Flash fiction - Longing - L

Carter watched the trio approach from the other side of the quad. Marci, Sean and Dina took the bus together from the Wisteria Vistas apartment complex ten miles away from Citron State. They, along with Carter and four other students of the Thursday night HUM 2234 class met up each Saturday morning for study group when the former community college campus was more or less deserted. Carter, along with Greg, Ben, Talia and Kristy, worked full time office jobs and tended to tease the younger group about their carefree schedules. Most of the time they didn't even sound bitter.

Unlike his other, adultier co-students, Sean made Carter think about what life would be like if he were about eight years younger. If someone who looked like Sean and smiled like Sean had been a part of his first college experience. Someone who made him too tongue tied to speak. Someone who made Carter's insides full of butterflies confined by twisty knots. 

And each Saturday, the professional grown up and title processor by weekday would hide behind his laptop reviewing notes on the Enlightenment and stealing glances at the beautiful blonde Adonis who always managed to sit just within his direct line of sight. Marci, it was clear, found Sean equally appealing, but youth, inexperience, and willful disregard blinded her to Sean's lack of interest. Carter was sure it probably would not be her last crush on someone looking for a little... more than she had to offer. Sean goodnaturedly put up with her hands-on flirtations, but wasn't subtle in mentioning how well his dates with the lively Mike were going.  

Carter hated every fiber of the legendary Mike's being.

Watching her rub Sean's shoulders, as she was doing now while they waited for Kristy and her brother Ben to finish up at the often unmanned coffee cart nearby, made Carter's hands itch to slap her own away. He could never be so aggressive. The coke-bottle glasses and overbite might be long gone, but the insecurity remained. So he inched closer to thirty alone, going back to school in his spare time and dreaming about the younger man mere feet away with his whole life ahead of him. He had life insurance and a 401K. Sean had to bum change to ride the bus half the time. But he was so pretty to look at. 

Carter sunk lower behind his screen, praying the flush creeping up his cheeks looked like a sunburn. Sean laughed at a filthy joke Dina told. Something twisted in Carter's stomach, coiling hotly around the base of his spine.

"Your parents must be so proud." Greg dropped down beside Carter and offered the giggling trio a withering glare. Carter nodded silently in greeting to the middle school guidance counselor. Greg's attitude towards the younger group, heavily affected by the hours spent with foul-mouthed preteens, added to Carter's shame in his attraction to Sean. The kid was barely old enough to buy his own beer. But his eyes sparkled with all the brilliance of the finest jewels. 

Karma - K

Karma, as defined by the Merriam-Webster dictionary, is the force generated by a person's actions held in Hinduism and Buddhism to perpetuate transmigration and in its ethical consequences to determine the nature of the person's next existence. Karma - Merriam-Webster It’s become a popular idea, at least among people I know and social media sites I follow, to apply it like a ticking time bomb of paybacks. The variety that tend to be a bitch.

In my blue collar, Middle America upbringing, I was introduced to the idea of Karma pretty early. My dad is something of a displaced Renaissance man. A man of endless interests and an aptitude to learn damn near anything and everything he puts his mind to. I grew up with magazines on astronomy, history and humor right alongside my copies of Wee Wisdom, a now defunct children’s spiritual periodical that focused mainly on being a good person and doing good things as opposed to shoving fire and brimstone down my throat (At least as far as I remember - I may have blocked out anything I found angry or distasteful), which was my mom & grandma’s contribution to the reading material available to me as a kid. The magazines were on top of regular visits to whatever library we lived near and bookcases full of Reader’s Digest compendiums and various fiction and nonfiction tomes on just about anything.

I hasten to point out that my mom and religion tends to be a touchy area. As can happen with some people who have certain varieties of mental illness, her problems could be at their worst when she hit a stage of religious zealot. My dad on the other hand, gave me a very pragmatic view of life, religion, spirituality and such. Which is bringing me back to Karma, I swear.

I asked, at maybe seven or eight, if my dad believed in God. I’d noticed Mom sitting with her Bible on tape when she wasn’t quite herself and my dad’s complete disdain for organized religion. Before I was born and before Mom got sick, my parents were regular church goers who taught Sunday school. A decade plus later, I was curious about my dad’s belief system. Probably because I was beginning to form my own. My dad had always been very vocal that religion was a personal choice that each person and I was finally old enough to be curious to compare notes.

The most important thing I took from that conversation, something that I remember to this day, is that he believed in a higher power. We’d gotten through too many difficult situations and had too many strange things occur for there not to be something bigger at play. I recall, with great clarity, being awed by his answer. My daddy, the guy who I figured was able to hang the moon in the sky, believed in something greater than himself. He just didn’t believe in the people who told other people what they had to believe. Or else. That made a lot of sense to me. My dad can make compelling arguments. He also forgets to turn off lights and would be perfectly happy to survive on meat, potato chips, and homemade baked goods. I never said he was perfect.

As I got older and experienced the highs and lows life had to offer, I started accruing that life experience business that contributes to how you view the world. And I realized, life has a funny way of, shall we say, balancing the scales. In time, Dad would offer, with saccarine glee, to let Karma handle situations out of our control. It actually fits along well with my grandma’s advice, handed down to my mom: put it in God’s hands. It seemed to me that God’s hands were called upon when you were in a difficult spot. Karma was expected to kick in and take care of people who contributed to the situation once you made it through. Admittedly, of a more punitive approach. Old Testament vengeance.

I subscribe to a little more active take on Karma, in terms of trying to put good out in the world. I believe that it’s important, but I’m constantly at war with the snide little devil on my shoulder, with a tone that suspiciously mimics my father’s, urging me to take a walk on the low road every once in a while. Or… like, all the time. Not to say that my dad's a vengeful or low road kind of person. His youth was just a little more colorful than mine. And though I've inherited his temper, he's got a hair trigger when it comes to putting up with other people's bullshit.

I don’t necessarily want to subscribe to a punitive higher being or energy in the universe. But I also don’t want assholes, backstabbers and generally not good people to run rampant with impunity. So instead I’ll keep believing that by doing good (as best I can anyway) and praying for good, that good things will occur. And, as the need arises, a butthole will get theirs and perhaps have a change in attitude.

So be the good you want to see in the world, because the assholes seem to be breeders.

Jubilant Jointed Jellyfish - J

I am as joyful about 'J' as I was about 'E'. Blame it on the biorhythms, or my joints alerting me to drop in air pressure and the storm that should be here in a few days. I had lots of ideas, nothing that leapt across the desk, grabbed me by the collar and demanded immediate, rabid attention.

Not that H for Handshake, or many of my other posts, is my best effort. I'm better, IMHO, in something a bit more long form.

Regardless of whether or not I chafe at this particular constraint, the show must go on.

'J' is for juggling. Juggling what can feel like a thousand plates in the air and spending most of the time praying they don't crash down around you.

Modern life feels like a gjinormous juggling act. Work, home, social, community, family, self. Broad topics that break down into those thousand plates I mentioned.

I also think that over time we've been conditioned to apologize for not having more plates in the air, for not having the juggling act down to perfection.

So for everyone frantically running about trying to keep fine china in the air, it's going to be okay and perfection isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Flash Fiction - Imposter - I

I got off the train at quarter to eleven and trudged across the muddy lot to Betsy. Betsy, a nine year old Toyota hatchback with pockmarks from hail and worn tires, showed her age. I knew the feeling. I had to press the unlock button on the car remote three times before a half-hearted flash of headlights accompanied the sound of the driver's side door unlocking. I plopped myself into the bucket seat, quickly pulled my mire-caked sneakers off and dumped them in an ancient plastic shoe box for the ride home. Aching feet melt into a pair of ballet flats for the ride home. Ain't commuting grand?

I rev the engine once I'm settled, increasingly relieved that Betsy still comes to life without hesitation after all these years. I worry that my concern may be an omen of an impending repair. Under the hood expenses would further delay the needed tire replacement I'd been saving up for since the summer. Even my worries have worries. Modern life, full of antibiotics and random, compounding expenses. Now that you can survive, can you afford to?

On my hour long train ride, I catch up on my latest trashy escapism of choice, otherwise known as genre fiction. Today, it's a mage on a quest to reclaim his grandfather's hamster bone wand (Who thinks this stuff up?). Last week it was a young woman who inherits a general store on a spooky island. I got an email from the library's digital collection this afternoon, letting me know that next week it'll be the inspiring tale of four generations of women and the stories they've shared over jam making. That's sure to be a real page turner.

For the last twenty minutes of my commute, I listen to self-esteem guru du jour, Maximus Alder, try to build me up in his dulcet tones. Probably not the best choice to keep me awake on the drive home after a long day in the trenches, but I dutifully repeat after him and before I know it, I'm pulling into the parking space outside of my doorstep. The light flickers over my door, the yellow glow claiming another mosquito victim in the night. Bug light, one, mosquitoes, infinity.

I carry my box of crusty shoes inside to rinse off in the shower. I've stepped onto the back patio, where a faucet for a garden hose is, exactly once. I estimated the snake skin to be a good four feet long, but it's hard to be sure. I froze in place just as the mummy-bandage-thick layers of spider webs enfolded my head and shoulders. I sucked in air to scream, something completely automatic in my skin crawling revulsion, and received a wad of desiccated bug remains square in the middle of my tongue. A little mud down the drain is a fair trade off to never open the back door again.

Keys, coat, messenger bag, phone. They all go in their proper places, hooks or the yard sale accent table with a huge chunk burned out of the top. At three dollars, I didn't ask. A piece of cardboard and a bit of clearance fabric later my bargain adequately serves its purpose. Which is what I feel like my epitaph will eventually be.

She adequately served her purpose.

Maybe I need to listen to Mr. Alder's podcast a little more often. I don't think the message is taking.

By the time I'm slumped on my love seat with the television on for background noise and the laptop balanced on the armrest, I feel defeat rising. I keep trying this meaningful social interaction by way of technology, but it rings more hollow as time goes by. I must not have the Midas touch for social media. No one from the office likes my posts. Nobody favorites my pictures. Zero retweets. Not a single comment on the blog. I sink straight from dismay to despair.

Dutifully, I make my usual updates and skim my regular feeds. I'm sure everyone else's life isn't as grand as they portray it to be, but it doesn't stem the feeling that I've taken on a kind of half-life. It's clear Marjorie Cleary never had much going for her and there's precious little to do about it now. Stay the course, that's what's been drilled into my thoughts from my earliest memories. Get up, go out, stick to the routine, go home, reset, do it all again the next day. How long can I keep this up? How does anybody keep this up?

I click the laptop closed a good hour later, casting aside the television remote to the far corner of the love seat after I turn that off as well. Regrettably, I don't take advantage of the new nasal cleaning machine advertised at an insanely low price advertised by a benevolent company thinking only of the greater good. I scratch an itch in front of my right ear as I climb the stairs of the townhouse and my fingernail finds a patch of dry skin beginning to flake. Time to reset indeed.

Inside the master bedroom, I head straight for the closet and pull down the access ladder to the small attic each unit in the complex has. The dim light cast from a single, bare bulb in the uppermost storage space isn't visible from the porthole style window to the outside. A few layers of heavy duty foil took care of that. I close the hatch behind me and balance my feet on two of the beams running above the plaster of the ceiling below me. The itch is spreading down to my jaw, as is usual for this time of day. I'd think it was an allergy to something in the apartment, but I know better.

In the musty space, maybe two thirds the size of the master bedroom, there's a seat akin to a dentist chair and a long steamer trunk covered in dust. The chair has glassy trays the length and width of an adult's forearm with a deep groove carved down the middle of each one. The trunk appears old enough to house enough spiders to cripple a child with nightmares for the rest of his or her life. I run my hands along the top of it until I hear the hiss of the seal breaking and the front and lid fold away revealing a restrained form of a woman in her mid-twenties.

"Long day at the office today. How did you put up with Natalie constantly badgering you to buy her slimming shakes and body contouring wraps? Honestly, it's enough to drive a person insane."

Her mouth is covered, so of course I receive no reply. Why should this part of my day be any different than the rest? The itching along my face demands satisfaction, so I finally and blessedly peel away the human face the covers my own. The hooks that keep the mouth lined up with my own, the better to hide the fact I have two sharp plates for teeth instead of the ridiculous variety human evolution has chosen, come free with all the relief of removing a belt after a heavy meal. I sigh in delight as I wipe away the layer of viscous mucus and membranes that protect my sensitive skin from the human tissue that covers it.

Gently I wipe away the infected fluid oozing from my auditory canals, the pus a reaction to having the human skin covering the necessary airflow that would ordinarily prevent irritation. Human skin doesn't appreciate my bodily systems either, thus the reason the skin flakes and dries out when I wear it too long.

The real Marjorie Cleary watches me with practiced disgust. As though she hasn't seen me shed a bioidentical shell of her skin for the better part of a year already. I pat her on the head, evoking nothing more than a mild shudder between the heavy sedation and effective restraint system. Carefully I walk from beam to beam to get to my real job. As I settle into my chair, I peel off the Marjorie skin covering my 'arms'. I stick a skeletal finger into the framework at the wrist to disengage the framework that recreates Marjorie's forearms and hands over my tentacles. Just as the casing on the trunk did, the frame neatly folds away, tucking back into where a human's kidneys and intestines would be.

After I've submitted my report, I'll put the Majorie casing in with the real thing. The overnight 'soaking' process helps both the upkeep as well as continuing the minute aging process of the skin that occurs day to day in a human life. Marjorie will get her life back eventually and on that day she'll look exactly as I did on my last day as her. Down to the crinkling beginning to happen around her eyes. Details are important.

"Reconnaissance three dash star primary, Earth plan fifty-two. Identity is compromise-free. Still no indication in this quadrant that the people could handle an interplanetary meeting. Recommend maintaining silence with everyone outside of first contact protocols. Ambassadors Tyson and Hawking continue to be correct in their analysis. Subject continues to reject a give and take reciprocity scenario and remains humanely quarantined. Subject shows marked improvement after stasis chamber detected and removed rapid growing tumors of an aggressive nature from the respiratory system.

Observation through immersion continues. Tedium remains an issue with daily living, as was expected. Culture and entertainment pursuits continue to be a highlight, though by no means on par with our own. At this time, there is nothing of merit to report. Instructions to maintain current position and plan understood and accepted. End transmission. Date and send."

My right appendage slithered across my bumpy green face, my eye lids swirling closed like the aperture of a human camera. My auditory canals already felt better, the drainage almost stopped.

It was easier to undulate down the stairs after I tucked Marjorie in again, the human legs make climbing the ladder more than a little awkward. I do it, but I don't care for it. I leave the floral kimono I donned after work in the attic. I don't care much for the look of the second skin upon mine, so it's become my go-to apparel in the home. I'll wear it in the morning after putting the casing on for the day.

The en suite bathroom's tub is half full of iridescent gray gel. Out of habit I've already added my daily nutrition supplement into the cool goo when I first get home. When it's time for bed, to borrow an expression from my human colleagues, I prefer to have things ready and waiting so I can just slip in. I understand this usually has to do with the process of laundering bed clothing or clearing clutter from the bed space.

The replenishment plasma is the best part of my day, the thing I look forward to most when dealing with strange human customs. I ease in, not wanting to waste a drop of the welcoming balm it offers. I stare at the ceiling through the thick gelatinous matter. As my eye lids spin shut, I happily drift and hope the morning doesn't come too soon.

Handshake - H

Handshake? Yes, seriously, handshake.

Growing up, with a few exceptions, my gender was never brought to my attention as a reason to be treated differently. And in some respects, I'm sure the issue was more protect a potentially vulnerable child because of my mom's own experience. Very clearly I remember my dad telling me that he wanted me to be able to take care of myself. He told me he wanted me to know how to change the oil or tire of a car but to afford not to have to do it. The expectation was to be educated so as not to be taken advantage of but also to propel myself forward in life.

But as I got older, my gender was presented to me as something that made me different. As a specific example, handshakes. See, I was taught, along with loads of other kids (or at least kids I went to school with) that in business or polite social settings, you offer a firm (hopefully dry) handshake. It would serve us well, making a good impression in everything from meeting your in-laws to job interviews.

You could tell a lot about a person by the way they shook hands, we were advised. And it's completely true. What I've learned about most people is this: they don't expect me, as a woman, to shake hands. Or at least not to do more than a limp fish impression, finger tips to finger tips with a quick retreat.

See? It's totally a thing. *shudders* An abominable, horrible thing.

I've been in situations with my husband, buying a car for example, where I'm the one taking the lead and the staff as a whole defer to my husband all the way down to only shaking his hand or looking to him for permission to deal with me. Seriously. If it weren't so infuriating, it would be funny. My husband in those moments wants nothing to do with any of it, sitting quietly scrolling through his phone and hoping I take care of everything to get us out of there as fast as possible.

I will give credit to the dealership we most recently purchased from. Once the sales manager took over from a very green, very old school shmoozy young salesman, he quickly realized who he needed to deal with. To this day when I'm there getting an oil change, he remembers me, says hello and shakes my hand.

In a firm, full on handshake. You know, despite my lack of testicles. It is striking how much that resonates with me.

See, when I get one of those limp, half- (or even quarter-) assed wet noodle handshakes, it activates something on a primal, reactionary anger level. It also grosses me out. I am similarly annoyed when I don't get a handshake at all when the man or men I'm with do. As a shy person, I should want to be left alone. And generally I prefer it. But in a situation where it's happening to everyone else, and then the 'shaker' gets to me, pumps the breaks and pulls back their hand? What is your damage?

Like, gag me with a spoon.

The theme of this post came from something that happened recently. I met a friend's parents. The mother didn't shake hands, with anybody, which I respected and even appreciated because I don't generally make the first move in social situations either. (I'm not a handshake maniac despite this entire post, just when the situations call for it.) The dad, former military and someone who works with his hands - the kind of person who commands respect just by his presence, he shook my hand just like he shook my husband's. Immediately, I appreciated the hell out of him.

So while handshake may be an odd choice for a topic, it beat the anxiety inducing thought of Hugging as a greeting. But that's a (strange) subject for another day.

Genealogy - G

What's the most fascinating hobby you can think of? Cave diving? Geocaching? Base jumping? Drinking expired milk?

Well let me tell you, as a young married woman in my early twenties, I added a new interest to my recreational activities. Something with a bit more street cred than my established favorites: reading, writing, history, cooking and random crafts. (I crochet one hell of a lopsided, trapezoid blanket!) Nothing says youthful activity quite like... genealogy!

At the time I figured I'd amass this great collection of family history for my children and all the generations that would come after. Well, the children thing hasn't exactly panned out so my records and family tree has become a private showpiece of one woman's obsessive need for information. There really isn't a better project to work on if you love research, stalking, spending time in cemeteries, and spending endless hours with microfilm/microfiche/databases/endless church & civil records. I was on a first name basis for a while with the county clerk in my parents' home town. 

Obsessions with getting every piece of information possible or dreams of bequeathing an amazing legacy to children I (may) never have aside, I've always been pretty aware of why I'm fascinated with my family's history. 

I'm the youngest of my generation, cousins and all. By the time I was born, my mom's siblings weren't in the picture, not able to cope with her mental illness or the shared memories of a shitty childhood. My dad was the strangest thing of all in his family, an only child. Half my grandparents were dead. I grew up far removed from the kind of family tripping over family situation my husband has. Seriously, it's a bit overwhelming at times.

So? I grew up on family stories. Lore. Genealogy became the best way to find out about people long gone, to confirm or rewrite legends I'd heard my whole life. The deeper I get into it, the more questions I have, many of the answers never to be found. As someone into analyzing why things played out in my family the way they did, what went into making people do or not do certain things, I've taken a certain satisfaction in connecting dots, generational tragedy or mythic determination to survive. It's the sum of what went into who I am. 

Flash Fiction - Fail-safe - F

"I don't know where I put it."

Josh stood before his parents, hands shoved in the back pockets of his jeans. He couldn't meet his mother's eyes and hoped his father would run interference for him. Had he managed the careful balance of guilt and shame in the admission?

"Oh not today, Joshua! I've got three deliveries to make before I can drop off the picnic lunch for field day-" Dad rested a hand on Mom's shoulder. She shot him her own pleading look. Kathy poked her head into the kitchen as she struggled into her combat boots, a gleam of pure spite radiating from his twin.

"Did you check the bathroom? You took, like, an hour long shower last night after everybody went to bed. I'm surprised Hannah had any hot water when she got up for practice this morning. Or clean towels."

Josh flipped her the bird behind his back while his dad steadily pushed the Tabby in Tabby's Lunch Break towards the kitchen door. Despite the open mouthed horror on his mother's face, she allowed herself to be navigated to the nearest exit. It was a similar exit his father, Frank, had taken when his oldest sister Irene had announced a need for birth control the month before prom.

"Katherine Alice," Dad bellowed over Josh's shoulder after the minivan's engine shuddered to life, "that's the kind of crap I'd have put peroxide in Aunt Diane's conditioner for! Go check downstairs for your brother. Maybe he left it by the freezer."

Booted feet clobbered down the stairs, though not loud enough to cover his sister's high pitched insults and complaints. Frank folded his arms across his chest, taking a moment to remind himself he was the adult and not to respond to his daughter's. A cooler head was needed to keep them together as the morning derailed.

"I warned you, buddy. This is not like the time you forgot to feed the class hamster over winter break. Or forgetting to tell Mom you signed her up to bring four dozen cupcakes to the bake sale. This is bigger than you. It's a family commitment-"

"Going back to Grrrreat, grrrrreat, grrrrreat Grrrrandpa Archibald!" Josh finished with a flourish, his right arm swinging up in a grand salute. A muscle in his father's cheek spasmed. Frank's words came out in a growl.

"Scour the attic, turn your bed upside down, just find it, DAMN IT!"

Kathy returned from the basement as Josh rushed from the room and noting her father's darkening expression she offered to help upstairs.

"Better late than dead," she muttered once she was sure she was out of earshot. The twins came back down ten minutes later, somber and trembling. Kathy pushed Josh towards their father as she tried to sink within the depths of her track hoodie.

"It's not up there. I-I don't know where it could be." The skin on Frank's face ripened to a mottled purple. He loomed over his son, as though he could suck the air from the boy's lungs.

"You've doomed us." He turned away from his children and began twisting on the gas knobs of the stove.

"Daddy, no! There's got to be more time." Kathy peeked around her brother's shoulder. Her own skin appeared thicker, taking on an orange hue.

"There's just enough time to call your mother and sisters. You have to feel the pull by now, both of you." Kathy and Josh's arms moved awkwardly as they moved to hold each other. Their bones felt confined, wrong somehow, their skin hot and dry. Their fingernails stung just beneath the skin.

Frank picked up his smartphone from the counter, his hand shaking as fingers slowly knitted together into three larger appendages. He managed to scroll through his contacts to one noted as I.C.E - END. Before he could initiate the group call, his individual fingers spread apart with a gluey pop. The kitchen door flew open as the tail forming at the base of his spine disappeared.

"Looking for something, Josh?" Hannah held up her hand, a piece of amber the size of a quarter rested against her palm. Frank turned off the gas, opening the windows and turning on the hood exhaust once the room was no longer filling with fuel. His older daughter closed her fingers tightly over the stone as she walked through the kitchen.

"It was on the back porch, next to your baseball glove. I'll hold onto this for now. You know, because I'd really like to not turn into a mindless killing machine or be blown up to prevent massive loss of human life. I left my cleats outside to air out, Dad. I'll be ready for school in five."

Kathy punched her brother's shoulder twice before stomping out of the kitchen and slamming the front door. Josh, awash in shame, stared silently at his father. Frank took his time answering the swift influx of text messages from his wife and oldest daughter.

"Your mother," he drawled, "may very well have my balls for this. Because in the human world, beating a child is not acceptable and she's going to blow up once she gets home. Luckily for a three hundred mile radius it won't be in dragon form, huh?" Josh swallowed hard. Frank ran both hands through his salt and pepper hair.

"Shit, buddy. That's the closest... I mean, I've only reverted to that form twice in my whole life. Under extremely careful circumstances might I add, in hidden places."

"I'm sorry."

A flash, presumably Hannah, bolted down the stairs and out the front door.

"OkayI'mreadygottadash."

"Three of 'em and I still can't understand as fast as they can talk." Frank snorted, finally looking up at his son. "You need a change of drawers?"

"No, sir." Josh shook his head.

"But close?"

"Yes, sir." The older man nodded.

"At least your body knew what inning we were in." He exhaled slowly and gestured for the boy to head for the door. "Look, we all know you're not ready yet now. I'll let your mother hammer that in for the next two weeks. But you and me have a long road to go down over what I almost had to do. It's the kind of responsibility that comes with living in the human world. I can't let us loose if we lost that talisman. And until you can appreciate that, what I'd have to do, you can kiss your life as you know it goodbye."