Flash Fiction

by

Dream with me

When children are small you can sprinkle nutritional yeast on millet and tell them it’s fairy dust. With a word, it becomes so. Such is the power of language. What if we could do the same with our dreams? Here’s a poem and flash fiction rambling on about such things. Let me know what you think.

little shadow

perched on a purple wall
staring at my sleeping child

what do you see shadow bird?

do you see. see like me?

my grandfather became cloud
grandmother became butterfly.

I sit in her chair. I sing with his voice.

what will be left for her when I, transform?

maybe I become you.
maybe I watch from a wall.

flying with one word.
staying with another. word.

dream me alive. over and over and over.
clove and nutmeg. owl spreading wings.

forest hears, nothing.

another dream

Transform

One night during a dream of chaos and war a woman gives birth to a baby with hair the color of fresh snow. The baby blinks at the woman with eyes as green as ancient ferns and coos like a dove. What if instead of forgetting the baby when she woke the woman decides to name her Mabel and she becomes as real as coffee.

The woman dresses the dream baby in clothes the color of fresh marigolds and wears her close to her chest in a carrier woven of the softest wool. She takes the baby out into the rain and her laugh becomes lightning. The world sparks around them and glows brighter.

The plants in the woman’s house grow with the baby—greener and taller, greener and taller until the woman is forced to cut through them with a large knife, like an explorer in a jungle. She and the baby laugh at the silliness of it as birds make nests in her living room and a family of rabbits discovers the perfect place to live within her closet.

They spend most days outdoors so Mabel can make the grass thicker, the trees taller, and the flowers bolder. The neighbors don’t know what’s making their gardens grow and the woman decides not to tell them. Not everyone believes as strongly as she does and she fears their disbelief will pull the child away.

When Mabel starts walking the woman takes her outside in the middle of the night and upon seeing the full moon the child begins to sing. The tiny lilting notes cause the stars to dance and the moon to move closer and closer to the Earth. The woman knows this won’t go unnoticed and will have terrible consequences, but she hesitates to act because love defies logic and gravity. Love defies most things.

Mabel however makes the choice for her, wiggling out of her grasp and floating toward the moon. The baby with hair as white as snow returns back into the dream where she was born and the woman walks home alone. Her house feels different but she smiles the same because Mabel is as real as coffee and her physical absence changes nothing. She wraps herself in wool and dream walks to visit her child.

Such is the power of language. And love.

by

Bowie Bluebird

It’s the 8th day of the New Year and I’m behind. Behind in responding to comments. Behind in writing blog posts. Behind in reading blog posts. My Christmas decorations are still happily shining and my sink is full of dishes.

I share this because there’s a tendency this time of year to feel like you have to hit the ground running. January has to be YOUR month to get all the things done and to set into motion all the ways you wish to make your life better. It’s all a lie. Like so many untruths we tell ourselves, it’s just another example of perfectionism making us miserable.

Don’t let it.

I’ve chosen Movement as my word of the year. Any forward momentum toward my goals will be considered a success. No, I’ve not done much blogging, but I did take a trip to Tahoe and my photography heart got to dance in the snow. No, I’ve not done much cleaning of my house, but I’ve written a poem and short story in my journal every day this year so far. Movement. Like water over stones. It all matters.

If you’ve been around here a minute, you’ll know I have a deep love for David Bowie. Today would be his 77th birthday and last night I dreamed I was in his Lazarus music video. I was under the bed reaching my hand out to him. I woke and wrote this poem and a small flash fiction in his honor. I hope you enjoy them. They aren’t what I had planned to post but I’m learning to let my creativity go where it wants to.

Movement.

Flying

shadow fingertips
touch feather blankets
flutter free

like bluebirds racing sunlight
like bare branches in a breeze
like tomorrows that don’t come

it’s just like you to leave us
quick as lightning
moonman mornings
starlight singings

fly free toward me

One who moves

I don’t want him to call me his bluebird one last time, although he does it anyway in a raspy voice I barely recognize. It matters to him, but I refuse sentimentality. I suppose it’s my way of fighting back. I know he understands.

“Time loops around,” I whisper when his heart stops.

Someone screams. Someone else runs to tell the people waiting on the mountain. Or maybe nobody is here at all except me. I wipe his eyes with the damp hem of my dress. I clean his face of tears, but the ones on my face are dry now.

He’s not gone, I yell to those wailing and screaming, but maybe the certainty he gave me at the end was only for me. He was fond of parting gifts. A lifetime of moon whispering, hip swaying, star gazing, and half-smiles don’t disappear. Not fully.

He’s writing everything down in a notebook beside the river while I wade up to my knees in the cool lapping water. Geese loudly scream out for attention, but I don’t take my eyes off his pen. Rocks beneath my toes are covered in slimy moss and they sing to me. The sky above is as blue as his right eye, maybe not even as blue as that. Clouds find a way to shift. Moving toward him, like we all do. Like I want to do right now.

Our years have now become days. We change nothing. We do nothing different. For certainty and love requires surrender to the forces of nature. A deer walks into the water and stands near me drinking loudly. Its side constricts and contracts—a life that does not care who we are because we are just like it. One who drinks. One who moves. One who watches the sky and feels the earth.

The pen stops and he looks at me over his notebook and perhaps he’s smiling. I can’t tell because the sun has burst through the dancing clouds and turned him into a being a light. “Free,” I think I hear him say, and just like the bluebird he takes flight. His wings sound like music.

*All photos were taken and edited by me.

by

Flash Fiction: Clean Up

If I do my job right nobody can tell. Get in. Clean up. Get out. Nobody builds statues honoring my work or carries my symbol around their neck, but it is important. I’m important. The universe needs me. 

I tap the tiny brush over the red and blue spots left behind by another sloppy job and remind myself their anger is at themselves and not me. Still, Terrence didn’t have to yell in my face. It’s always urgent. It’s always now. It’s always dire.

“You don’t understand,” he screams. “This can’t be seen! You have to do it now. Right now!”

His breath smells of sour milk and his pupils shrink until they are black pinpoints in a sea of cloudy grey. His lips are two rotted plums. They are all children who break their toys and stomp their feet in disappointment. I make it so they don’t have to face the consequences.

“I’ll take care of it,” I sigh climbing out of bed.

He shows me where to go and slinks away without a “thank you” or a “we couldn’t do it without you.” Most likely he’s drinking it off now with the others and laughing at what he did. He won’t think of me or my work again until his next mistake. His next “right now.” 

Their urgency and terror used to excite me. I considered it a thrill to glimpse behind their imposing masks—an honor to be trusted with fear. I’d catch their falling bomb of worry into my hands and watch them transform back into their confident boastful selves. It felt like magic.

Now, I see it differently. They trust me, yes. They never ask if the job is too big or check my work because they don’t see me as equal. It’s the chaos they love not the order. I’m not a trusted friend. I’m the clean-up crew.

I wonder what it would be like to be them? Running through time and space they combine stars, explode worlds, create, destroy, and transform matter with their ever-changing whims. Galaxies rise and fall at their fingertips yet they can’t do what I do. Nobody else can.

Tap. Tap. Tap. I brush away particles of space dust until mistakes become nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. What they don’t realize is nothing, my nothing, is growing larger and larger. The darkness spreads with each mistake they make and can grow faster if I want it to. I don’t have to be careful.

My love for them has held me back, but I’m growing tired. Each harsh word. Each unkind look. Each time they ignore me, it’s getting harder and harder to restrain myself. What happens when I can’t take it anymore? What happens when I stop caring? I will erase them all.

by

Flash Fiction: Green Button

Kat sees the button first. A bright green light tucked into the corner of the wall. It pulses and calls to her. It knows her name.

“Do you know what day it is?”

The voice speaking loudly beside her ear is all blue and has no face. Only eyes. Where is the green? What day is it? It’s not her birthday. At least she thinks it’s not. The voice keeps speaking and moves now to her other side. She can see the button again. It glows brighter and Kat wants to press it. Instead, burning heat presses into her. It travels from her scalp to her toes. It quiets everything.

Time moves. Kat can feel minutes turn into hours. Days, she thinks. A small window to her right remains closed and covered with thick slatted blinds. A parade of blue figures touches her. Pushes things into her. She points at the green button over and over. Nobody answers her soundless question.

“Did you know Tutankhamun died 1,000 years after the great pyramids were built?”

A voice comes from across the room and Kat sees a figure leaning against the wall beside the green button. Clad in blue, his face isn’t covered. He’s got deep brown eyes with thick lashes, a large sloped nose, thin dark lips, and a small trimmed beard flecked with grey. He says his name is Ebi and Kat smells rain and wet earth when she looks at him. She hears hooves kicking sand.

“The Great Pyramid is made up of over 2.3 million stones, weighing 2.5 tons.”

Kat closes her eyes. Two million. Two tons. The majority of the universe is made of dark matter. It’s made of nothing. She opens her eyes and the green button is still there. Ebi is still there. A question vibrates inside her gut and bubbles and bubbles until the words form and come out as a whisper she isn’t sure carries sound.

“What happens if you press the green button?”

Ebi hears from across the room and smiles.

“It releases air in the isolation room, but don’t press it Kat…it will start things over.”

He winks at her. The number of trees worldwide is greater than the stars in our solar system. She once walked in an old-growth forest and felt the trees leaning forward as if wanting to speak to her. She’s not the center. Everything is connected. Don’t press the button. Press the button.

“The Great Pyramid was the tallest building in the world for 3,500 years.”

Ebi’s eyes are still far away but she can see the reflection of a round clock in the black pupils. The second-hand moves too fast. Dangerously fast. Kat tries to match the rhythm by patting the thin mattress with her hands. Sound can create patterns in sand. It can break things apart. A storm bangs against the shuttered window. Knocks loudly. Is Kat making the storm?

“The pyramids originally had a bright white smooth stone casing which sparkled in the sun.”

Ebi holds a thick book in his hands. Hands covered in thin white scars, and slash marks, like etchings on stone walls. Kat pictures those hands knowing true north and finding what is missing. The book opens and closes. Quiet and heat come again and the smell of rain is replaced with metal.

Kat wakes to find the room empty except for the green light. It calls to her. It knows her name. She can’t ignore it any longer and pulls tubes from her arms and a mask from her face. Her feet find the cold floor.

Stumbling and breathing heavily, she crosses the room in two steps. Or is it two plus two steps? She reaches out her fingers and presses the smooth, round surface of the button. Relief comes as darkness. Her body falls onto the hard floor and her head makes a terrible cracking sound. The air smells of nothing at all.

Kat rolls onto her side and presses her cheek into the warm sand. Voices call around her in celebration. Drums pound out a rhythmic beat like raindrops. Hands hook under her armpits and lift her onto a pair of broad shoulders.

“Stay close Kat,” her father says.“There are many here today to see the Pharaoh off and I don’t want to lose you.”

They stand at the base of a giant pyramid gleaming white with a bright gold top. Voices sing around her. Starting over is scary. Kat grabs the small green stone hanging from a gold chain around her neck and presses it tightly.

Author’s note: I spent a few days this week in the hospital beside my sister-in-law. She’s okay and home now, but I was inspired to write this story by a brief conversation with a nurse about Eygpt.

by

Flash Fiction: Toad at the Well

Authors note: A little somethin’ different today. This might be a children’s story or it might just be nothin’. You decide.

Ma says toads are magical but ain’t no reason to fear ‘em. She says people make up stories bout what they don’t understand all the time and I should be thinkin’ for myself. All I know is the big brown toad livin’ beside the cobblestone well at the edge of our garden does a whole lot of sittin’ and starin’. I like him and I think he’s got eyes for me too.

I ain’t had a friend in a long time and I get to thinkin’ toad is the answer. When nobody is lookin’ I pull off all the flies from the sticky trap in the kitchen and put them in the pocket of my calico dress. It’s hard work and I don’t get all the pieces, leaving behind bits of legs and wings, but I don’t think toad will mind. He seems a likable fella.

He’s not like me at all. I’m either “makin’ too much ruckus” or “I’m so quiet I could scare a ghost out a grave.” Nobody much wants me around. I try to be middle-like. Brother was middle-like. He’s gone now and all my parents have left is me. Ain’t none of us happy bout that.

With a basket of wet laundry under her arm I see Ma headin’ behind the house to where the rope is for dryin. She don’t see me though because I’m slippin’ quiet-like behind the trees and through the hedges. I want to keep this meetin’ secret—just me and toad. Nobody else needs to be botherin’ about us.

When I get to the well the toad is where he always is, tucked close against the ancient crumbling rocks. He sits half in and half out of a smelly green puddle of mud and slime. You’d miss him if you didn’t look twice even though he’s as big round as Ma’s Sunday loaves.  Ca-mo-frog. I move closer and curtsey low-like.

“Fine day for a meetin,” I say. “Fine day indeed.”

Toad says nothin’. I find a flat rock for our table and move it slow-like until it’s positioned close to his round chin. I lay my pink and white lace handkerchief out like a proper tablecloth. I use a couple strawberry leaves as plates heaping them with flies for toad and blueberries for me.

Squatting low, like toad, I pull my dress up to my waist exposing my thin legs covered in mosquito bites. We stare at each other for a long time waitin’ for the other to say somethin’. A crow laughs in the pine tree.

“Rude,” I say.

Toad says nothin’. I eat the blueberries but toad doesn’t touch the flies. I try a few topics of conversating—weather and the like but he stares ahead uninterested in me or the meal I brung ’em.  I wonder if I got it all wrong. Perhaps instead of a friendly toad he’s a wishin’ toad. Like a genie or somethin’.

“You a wishin’ toad?” I whisper.

Toad says nothin’ but I close my eyes tight and make my first wish anyway. I’m concentrating hard but when I open my eyes toad is lookin’ past me and into the forest. With a small “croak” he leaps into the air splashing mud all over my calico dress. I’m about to give him a talkin’ to about Ma’s and keeping dresses clean but he’s hopping away and disappearing into the forest.

“Wait!” I cry.

Maybe I got it all wrong again. Maybe he’s a kissing toad! One kiss and he’ll turn into a prince and whisk me off to a palace for a life of happily ever after. That’s got to be it! I walk on silent tiptoes until I’m close enough to grab him with both hands. He’s heavy and slippery but I hang on tight and force him toward my face.

“Let…me…kiss…you!” I scream. 

He doesn’t cooperate but I manage a kiss anyway right on his toad lips. Nothin’ happens except my dress gets dirtier. I drop him, wipe my mouth on my arm, and spit into the dirt. Not only did I not get a friend but now I’m gonna get a paddlin’ cause of my dress. Double probably for leaving the yard. It’s not fair.

Since brother left I’ve been trying not to breathe too hard or too soft or my parents get to cryin’, yellin’, or hittin’. I can’t do nothin’ right. Wish I’d fallen in the river instead of brother, but Ma says I shouldn’t be sayin’ such awful things. I wish I could be doing and sayin’ nothin’. Can’t be wrong if you ain’t here no more.

The sun moves across the sky and I follow toad. I don’t even know why anymore because all I’m doin’ is thinkin’ about how my chest has felt since brother left; the hole sittin’ right where my heart should be. Pressing fingertips to my chest, I wonder if a heart really can be broken into pieces or maybe it disappears when you get to hurtin’ too bad.

An excited voice makes me jump.

“Are you a friend of toad too?”

A girl stands in front of an identical cobblestone well to the one in our yard. The puddle here is more grey than green. She’s wearing overalls and pressing her bare toes into the mud.

“I am,” I say. Her eyes are the color of the sky.

“I’m Addie,” the girl says holding out her hand.

“Kate,” I say and we shake.

We get to talkin’ and walkin’. Addie doesn’t have any friends either. We decide we should be best friends. We pick wildflowers and make crowns. Her Ma gives us fresh lemonade and her Pa says he’ll let my folks know I’m safe. We play until the stars come out. On the walk home, I stop by and find toad beside our cobblestone well. Real quiet-like I tell him “thank you” but toad, toad says nothin’.

by

Flash Fiction: Spider Moon

My spider has a moon on its back. It’s not a big one. Don’t be silly. It’s small, like my spider. In fact, you might not see it unless you get close. Really, really close. I know you won’t because of the eight legs and eight eyes thing, but you’re missing out. The moon is translucent and shiny—a rare precious gem. You might even call it pretty. I like to stare at it before bed and sometimes even touch it. My spider doesn’t mind. It likes me.

The moon affects the way my spider moves and feeds. Full moon days it must find a quiet place to lay because it’s weighed down by the gravity of it. On new moon days, it hunts. Some insects have learned this cycle and can avoid becoming prey. They are the smart ones. Plenty aren’t so bright; my spider finds them and fills its stomach. Drinks them up.

Now, dear, you must ask yourself an important question on this dark, dark night. Do I have a moon on my back? You see, we are alone in this room. You are close enough I can hear your heart beating and feel the warmth of your skin. Am I the kind of creature who feeds in the dark or the light? You tell me.

Author’s note: This tiny story was inspired by the second day of Inktober prompt “spider.” It’s my attempt at a campfire tale. Let me know what you think!