An ice cream cone sat on a fish's head as it stood on its fins, waving from a sea of scoops of ice cream.
It was an ugly mascot--even uglier in the setting sun where the fading sunlight highlighted the manic grin of the fish in the sea of fire balls. But I waited patiently for him as he finished the last few minutes of his shift wiping down tables that hadn't been used all day.
Our first year. A special one. My first one. Took us a while to get here. He promised it'd just be the two of us in celebration. After my birthday fiasco, he promised he'd be better.
The newspaper review of his family's ice cream shop when it first opened up was framed in a faded gold frame. The gold flaked off in places, revealed the black underneath. From what I remember, the review was a very positive one, praising his great-great-grandfather's creativity or some such. I guess it's because he used to create interesting ice cream flavors. His grandfather used to do that.
They don't do that anymore.
He just waved goodbye to his sister and stepped into the sunlight just as it receded past his feet.
"Hey," he grimaced as he saw me.
"Ready to go?"
"I can't today. Busy. The boys, you know. Next time, ey?"
He turned and walked away.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
OFFWM: Tangerine Fishing.
A goat.
Sitting in a boat.
Smoking a tangerine.
How obscene.
On this boat, there's a man--the goat's pet--wearing a leather collar, bleeting into the air like some panicked animal. Poor thing, really, it doesn't know any better. It's perfectly safe here.
The goat is grey, the way his ancestors were, but he was addicted to tangerines. His wife and children hate it, so he takes this opportunity on the water to indulge.
The man is bleeting, gagging hysteric saliva onto the floors of the wooden boat. The goat scoffed, but remained immobile.
He's waiting for fish to take the bait. He has an entire bucket full of jelly babies and has to resist the urge to take one--or two, or three--into his own mouth.
They needed food on the table.
Several hours later, with three fish and fishing instruments in one hoof, leash in the other, the goat trudged up the hill, pulling the bleeting, reluctant human the entire way.
The air was perfumed with tangerines, and the human vomited by the mailbox.
Sitting in a boat.
Smoking a tangerine.
How obscene.
On this boat, there's a man--the goat's pet--wearing a leather collar, bleeting into the air like some panicked animal. Poor thing, really, it doesn't know any better. It's perfectly safe here.
The goat is grey, the way his ancestors were, but he was addicted to tangerines. His wife and children hate it, so he takes this opportunity on the water to indulge.
The man is bleeting, gagging hysteric saliva onto the floors of the wooden boat. The goat scoffed, but remained immobile.
He's waiting for fish to take the bait. He has an entire bucket full of jelly babies and has to resist the urge to take one--or two, or three--into his own mouth.
They needed food on the table.
Several hours later, with three fish and fishing instruments in one hoof, leash in the other, the goat trudged up the hill, pulling the bleeting, reluctant human the entire way.
The air was perfumed with tangerines, and the human vomited by the mailbox.
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
OFFWM: Casseopia.
The sun sets at exactly 6:49 every day. Changes in season have no effect. And daylight savings has finally become obscure for a society that kept it for so long because of the lack of roots, of traditions, of history, and every human, every family, every social wants to feel the entitlement of belonging to something ancient and long-lasting.
But I suppose all that is obscure too.
Even the sunset is obscure.
From the windows, you can see forests and oceans and mountains rising up to the perfectly timed sky. You can see the stars, even in metropolitan areas. You couldn't do that before. At least that's what my grandmother told me.
I wonder if the sky looked the same millions of years ago?
But I'm restless. They're joining us. They're integrating. We don't have the same ideas. The same culture. The same...anything. What do we do?
Reject them. Barricade ourselves behind our philosophies and judge them. Keep judging until it's integrated into our history books, our truth, our DNA. Our children will carry this legacy!
We will hate and isolate until we are the only ones left.
And here, in our sphere, we can be safe, superior. Safe from harm, and no alarm. Safe from them.
The sun is gone. Systematic, but always beautiful, the way fire is beautiful. The forests, oceans, and mountains are no longer there. Just a dark backdrop and silver lights flickering, masquerading as stars.
I wonder if the sky looked the same millions of years ago.
But I suppose all that is obscure too.
Even the sunset is obscure.
From the windows, you can see forests and oceans and mountains rising up to the perfectly timed sky. You can see the stars, even in metropolitan areas. You couldn't do that before. At least that's what my grandmother told me.
I wonder if the sky looked the same millions of years ago?
But I'm restless. They're joining us. They're integrating. We don't have the same ideas. The same culture. The same...anything. What do we do?
Reject them. Barricade ourselves behind our philosophies and judge them. Keep judging until it's integrated into our history books, our truth, our DNA. Our children will carry this legacy!
We will hate and isolate until we are the only ones left.
And here, in our sphere, we can be safe, superior. Safe from harm, and no alarm. Safe from them.
The sun is gone. Systematic, but always beautiful, the way fire is beautiful. The forests, oceans, and mountains are no longer there. Just a dark backdrop and silver lights flickering, masquerading as stars.
I wonder if the sky looked the same millions of years ago.
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
OFFWM: Hook.
"So I was dating this girl for a year. We broke up last week."
"Sorry to hear that."
"We should meet up sometime. Catch up. Hang out."
"Sure. When we have time."
"I have plenty of time."
"I don't."
"Well, let's try to make it happen anyway."
"Sure."
"Hey, remember that time we... you know? Wasn't that great?"
"Is that what this call is for?"
"What? No. Of course not."
"Really? We haven't talked for over a year, and all of a suddenly, she leaves, and you're suddenly available to hang out?"
"No, it's not like that."
Click.
"Sorry to hear that."
"We should meet up sometime. Catch up. Hang out."
"Sure. When we have time."
"I have plenty of time."
"I don't."
"Well, let's try to make it happen anyway."
"Sure."
"Hey, remember that time we... you know? Wasn't that great?"
"Is that what this call is for?"
"What? No. Of course not."
"Really? We haven't talked for over a year, and all of a suddenly, she leaves, and you're suddenly available to hang out?"
"No, it's not like that."
Click.
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
OFFWM: Done.
She saw the frog twitching on the table and she could feel a strange texture bubbling up into her throat. It's what she wants to do, so why does she feel so sickened? All life must end. All life must end. And once it's ended, it can never return, so why do muscles still contract and give reactions? Are muscles more hopeful that they'll be in use? Are the muscles lonely without a spirit to give it purpose and life?
That's awfully unscientific of her. There's no proof of spirit or the soul that drives a human, so why can she taste the peanut butter and jelly becoming stronger in her throat?
"What's wrong? Feeling sick?" snickered one of her classmates.
All life must end, and once it ends, it's done.
That's awfully unscientific of her. There's no proof of spirit or the soul that drives a human, so why can she taste the peanut butter and jelly becoming stronger in her throat?
"What's wrong? Feeling sick?" snickered one of her classmates.
All life must end, and once it ends, it's done.
Monday, October 6, 2014
OFFWM: Flash Fiction Gone Wrong?
Tomorrow's the day.
The day that everything will change.
Changing the way the world spins.
And on this day, where the world will spin differently,
the clouds will turn purple, and the rain will turn orange,
but it's not dangerous. It won't be dangerous, you see,
because it's a gift. A gift from nature, of impossibilities.
Everyone says that it's impossible,
that you can't touch rainbows,
and you can't time travel,
and you can't eat with your elbows on the table.
But on this day, purple clouds and orange rain,
shows us solid rainbows don't actually taste like anything.
The world will open,
and we'll all see
that the monsters under our beds,
are us, clothed in idiocy.
I'm getting ahead of myself,
skipping through meadows.
All that I'm looking forward to
is a peaceful day off.
A day where stress is a stranger,
unwelcome in my home.
A day where I can sit and write
without a thought towards students and homework
and lesson planning and all that
because that drives me crazy
just like Cat in the Hat.
I've veered off course,
the way my manual car would if I took the wheel
I've never driven one before
Why do I feel the need to rhyme here?
There's no point to this post
Just that I wanted everyone to see
that the world will change its spin tomorrow
not for anyone but me.
The day that everything will change.
Changing the way the world spins.
And on this day, where the world will spin differently,
the clouds will turn purple, and the rain will turn orange,
but it's not dangerous. It won't be dangerous, you see,
because it's a gift. A gift from nature, of impossibilities.
Everyone says that it's impossible,
that you can't touch rainbows,
and you can't time travel,
and you can't eat with your elbows on the table.
But on this day, purple clouds and orange rain,
shows us solid rainbows don't actually taste like anything.
The world will open,
and we'll all see
that the monsters under our beds,
are us, clothed in idiocy.
I'm getting ahead of myself,
skipping through meadows.
All that I'm looking forward to
is a peaceful day off.
A day where stress is a stranger,
unwelcome in my home.
A day where I can sit and write
without a thought towards students and homework
and lesson planning and all that
because that drives me crazy
just like Cat in the Hat.
I've veered off course,
the way my manual car would if I took the wheel
I've never driven one before
Why do I feel the need to rhyme here?
There's no point to this post
Just that I wanted everyone to see
that the world will change its spin tomorrow
not for anyone but me.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
October Flash Fiction Writing Month - Goal Setting
A few days behind, but that's OK.
There are 31 days in October, I aim to put out at least 25 flash fiction pieces.
1 page limit.
No word limit, as long as they all fit on one page.
12 font.
Times New Roman.
No restrictions on when you put out those pieces, as long as you have 25 by the end of the month.
There are 31 days in October, I aim to put out at least 25 flash fiction pieces.
1 page limit.
No word limit, as long as they all fit on one page.
12 font.
Times New Roman.
No restrictions on when you put out those pieces, as long as you have 25 by the end of the month.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Blackberries in Summer. 1
The heat hovered still and quiet, drowning the town's inhabitants in a haze of grogginess. The cicadas were the only living creatures that had the energy to create any sound or movement. Their wings beat in haphazard movements against each other, and if you closed your eyes, laying under the willow tree by the brown river, you could almost mistake them for frogs. That is, if you were city-dweller.
Summers were always the time to go blackberry picking. Every time we went berry-picking, I wore my white shorts with big, lime-green polka dots. You won't catch me dead wearing those damn shorts with my damn pink shirt with a white, lacey bunny tucked into them now. But when you were little, you didn't really give a damn because no one else cared either. As long as you weren't cruising around in pure, sweat-sheened skin, you didn't care--even though you threw a fuss every seasonal wardrobe change. I was one of those kids. First day wearing shorts after a long winter of long pants, and I felt alien to myself, the way animals do when they look in the mirror. They begin feeling self-conscious, nervous, and threatened. So they hiss and spit and wait to attack, but the foe reacted exactly the same way. Every time.
We lived in the city. They called us the 'CDs', even though we visited Grandma every summer, from late June to early August. Since I could remember, we had gone to Grandma's place every summer. Those were the good years. Those were the years where blackberries were abundant and sweet, where we ran around staining our clothes with sticky sweet blackberry juice and licking them off our arms. Those were the years where fighting was off-limits out of the city, where every face in our photos was plastered with blackberry smiles.
Grandma's house lay hidden behind a thicket of empty blackberry bushes. It's been years since we've come to visit. After the divorce, no one wanted to come to a place that was a reminder of times that allowed smiles to grace our faces. It wasn't much of a secret either. One of the downsides to being so attached to a small town is that everyone knows you. Everyone knows your business. Especially business that sets blaze to shame and embarrassment. It's a source of entertainment for human beings. And small town dwellers live and breathe in the stuff.
After Grandma died, the house was left to anyone in the family who had the need for it. No one did. Reminders of happy times are painful. Especially when thinking back on them when unhappiness permeates the spirit of the house you reside in. It's a heavy stink. You keep scratching at it, but it won't go away. It seeps into the deep, dark grooves beneath your eyes, into your limp hair, and into the weaves of your mismatched pantsuit.
My ex-husband hated this house. He visited once, after the wedding was held here, and then refused to visit the house again. I'd bring the kids here in the summers, the way Mom and Dad did, and they loved it. You should have seen them, smiles sticky with innocence and naivety. Those were the good old days. Had I had grandchildren, I'd reminisce about those times until they'd start mouthing it behind my back.
The blackberry bushes are overgrown, thorny, and empty, even though it's height of blackberry season. This sets the mood of my visit: empty, foreign, and out of place. I could hear whispers from the older generation behind my back, remember her? She's back. How shameful. How could she show her face after what's happened? Do you remember what happened? Not really, didn't they get divorced? Shameful! The younger generation these days don't know how to appreciate a roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, and food on the table.
No one bothers to remember why the divorce happened.
Summers were always the time to go blackberry picking. Every time we went berry-picking, I wore my white shorts with big, lime-green polka dots. You won't catch me dead wearing those damn shorts with my damn pink shirt with a white, lacey bunny tucked into them now. But when you were little, you didn't really give a damn because no one else cared either. As long as you weren't cruising around in pure, sweat-sheened skin, you didn't care--even though you threw a fuss every seasonal wardrobe change. I was one of those kids. First day wearing shorts after a long winter of long pants, and I felt alien to myself, the way animals do when they look in the mirror. They begin feeling self-conscious, nervous, and threatened. So they hiss and spit and wait to attack, but the foe reacted exactly the same way. Every time.
We lived in the city. They called us the 'CDs', even though we visited Grandma every summer, from late June to early August. Since I could remember, we had gone to Grandma's place every summer. Those were the good years. Those were the years where blackberries were abundant and sweet, where we ran around staining our clothes with sticky sweet blackberry juice and licking them off our arms. Those were the years where fighting was off-limits out of the city, where every face in our photos was plastered with blackberry smiles.
Grandma's house lay hidden behind a thicket of empty blackberry bushes. It's been years since we've come to visit. After the divorce, no one wanted to come to a place that was a reminder of times that allowed smiles to grace our faces. It wasn't much of a secret either. One of the downsides to being so attached to a small town is that everyone knows you. Everyone knows your business. Especially business that sets blaze to shame and embarrassment. It's a source of entertainment for human beings. And small town dwellers live and breathe in the stuff.
After Grandma died, the house was left to anyone in the family who had the need for it. No one did. Reminders of happy times are painful. Especially when thinking back on them when unhappiness permeates the spirit of the house you reside in. It's a heavy stink. You keep scratching at it, but it won't go away. It seeps into the deep, dark grooves beneath your eyes, into your limp hair, and into the weaves of your mismatched pantsuit.
My ex-husband hated this house. He visited once, after the wedding was held here, and then refused to visit the house again. I'd bring the kids here in the summers, the way Mom and Dad did, and they loved it. You should have seen them, smiles sticky with innocence and naivety. Those were the good old days. Had I had grandchildren, I'd reminisce about those times until they'd start mouthing it behind my back.
The blackberry bushes are overgrown, thorny, and empty, even though it's height of blackberry season. This sets the mood of my visit: empty, foreign, and out of place. I could hear whispers from the older generation behind my back, remember her? She's back. How shameful. How could she show her face after what's happened? Do you remember what happened? Not really, didn't they get divorced? Shameful! The younger generation these days don't know how to appreciate a roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, and food on the table.
No one bothers to remember why the divorce happened.
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