flashfiction

Table Manners

/ dereid99 / Leave a comment

I’m waiting for an old friend, a tall skinny dude with short cropped grey hair and a long-drawn-out face like a tragedy mask pulled down from the chin.  I am sitting in a restaurant – a corner hole in the wall, shaped like a piece of cake with white fifties Formica counter tops running the length. The chairs are bolted to the floor cushioned with red puffy faux leather. They squeak when  swivel. I wait.  I never know if he’ll show. Is he worth the wait?

 Finally, he walks into the slice of time, swaying with slumping shoulders, wearing a long dark wool coat hanging down to his knees.  He falls beside me. I say you should really give me your phone number so I can call you and arrange meetings rather than this wait and hope game we play.  I get tired. He shrugs. Puts his head down. I didn’t mean to scold?  He’s a past I need. A measure to know how far I’ve come.

We sit at the counter. More coffee, please. I say, do you wanna go skiing?  Friday night?  Only problem, many drunk kids on the hill, I add. He says, he doesn’t drink.  I say the town is very busy on weekends. Accommodation short. He says he knows a guy. I nod. He shrugs.  He says, he has a meeting.  Do I want to join? Sure, I’ve got nothing better to do. We put the slippery hill on hold.

We go to another restaurant.  Green and pink neon swirling letters with no organization.  We move to a round half circle booth, made for twelve. Only four shows. Slick brown faux leather this time. What is the arrangement, I think. On the reclaimed wood table, stand glasses half full with melting cubes. Wet circles in no pattern. I strain to  understand. Sounds like baby gaga.  Naiveté? They laugh. Heads bobble. Facial wrinkles. Crows slash faces.

They are eating something bloody, red puddles on plates.  One show, Sherry or Shirley, points to a raw picture with a long shiny nail. I say wow that’s too much. I don’t eat red meat. She rubs her belly and smiles.  I return a grin and order, but it’s only half. Did I misunderstand?   Still too much. They keep talking. I only listen. They continue to laugh.

I want to join, eager to make friends. I mimic their noises. Conversation dies. The table loses energy. I hear ice reforming into blocks. A grey tattered face, stands and says that’s not funny. I finally understand. Shirley or Sherry says she’ll pay for the show. The table evaporates like rings on the table.

I put my head down. Hard fluorescent gum under the table. When I look up, the group is gone.  What did I say? I stopped the laughter.  I killed the language. I walk out, staring at my shoe tops. My past deserts me. Solo skiing isn’t fun, but he knows a guy.

Government Man

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Free Images : aircraft, army, vehicle, aviation, fire, explosion, war, dramatic, chopper ...Not much happening today, but last night I was at home lounging, when I heard a very loud noise above me.  My foundations started rocking like crêpe paper in a hurricane. The world is ending right now. The windows rattled and popped as if a tornado were ripping through town. The sound thunderous as a large machine dropped into my space.  I ran to the boom and inspected my front yard. The view easy because our picture window gone. A petrol breeze flew through the portal.  I put my hand to mouth and gasped for air.

A large military helicopter crashed into our once manicured green space. The cadet grey blades were still moving, digging a large ditch into the earth metres from what was moments ago, my front window. The rotors stopped. I had no front yard – my planted daisies and roses now mulch.  The front of my house was nothing more than a giant gap in the universe. All that was left was space.  I was thankful for my crêpe soled shoes because shattered glass littered the living room carpet like tiny diamonds scattered on a jeweller’s felt.

I was still in shock when a man jumped through the open window. He wore a dark pin-striped suit with sock inserted sandals. He gripped a metallic clipboard in his hands as though swaddling a baby. He plucked his lanyard from under the suit and flipped it in my face. I saw a golden government logo. No name. No department. Just a smiling government man with a fake tan. He could’ve been from the ministry of pills and elixirs for all I knew. The flash brief. He put the credentials back with such quick movement I thought his side hustle was a card shark or fake billionaire. Don’t worry sir, the government is in control. We’ve got you covered. I rolled my eyes. Trust was not coming.

Two other men quickly darted from behind the government man and within two minutes they removed the entire front of my house. Studs and debris removed. A clean cut. Clipboard man made notes and then jumped through the open gap and examined the broken whirly bird. He didn’t take long. He jumped up into my living room with a metal chunk in his grip. It looked like the lock mechanism for a door – where the bolt slides into. He thrust it in my face.  I squinted. Here’s the problem, said the official. Not standard issue. He jumped through the broken window, giggling like a teenager who knows they got away with murder.

He spoke reassuring words a month ago. Compensation in hand. I wait. I sit in my living room in a lawn chair waving to the awe-struck people who walk by. I lounge here twenty-four seven for security reasons, wrapped in a mummy style sleeping bag, zipped to the hilt. I am my own reward.

Street Songs

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Last night I was in an unvisited room – white brick walls, very open, but warm with verdant carpets covering a cold floor. A blond dude stood on a small stage, with a guitar and microphone. He was releasing his only album.  I had no idea who he was. An invitation came in the mail. I responded with a presence.

The music was soothing and mellow,  reminding me of a golden California sunrise  –  yellow with so much hope and promise in the skies. I felt the sunrise in the words as they flowed through me like warm bath bubbles. Every song was great.  Folded cardboard sheets  were passed around. I saw them on a golf course. A sign-off was mandatory.  Beside every track was an approval box.  I put a check mark beside every song.  But not all the songs were present.  I heard more than I saw. I had to tell the producer. We need the warmth. Panic. Action.

 I got on my bike and headed down a street lined with dirty grey buildings and greasy round porthole windows, so thick light couldn’t escape. The air was cold as I glided down the unknown pavement. I passed a relic with a dome shaped roof covered in green metal.  So many poor people along the route –  leaning, squatting, and laying down on the cracked sidewalk The citizens starving with their skin peeling and falling off the bone.  Eyes so dark and sunken like buried seeds in winter.  I wanted to help, but I couldn’t stop. The producer calls.

I got to a shopping centre with a tall glass office tower. The windows were  shiny and mirrored. In the reflection were the starving people on the sidewalk,  behind me.  I turned right, but as I did a large dump truck pulled out in front of me. I was struck. I fell down and couldn’t move. More panic.  The music must get out. The road was blocked. I thought about the sidewalk, but it was covered in people. I sat on my bike, wondering what I should do. I shook. Rivers ran down my face.

A bearded man rose from the sidewalk and walked towards me. He held out his hand. I reached into my bag – slung over my shoulder and hanging on my right side – and took out a bundle of  scorecards. I gave it to the man. He took it and smiled. He went back to the sidewalk  and raised the scorecards with a holler. People rose, gained weight, and were covered in the most glorious gold clothing. They danced and sang the warm songs.

I turned my bike around and headed back down the street. The street people were gone. The green roof was now bronze and shining in the morning sun. The buildings were clean and new. A warm gust flew up the alleys and the streets. Lights glowed in windows and people moved inside, busy. The smell of rich and savoury food filled the street. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I sang.

Baby Beetle Camping

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Yesterday, I loaded up the black Beetle with all my camping gear. I was with another person, but I can’t see her face. I never can. We got to an undisclosed location and pitched our tent  in a perfectly round crop circle.  The grass stomped down, but long on the outside. About thirty feet beyond the enclosure were tall spruce and pine trees, so thick you can’t see daylight. I pitched the lean-to style tent, open at the front, but sliding down at the back.  Standing up was impossible.

It started to rain. Torrents. The tent started to move as the crop circle became a giant swirling hot tub. If we didn’t get to a dry spot or higher ground, we’d be swept down into the unknown. Panic flooded us. The rushing water sound so loud we were deaf.  We got out of the tent and ran to the Beetle, still fairly new with a yellow interior. It was parked outside the circle. Once inside, I looked through the sun roof, but only saw dark, angry skies.

It was very quiet inside the German bug . Amazing considering the torrent outside. Then I heard tiny lips smacking. Hunger.  I turned around and behind me was a baby firmly strapped into a bucket seat. We leaned back, so we could sleep. We didn’t have individual sleeping bags, so we covered ourselves with only one bag. It wasn’t very warm. But much better than outside in the cold swirling rain. The baby slept between our heads. Baby sounds. Gurgle. Giggle. Ga-Ga.

We had a fantastic sleep. The rain stopped. We got out of the car. The baby was gone. It took us some time to find our tent. It was wrapped around the base of a tree as if it were a blanket protecting the massive lumber’s roots. I gathered the tent. We were on our way to the bug when a woman walked out of the trees. She had thick curly black hair spun into two wispy spirals. Dark round sunglasses covered much real estate on her shiny white face. I swore I’d seen her in a cartoon.

She walked with heavy authoritative steps and stopped in front of me. She raised one leg and then the other and stomped them on the ground. I felt the vibrations. I’ll give you this gun for that tent. I hate guns, I said. It was a shiny silver gun with a black handle. I was afraid and felt I had no choice, so I said sure and took the pistol.  She took the tent, turned with her heavy steps and walked away. I had the horrible weapon shaking in my hand. She stopped, turned around and tossed a bullet clip at me. I caught it and gave her a direct line across my face. She said, just in case.

She walked into the forest and disappeared with my home. I took the gun and buried it in her footsteps, hopefully, never found.

Decorations

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Last night I was in  front of a chalkboard covered in  undecipherable symbols. People were dancing – backs on the ground, hands behind their head  with hips bouncing up and down as if they were a swing bridge.  The group wore identical grey tee-shirts with a colourful swirling label pasted on the front and bright pink  pants.  All were in very good condition, not an ounce of jiggling.  They gave their presentation, and after everyone clapped.  I said I must go downstairs and rearrange the Christmas lights. It was April and getting late.

I went into the basement of the old school. The well worn steps were steep, shaky and crackling with every movement. Once the door closed behind me, the world turned black. I hit the bottom.  I took my phone out and pressed the torch. Where was the light switch?  I spanned every wall and the ceiling looking for illumination. Nothing. No bulbs, switches, or any hope for light.

As I walked along the bottom, I saw cubicles on each side of a long dark corridor. The storage compartments were sectioned off into small three by three-foot spaces, jammed to the top with colourful cardboard crates. Letters and numbers scribed, but unknown. Each compartment had a chicken wire front door framed with two-by-two pieces of wood  with an engraved number on top, but no order. On each door was a lock. I forgot to bring keys.

I shone the light in each compartment, hoping I’d see a Christmas decorations label. I finally found what I was looking for on the bottom shelf of number fifteen. The door was locked. However, unlike the other locks, this one needed numbers. I used the last seven digits of my school identification.  The metal clicked.

I opened a box and took the tree lights out, pulling the cord while wrapping the green and red bulbs around my shoulder and hand.  A colourful circle of lights.  My arm was getting sore. Just as I thought my arm would fall off, the lights came to a stop and lit up like, well, a Christmas tree. I put the glowing  bundle into a bag labelled “Decorations,” closed and locked the door.

I started walking back down the corridor. I couldn’t find the stairs I came down. I was confused and lost. Just as my eyes started to swell, a glowing rectangle frame appeared. I opened the door. Bright lights. Many voices. I smelled pine,  banana and old spice.

I went to a directions counter. I knew the server. Her English was good, but not proficient enough to understand my predicament.  I said hello. She was very concerned because she didn’t give the right amount of change to the previous customer. I said, don’t worry I know the person.  I found her.  She was flexing in the hallway. Her body bent in pink pants. I told her the counter person was upset because she didn’t give her the right change. She said, laughing, don’t worry she can keep it.

Ward 14

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Last night I stepped out of a cab – directions unknown. The rain poured in slanted silver sheets. I was saddled with a horribly disgusting passenger. The object next to me was all black and gooey as if covered in shiny tar. I have no idea where he came from. He was just there.

You would have a hard time telling if the blob riding with me was human. The thing rolled out of the cab and lay in a dirty puddle, floating like a lung oyster in the toilet. And the putrid smell, decaying organic matter not of this universe. The sick shit was my roommate and I couldn’t have walked into a more horrible condition.

I was renting a cramped but clean studio apartment from a guy who worked with me at the hospital. I was very sad because my previous roommate was an outstanding fellow – kind, considerate and the most honorable human I’ve ever met. My landlord hooked me up with the new roomy but warned me to be careful. Honour was not a genuine blob quality.  I had no choice because rents were so high in my city, one had to take on a roommate. I got stuck with a piece of shit. Soaring costs and terrible humans cause havoc on social fabrics.

I got home with misery following and decided to go for a run. The apartment was close to the hospital where I worked. I ran around the hospital and then went inside because I was getting wet. As I ran through the hospital, I saw a guy slouched over on a bench with his head in his hands. I went over and asked him if he was all right. He lifted his head; his eyes rimmed raw red, his face clean and never shaven.

He was carrying flowers – all purple, red and white, but they were sagging and shaking in his hands. I asked if he was all right. He said he was fine, but he didn’t know how to get to ward fourteen. My mouth dropped. The worse ward in the hospital. Once you go into ward fourteen, you weren’t leaving without a uniformed escort. I pointed to the candy-striped elevator. Only one ride to ward fourteen. I hugged him. He thanked me, lowered his head, and got on the elevator. A grey woman wearing a white paper hat shaped like a boat looked at me, smiled and nodded her head.

I finished my run through the hospital and went home. Immediately, I checked all my secret hiding spots. My valuables were still in place. I went into the living room and spotted the black disgusting slug on my couch. I thought about asking him to move because he was staining the furniture, but I didn’t want to anger him. Let sleeping dogs lie, literally. I went and took a shower to remove the hospital and sweat from my bones. When I came out, the slug was gone, replaced with a paper hat. The stain removed from my couch.

Green Tent

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Two weeks ago, I went camping. I pitched a glowing green tent shaped like an igloo in a forest clearing. Inside, hung from a criss-crossed pole at the top was an old lantern running on white gas, burning with a mesh style baby sock. The light was very bright. White hot slashes poured between the flammable walls. The structure from outside looked like a radiating green snow globe, possibly shaken by a very large man with green clothing and a deep voice, shouting, “Ho, ho, ho.” I wasn’t sure if I should use the light in the tent, the fumes and heat very combustible in a small confined area.

Under the raging light was my sleeping arrangement, a single green cot. I went outside and sitting around the campfire were two people. One was a dude decked out in green camo. He wore a floppy fisherman hat with randomly attached  hooks and lures. One device was bright neon orange. A fish would spot it miles away.  He was a good fisherman, I heard. He always stuck to the rules. Catch and release.

Next to him sat a girl dressed in white, red and brown camo. She kept moving away from the fire. I watched steam rising from her clothes.   She was medium height, with streaky pink hair tied up at the back. She had a camo-tattoo around her ankle, matching her clothes. She wore a large mason jar smile, showing many bright white teeth. They glowed like bright white light.  Good for midnight bladder jaunts to the bush, I thought.

She asked to come in the tent, and I said sure. I brought a blue sleeping bag with me, but I couldn’t find it. I searched the tent and then went outside to look around the campsite, but it was nowhere. I was so sure I’d brought it. Streaky hair girl got on the cot. I did the same. It was very tight and we couldn’t move. We snuggled and tried to get warm. I tried to cover us, but the only means were the bags the cot and tent were stored in.  I considered lighting the lamp, but I was afraid we’d go up in a fireball. Death by fire or by ice, I’m not sure what is better.

It was a restless night.  We couldn’t get comfortable or warm on the small cot with no coverings except leftover bags. Finally, the sun rose. The tent quickly became an oven – nature’s extremes. We were starting to suffocate, so we got out of the tent. Fisher guy was still there sitting around the fire. He’d fallen asleep in a chair before the fire. I asked him how he slept. He said like a baby with blue lips and toes.

I finally found my sleeping bag. I handed it to pink hair girl, but she said she was  going fishing. I said, good luck I hope you catch something. She smiled with those bright white teeth. I tried to remember where my sunglasses were.

Panel Wagon

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I was driving a very small car, fire engine red with white trim. It was so low to the ground, I felt as though my ass were dragging across the ground, derriere road rash. It wasn’t light out yet, gray light just forming on the horizon. I drove to the institution early so I could get a good parking spot. The lot got very full, very fast. I was in a rush, so I had to wash my hair in the back seat of my tiny car. Luckily the car came with a shower nozzle, the kind you find in a kitchen, thin flexible metallic hose with a black nozzle. You just press the button, and water scoots out. I’m glad I had the option. Clean hair is so important.

After I washed my hair, my friend came and tapped on the window. I couldn’t see her face because her shaggy dirty blonde hair covered her facial features. She wore a large beige cable knit sweater, reminding me of a rug with a zipper up the front. She was going to take my car and drive it to an unknown location. She got in and dropped me off at the institution door, but it was too early. I told her I’d wait until the doors opened, but she insisted and drove back to the parking lot. I said, you’ll never get a parking spot. She wasn’t worried.

When we got back, the lot was full. Another little car was driving into the space we vacated. Only little cars were permitted in the lot. So many little cars in one place, you’d think a clown convention was happening. We drove around and around but couldn’t find a spot.

My friend was getting frustrated. I asked her if she wanted to come for dinner. She was very appreciative.  She said sure. She’d come back and pick me up at four. I walked to the steel institution doors. They opened.

She arrived right on time at four. We drove to my house. I was living in another car, a station wagon with the same wood panels adorning so many basements in shag carpet time. My house had no wheels. It was parked in an abandoned lot with a large park flowing outside the back window. The wagon had a portable stove on the back.

I poured some wine. We drank and she admired my Swedish shelving. They’re Olof Palmes’.  We sat in the front seat drank wine and ate steak and potatoes and green beans. After dinner, we jumped over the front seats and sat in the back and listened to the radio. A song came on about a guy who was in love with his best friend’s girlfriend. I said I hadn’t heard the song in a long time. She said the guy was an asshole. Who does that?

We pulled the seats back and laid down in the wagon area, watching the trees and the grass sway in the park. We drank the rest of our wine. We talked until the park was only shadows. She said, it’s getting late. I have to work in the morning. After she went home, I got out and lit the wagon on fire. I walked down a dark road, wishing I hadn’t given her my car.