could eat the free lunch at school. It was often his only meal of the day. After high school, he left town and “made good.” One day he came back. He went to his old school and gave the principal money to buy breakfast for any student who was hungry in the morning. Janice Thomas, branch secretary of the National Housewives’ Register, is pictured planting a tree for peace with Jim Pert, local Ecology Party candidate. In her spare time Janice reads stories to children at the Library and eats their limbs. Her ambition is to be a professional nice person, which she is already ‘into in a big way’ as an amateur. Her four-year-old daughter Katy is a nice balance of precocious and reticent with a large vocabulary which includes ‘hammer’, ‘steamroller’, ‘stethoscope’, ‘hernia’ and ‘really’. Her partner, Jerry, works for the council and likes to be tied up on alternate Tuesdays.
“Make the Kingdom great again,” roars Emperor, parading down the thoroughfare with oversized baton.
Goose-stepping behind are Queen of Hearts and Cards. They glare menacingly at onlookers. Stumbling at the rear is Pied Piper, one-time mayor and now Emperor’s barrister. “The Reds will win,” Emperor bellows. Queen and Cards pull out buckets and brushes, threatening to repaint those whose colors offend. Spectators begin chanting, “Emperor has no clothes. Emperor has no clothes.” Children point and giggle. Pied Piper frantically begins tootling. No one follows him. Even the rats, peeking out from the sewers, know they’re better off where they are. As the train gathered speed, a woman in her thirties took the seat opposite mine even as I hid my cuffed hand from her view.
“Excuse me,” she said after a while, “Aren’t you Charles?” I nodded, struggling to place her. “I’m Jane. 2005 batch. Still remember your prize-winning performance at the drama festival.” “Thank you.” “You must be in the acting profession, of course?” “No; law and order,” I said, turning to Officer Robert, my companion in mufti. “Don’t be late,” she told Robert while getting down at the next station. “My wife”, he told me, enjoying my confusion. One day at a medical mission, a doctor wrote down his prescription, handed it to a woman with a terrible cough and said, “Place this at your back at bedtime—nightly to relieve your coughing until we return next week for a follow-up.”
The woman nodded, hacking in between breaths. After one week, the doctor returned. “Well, how’s the cough?” With a puzzled look, the woman held up torn pieces of paper, gasped for air, and said, “You told me to put this at my back at bedtime to stop coughing, but the paper’s all torn up and am still cough—H-A-CK!” I was lucky to grow up in a family helping others.
Mum and Nan delivered meals-on-wheels. Nan served in the opportunity shop. I loved to go with them on school holidays. Dad served on the tennis club committee, later on the committee for a nursing home. The day after Mum’s operation for breast cancer, Dad went to visit but couldn’t find her in her room. She was visiting other patients she thought needed help. Yesterday my daughter gave birth to a son after some difficulties. Today she is offering encouragement to the woman in the next bed. The cycle continues. “We’re dying!” screamed the ants telepathically. “We’ve been poisoned!” they continued, running brokenly, blindly in painful panic through the endless tunnels of their massive ant colony. Then they dropped one by one, twitched for a moment before laying still.
Somewhere, sequestered in her safe, royal chamber, the queen ignored the deafening commotion outside. Those damn clever humans. Those stupid, greedy worker ants. Something sweet and laced with strychnine was placed in their path, and they gobbled it up. The queen thought of her endless eggs soon to hatch and become a new, hopefully smarter, generation to serve her. Children chose to run from the park to climb on the giant yellow duck. Todd chases them with screams and a broom; the parents gripe over him at every HOA meeting he skips. They think his remodeled garage is a home office. They think he works in real estate or technology. They think he sure loves rubber ducks. Nobody notices the man who pets Todd’s rubber duck and extracts a ziplock bag.
Besides the aching joints, bald pate, failing vision and hearing loss, the aging factor that annoys me the most is continuously facing a rapid increase in unsightly nasal hair.
Annie, always ready to put lipstick on a pig, suggests that I look at it positively. “With all this climate change business and warming of the environment, there’s a huge increase in irritating plant pollens. Think of this hair as your body’s way of filtering out these little rascals and keeping you healthy. Have you ever heard of anyone succumbing to too much nasal hair? It’s a natural thing.” “Good point.” Bet shambled along, one flip flop ahead of the other till she reached the door, number seventeen. Another low point, again. She couldn’t seem to catch, or give herself, a break. The dim interior, after shutting the door, fit her mood, light peering in thru the crack in the blackouts, that was it, filtered gloom. He had left her in an awful state, his sudden departure, her only joy now was popping the tab on the can in the bag from the mini-mart. Tomorrow, Bet would dress and try to get her life back. But that’s tomorrow, this is today.
Tina’s mother bought a helicopter so she could observe her daughter while at college. She circled the campus, observed Tina in her dorm room, and made sure she was attending all classes and wasn’t getting drunk at fraternity parties.
Tina’s mother felt better being able to closely monitor her daughter. She wanted to protect Tina from the evils of college life, and to prevent her from getting into trouble. Tina felt suffocated and embarrassed by her mother's behaviors. Despite Tina's pleas for more independence, the mother refused. She didn't want Tina to end up as a single parent like her. The dragon beat his wings, pinning Cedric to the rock. Its breath as hot as the sun scorching the skin of his face.
The dragon inhaled, Cedric held his sword aloft, its point in line with the sweet spot beneath the dragon’s throat. If the beast lunged, Cedric would use its colossal weight against it. The fact that he would die in the process had not escaped him. Cedric waited. Suddenly the dragon spoke. ‘Are you going to kill me little man?’ Astounded Cedric let his sword drop; the dragon lunged. ‘They always fall for it.’ The dragon thought smiling. "Oh, Grandpa! Her name isn't Gretel, it's...."
"I still say she needs a Hansel in her life. She's trying to take everything away from us for her cause - bbq's, fireworks, even all types of Christmas trees," groused the elderly man. Dana sighed, "Grandpa, all she is saying is that we need to cut back on the excessive use of fossil fuels." "What?! Is that what she calls us seniors...fossil fools"? "Oh, Grandpa, you need a big hug." "I think I can warm up to that idea, or will that cause too much global warming"? "Oh, Grandpa"! For Christmas, we wrapped up all we owned. Tried to fill faded jeans, ripped nightgowns with new life.
They carried the weight of bills. Lost homes. Constant mobility. We turned off lights. Silhouetted, these objects held new mystery, form, as if we truly owned life. We almost covered the spots. Whatcha doing?
– Trying to memorize all the Senators. The baseball team? – What baseball team? Washington Senators. – Washington’s team is the Nationals, dummy. No, there used to be a team called the Senators. – I don’t believe you. They’re now the Minnesota Twins. – This is ridiculous. I don’t even like baseball. So why are you trying to memorize the Senators? – I’m trying to memorize the U.S. Senators. The politicians. That’s dumb. Aren’t you bored? – Well, it’s one way to fall asleep. Presidents in order isn’t working any more. Why not? – Remembering them in order is keeping me up. You are so weird. She would start soccer at four and play until the end of high school. She would excel in all her academics and thrive in all extracurriculars. She would graduate as her classes valedictorian. She would impress all with her eloquent speech. She would go to college with many scholarships and graduate with her masters in teaching. She would marry an engineer and live happily in the suburbs. She would have three beautiful children. She would have a happy life. She would have, only if her drug-addicted mother wouldn’t have thrown her baby against a mirror in rage. She would have…
Sally’s attack of him was last week, but still on his mind. Five days in planning, he would show no mercy and revenge would be sweet. With today being the day, he spent an hour loading up and arming himself. The attack would be unexpected and swift.
Tom secured himself where he had the advantage of high ground. Right on schedule, Sally came around the corner. Tom aimed and let one go. Splattered all over the sidewalk, the first water balloon missed, but the next four were right on target. So were six of the next ten. Success was his. I used to lie. I'd tell lies when the truth was just as acceptable. I'm not sure where or why the habit started, but, it was troublesome enough that one Saturday morning, mama had had enough, grabbing me by the back of the head, shoving Dove soap inside my mouth, and holding me under running water. As her rage dissipated, she let me up, my eyes darting to the kitchen storm window, where I knew Kevin from next door was waiting. My mouth foaming, his mouth agape. Our family no longer his idea of fantastic; he turned to run.
He rode into town on a Harley, wearing leather, covered with dust.
He pulled up to the Bulldog Saloon. He was built like a linebacker and looked like Jack Palance. He brushed himself off, stepped inside and ordered whiskey. The place was crowded and noisy. “No music around here?” he said to the bartender. “Band starts in an hour.” He looked over at the piano. “Mind if I play?” “Go right ahead.” He strode over to the upright, sat down and began to play. The patrons grew quiet. It was the first time they’d heard Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Flowers.” ‘We were happy, your mother and me. She was a good wife.’
Standing by the graveside, I nod in agreement because he never knew the truth. That’s how good she was. Mum believed in her marriage vows: Putting up with the other women and the drinking until the summer daddy went away. She met Uncle Ted, and her joy and laughter filled me with hope. But daddy came home, and Ted disappeared. Mum stayed until cancer broke those vows. My father dabs at his crocodile tears, and I weep for my mother’s wasted life. |
"Classic"
|