Tag: Flash Fiction

A Trip in the Botanical Gardens

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Alice shook stones from her sandal. They sprayed across the ground, barely missing a stripey monarch caterpillar. “I’m sorry,” Alice said reflexively.

“You should be.” The caterpillar inched onto Alice’s other sandal. “Give me a lift. It’s the least you could do after nearly squishing me.”

“What?”

The caterpillar said, “Botanical garden; milkweeds, please.”

What were the odds? Zero, the odds were zero. The milkweeds waved pink heads in the wind. A few released their silky seeds. Alice felt stones in her sandals. No, in her sneakers, she was wearing sneakers. The patterned sunlight colored her calm. No caterpillars, nowhere.

Time to Reconnect

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Do you remember Tom?

Your eyes are the first to understand. They open wide, drawn to a presence.

His cheeks not pale. Bright red, like the way they were that winter day. Electric day.

The day the snow fell in April.

And you met.

He came with a shovel. 

Cleared your sidewalk.

You had cookies and hot chocolate together.

The steam rose wet in the frigid air. 

Before he was your husband, walking boot deep in fluffy snow.

Tom. Laughing at unexpected falling flakes. Catching them in his mouth. 

Living life to the end.

The last word goes to Tom.

Abstinence Based Sex Ed

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The President’s Ten Proven Methods for Pregnancy Prevention.

  1. Eliminate storks.
  2. Go through menopause.
  3. Read the Trump Bible, exclusively, just $59.99.
  4. Never wean your first baby.
  5. Keep your knees closed.
  6. Concealed carry, stand your ground.
  7. Download the Pope’s hundred best Chicago rhythm and blues tunes.
  8. Get a rhythm groove.
  9. Don’t lose your groove.
  10. When you’re late, say you’re not.

These suggestions have been curated by the president’s own human copy machine while on international jaunts with his majesty. They will be distributed through the Department of Miseducation for use in classrooms this fall.

The new curriculum will be titled Ex-say Education-nay.  

It’s Mostly Fruit Juice

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My friend discovered her ability to conjure a pina colada from a glass of milk one evening at dinner. She said, rather desperately, to her unruly kids, “Eat your vegetables.” Et voila! Like water to wine, the milk in her glass tasted of rum.

Her talent saves us bundles. We go to this Italian restaurant that’s family friendly. My friend and I order milk, the kids get soda, a special treat. We never pay more than a few dollars for a drink and the kids eat their veggies.

The waiters never catch on, maybe because we leave a generous tip.

He’s Got to Pull His Weight

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I was excited when this half-grown border collie came up the driveway, then I got worried. I told Pa, “Could be a working dog. They herd sheep.”

“We ain’t got no sheep.”

“Cows, maybe?”

“Don’t need no dog. Give him to John, he’s got sheep.”

I’ve been asking for a dog since forever. “Might scare…”

The dog sticks his nose in the air. Something’s rustling in the corn and out comes a big ol’ raccoon. The dog’s carrying on to beat the band and, miracle of miracles,  chases that raccoon clean away.

“Reckon he’ll do.”

High praise from my dad.

Daisy O’Grady is a Witch

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I saw Daisy, my longtime friend, in the window of a bookshop on Hamilton Avenue. She was wrapped in cellophane, sitting in a large Easter basket that overflowed with children’s books. Oh, she wore clothes. What were you thinking? An explanatory sign said,  “Ask me about my favorite book.”

I was flummoxed. Daisy hasn’t read a book in years; she’s more into Tarot. If she reads to her grandchildren, she’s kept me in the dark.

I pulled a wig and a pointy hat from my capacious old lady purse. I had the perfect question for her. “Guess What? Yes or No.”

(Guess What? By Mem Fox. A fun read. Also a banned book in Florida for an “old lady in a bathtub” illustration. (But I suspect it’s because Daisy is a witch.)

Friendship

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I remember the motorcycle he rode.

I remember sneaking off with him when he was sixteen. I was fourteen, full of elaborate excuses; girlfriends who vouched for me. Wind in my face, the noise, the leather jacket and the helmet. I saved up, hid them at his house.

I remember when he told me he was gay.

I remember how cool I played it. “I wondered,” I said. I thought, what were the chances he was wrong?

I remember every unworthy person he dated. I’d ask him, “Are you sure? What do you see?”

He’d say, “You’re my best friend.”

Irresistible Impulse

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He said- You said, Yes.

She said- I said, not yet. Another time. A later time.

He said- But your eyes said yes

She said- My eyes don’t speak for me.

He said- Your eyes speak to me.

She said- Looks can deceive.

He said- So you admit it? You lied. Those gorgeous blue eyes lied?

She said- You should have known. You should have asked, clarified, not taken things at face value.

He said- Whatever. Now we have this adorable cat. 

She said- This purring cat, we’re cat parents now.

He said- I’m a sucker for gorgeous blue eyes.

A Healthy Dose of Skepticism Is What We Need.

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The ad popped up in a search. Bottled impulse control. There it was, an amazing new drug that claimed to be the cure for the closet shopaholic. Impulse control. Another way of saying, “Caveat emptor,” for those who don’t know Latin.

A pill. I was skeptical. But the hype that accompanied the pill convinced me. “Do you believe everything you hear in this world of make-believe? Then this is the pill for you. Sales resistance in a bottle. Just 20 dollars will save you hundreds in foolish purchases.”

I put it in my cart. I hovered over “Buy.” I clicked.

Free as a Dog

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The warm weather brought out the dogs. They roamed without leashes. They found each other and played, the poodles and the labs and the scrappy mutts. Their people strolled along the tree-lined streets, digging in their pockets for treats. 

A kind of amnesia had made them all forget to whom they belonged. They started fresh in a world where it’s not dog-eat-dog. Utopia. And then, the oddest thing happened. The universe snapped its fingers. The dogs and people sorted themselves out. Back to the way things were. The sense of bonhomie, a vague impression that lingered as a subliminal image.