Flash XI—In Memorium

Because there's nothing I could write that comes close to this:

What Kind of Times Are These

By Adrienne Rich

There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill

and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows

near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted

who disappeared into those shadows.

I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled

this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,

our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,

its own ways of making people disappear.

I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods

meeting the unmarked strip of light—

ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:

I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you

anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these

to have you listen at all, it's necessary

to talk about trees.

Thank you, Ms. Rich.

Flash X—Fairy Tale

Julia Roberts is playing the Wicked Stepmother. So is Charlize Theron. There are two prime time TV shows "inspired" by fairy tales—a wellspring, it seems, of great ideas for entertainment.

I get it. I was, as a child, an enormous believer in fairy tales. There was no doubt in my mind that I would bravely overcome obstacles, there would be a Prince Charming arriving once I'd emerged (triumphant!) from the dark wood, and I would live happily ever after in a well-staffed castle.

One out of three ain't bad (thank you, every day, Neil). Here's what I still can't figure out, however: why was I so certain about those obstacles, that dark wood? I devoted hours to inventing spectacularly grim scenarios in which I matched wits with trolls and wicked witches and wizards who looked nothing like Harry Potter. Prince Charming was able to take care of himself, apparently; I never got much beyond the idea that he would show and be...charming. The castle? I never got inside the front door. "Happily ever after" was such a given the idea that it wouldn't happen was unimaginable.

Was it a response to the way things were when I was a child—when, in my world, women had their adventures (such as they were) before marriage? Of course it was. There was more to it than that, certainly—there were a few Big Bad Wolves in that world of mine—but I'll save that for another post (or a book).

Flash Fiction IX—Mug Shot

She is smiling for the camera. A reflex? A habit born of countless imploring commands? You could think she’s been caught by surprise as she steps into the kitchen during a party or as she turns at just the right moment so we can see the joy of company, the wake of a good laugh making her eyes dance, the anticipation of more fun to follow.

Perhaps it is a relief, this tapering in her life. Look at his picture and it is easy to imagine his hard edges; what must it be like to navigate those every day?

Still, she is smiling for the camera. There is no fear in her eyes and no shame and you can’t help but think she looks like someone you would probably like to have coffee with.

Flash Fiction VIII—Anonymous Donor

They bring you into a windowless room for this. You sit at a table with the surgeon you've never met, the social worker who was waiting for you in the ER, some other doctor. You're waiting to hear how long it's going to take for her to recover from this because that's the best thing you can imagine. You fold your hands, feel the smooth cool table begin to slick with your sweat as you begin to understand what they are asking of you.

Your own heart shatters yet keeps on beating.

This is when you understand the lack of windows: no prying eyes, but also no world beyond this room, no way to place this moment in any kind of natural context. The social worker sits beside you and you realize you should have known when she touched the back of your chair—she was measuring the distance.

After you say this you will never be able to speak again. What more will there be to say?

The paperwork is stunning. The other doctor is the lawyer, of course; he flips pages, points to tagged signature lines. The surgeon is a fidgeter; her chair arcs as she waits for the last crossed “t,” dotted “i,” and she does not watch.

When you are done, the social worker asks if you want the hospital chaplain.

Flash Fiction VII—That Damned Dog

The worst calls are the neighbor disputes. You've got two kings (or queens) of the castle, you've got boundary issues both literal and figurative, you've got long-simmering resentment. But what's a small-town cop to do? We get the crimes we hope for; I am usually grateful.

The temperature was running 20 degrees above normal so you have figure there was an epidemic of spring fever and that dance Venus and Jupiter have been doing for the past month has been pulling out the crazy in everyone. We’d had calls about the usual stuff: vandalized mailboxes, missing booze, youths gathering in the library parking lot. I had 10 minutes left on my shift.

“Report of a menacing dog over on Willow, on Will-ow. Do you read?” Brenda likes to add drama to her dispatches.

“Menacing?”

“The dog is allegedly menacing. Do you copy?”

“I’m on my way.”

“Copy that.”

She was one of those tall women who haven't finished a full meal in 25 years, silver gray hair pulled into a ferocious bun my wife calls “a poor woman’s facelift,” but the clothes proved she could afford to go under the knife the way most of us can afford to go for coffee. The shotgun looked like a prop. “That dog is a menace. I’ve been warning him for months.”

“Ma’am, I need you to hand over the firearm.”

“This? Don’t be absurd; this is an heirloom.”

“Regardless, until this gets resolved I need you to hand over the firearm.” She made a little noise at the top of her throat but she gave it to me. “Now, the dog?”

She pointed and I thought I’d have to get the body bag out of the trunk (which adds at least half an hour to the call). But the dog was alive. So was the owner, though I’m pretty sure he could have died of embarrassment. Crouching behind a decoratively decrepit pony cart is never good for the self-esteem.

“She tried to kill me!”

“Don’t be absurd, I’m simply making a point,” she told him. “This is what it takes,” she told me.

I had to arrest them both. That’s going to be at least two hours overtime.

Flash Fiction VI(a)—The Bicycle Thief

(this entry is the actual post for March 22 for some complex reason related to the cascading effect of having missed March 20)

My mother’s bicycle was pretty basic: seat covered in brown leatherette; handlebars sporting grips that complemented the faded candy blue frame; three gears, the thumb-drive shifter mounted so there was no need to move a hand off the right grip; pedal brakes. She had added a wire basket that perched above the front wheel, though the rear pannier rack was standard; the basket was needed for the padlock’s thick chain and the Tour de France U-lock. “Toouurrr de Frahncsh,” she’d brag, though the longest she’d ever ridden was 40 hill-less blocks. To her credit, she did it in heels, but still.

She called me after she’d locked it to the U-shaped bike rack outside the museum. “U-shaped! Don’t you love the synchronicity?”

“That’s great, Mom.”

The Tour de France always secured the front wheel, the chain went on the back. She took a photo with her smartphone and sent it to her sister, my sister and me. I texted back that her tires looked a little soft. “Nxt, bk shp 4 new.” My mother understood texting much earlier than I did; I still use punctuation.

She was devastated, of course, when she discovered her bike had been stolen. She didn’t get angry until she logged on to the Times website—my mother gave up the paper edition as soon as it was feasible—and clicked on the Style section home page.

The subject line of the emails she sent to her sister, my sister and me was “My BIKE!” We dutifully clicked on the link, started the slideshow (http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2012/03/22/garden/20120322-MAKE-2.html). The first photo was nearly identical to the one she’d sent before the theft.

My sister replied all: “Do you think they’ll give you the lamp? If they do, can I have it?”

Flash Fiction VI—Cruise

They had wanted to go to somewhere, had needed to get away because the winter had been rugged, and while no one would say they were in trouble, a change would do them good. When Steven suggested one of those Cruises-to-Nowhere, Benni balked. “Did you just flinch?”

“No.”

“You did. It’s three days; completely manageable. My sister will watch the cat.”

She packed bathing suits though that much warmth was unimaginable. How far could one get in three days? No shopping for this; she wouldn’t ever see these people again, after all. One bag for each of them because he folds and she rolls and sharing just doesn’t work out.

The stateroom had a porch (is that right?) where they had breakfast that first day, fleeced, with socks and scarves, watching the steel sea churn by. Steven wore his watch cap. “There are indoor pools.”

They went to the gym. The sweat, a turnoff at home, was an inspiration (though maybe it was just the sea air or the envelope of complete anonymity they’d folded themselves into). A fruity cocktail for her, beer for him. “Incredible food.” Another round, then another, then a nap. Because they were on vacation, right?

When they woke up the sun was shining, the water the green of a sour apple jelly bean.

It was her idea to have sex on the porch (that can’t be right); they were on the eastern side of the ship and she suddenly craved that warmth on her skin. “I love this.”

How do you get a body off a ship? The crew handles the details; the ship doctor arriving, stewards wrapping a blanket around you because your teeth will not stop chattering and there’s a wax museum Steve and there’s the proof that death is a kind of release and then Steve is gone and the captain escorts you to a different stateroom (interior, no porch) and since it is a Cruise-to-Nowhere all you can do is lie on this king-size bed and wait for the ship to return to port where what had been Steve is rolled down the cargo gangway on a gurney just before the recycling.