Monthly Archives: February 2009

Green

I left my smoky town on an escalator highway circling around the greenish needs of every person who’d ever left
Held up by the crispy pieces of what we call good intentions
that drifted its way back
Pretty moths hid in travel clothes and nibbled their concerns at me
I did not attend.
Too many analogies and metaphors between us,
Can’t be too sure–
Methinks wearing purple nail polish and red lipstick is archaic but I’ll wash the dishes
This whole time you were sitting on a pea,
A pea
Oh, I’m sleepy

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Henley

Lucile wore a light dusting of clay over well-worn gray khaki pants, frayed at the bottom. Her shirt appeared to be gray but it was a navy Henley shirt her mother brought home from a garage sale when she was in junior high. It was too big for her and so she saved it for dirty-clothes wear. When she left home to a small liberal arts college in Iowa, she took the battered oversized navy shirt with her and packed away other mementos in her father’s cobwebbed basement, including her shrink-wrapped yearbook and a dime-store promise ring Gary Webb gave to her during prom.

Gary said he was going to get a cola at the grad night party, and said he would get her one too, if she wanted, but she didn’t, but a lemon-lime soda would be better, thanks. She waited for 10 minutes, making polite chitchat with people who she was fairly sure she’d never see again after that night. 10 more minutes, 25 minutes, 45 minutes—Lucile walked home alone in her sister’s dilapidated red party shoes, the heels poking a long trail of holes in the dirt.

The shirt survived four years of sleepy Midwest life, sniffling of dry winds, fresh corn, and farm insurance. Lucile left with her navy shirt and an uninspiring portfolio and left for a milder climate in California after dreaming about Abercrombie models for a week nonstop.

Leave a comment

Filed under Flash Fiction

Three Minutes

In a pitiful, albeit a passing stage of trite sadness and melancholy mixed with a unusual proactive daring I shot myself, and succeeded in killing myself.  Except, that I sadly learned to discover, I did not die in the sense that I’d hoped, and my mind was still wide awake and fully functional  (but not in the way that I hoped when my body was alive—i.e., able to do fantastical calculations in my head like 17-digit division problems and powers). I just lacked a body. I immediately felt a wave of disgust mixed with genuine sadness and melancholy. I looked at my body; one eye was missing and I won’t describe the rest except to say that I wished to death (ha, ha) I would have looked at my reflection one last time. It would have to rely on memory now. I’d look at those thick black eyelashes, rows on top of each other, and admire my pout and my left dimple. It was too late now! I also noticed, shockingly, that I wore undergarments that should be strictly restricted to a woman’s time of month—oh, how the hell did I do this, how could I fuck up like this—and I got my brother’s couch terribly dirty and I was aware he could not afford a new couch, especially now that he’d have to help pay for my funeral costs. I used to read obituaries and notice the ones that signed off, “In lieu of flowers, lah-dee-dah..”, but I hoped that wouldn’t be the case with me, because I loved tulips and roses and gerber daises and poppies in all hues beautiful, except for purple. Instead of moping about what I’d done I decided I’d only look at the bright side from now on: I congratulated myself on at least naming my brother as the beneficiary on my modest retirement savings; I guess that meant he could reward himself to something he always wanted, like a sailboat or something, but it might have to wait until he’s 59 and 1/2 years old, or something. Oh my god… my parents… they’re going to kill me.

3 Comments

Filed under Flash Fiction

Biological History of Rainbow Beach- abridged vers.

In the days of cerulean flowerbeds in the orange ocean, my handsome and I traveled to the damp caves to bring out ancient canoes to lull along on the waves, until our arms cried for rest.  Gladly, we returned to shore where we slowly baked until our skin simmered until it was the color of the copper-flecked multicolored sand beneath us.

The red and black and white rocks from the cave– the sand’s distant ancestors– gently and unwaveringly kissed by the saltwater, crumbled in acquiescence, unable to resist its charms.  The spectacular colors came from the deep abyss of the earth, near impossible to be confirmed without true professional scientific equipment, but the scent of sulfur and salt powers the atmosphere within– but not overwhelmingly so– resting comfortably like a cloud lingering serenely in an azure sky with no pressing destination.

I brought an apple, beautifully checked with white snowflakes on its crimson skin.  I pressed it into his sunswept palm.

Leave a comment

Filed under Flash Fiction

Collection

An old milliner’s striped hat box, now faded and reincarnated by its late owner into a correspondence catalogue of letters from childhood friends, past roommates, old lovers and faraway cousins, sat amongst frayed copies of financial statements and middle aged tax forms, dancing with forty year-old photos of young girls with shiny bare arms and knees and shoulders, their cheeks red-rose blossomy.  The photographer’s camerawork captured the radiance of the sun that lent a lucid sheen to the girls’ knowing eyes as if they knew they were attempting to permanently imprint the temporary.

Leave a comment

Filed under Flash Fiction