They gathered around pushing and shoving, clambering for the best possible view as the flashlight peered deep into the bellybutton, past the fluff, past the bramble, the whorls and braided roots, to the celestial bodies and beyond, and there hiding in plain sight was the thing they had called GOD. Artwork - "Unlikely Phosphenes" by Karen Schauber, 2020
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The bandoneón grinds out a sultry Piazzolla tune, and Consuela chassés across the dance floor in leather evening gloves and smoky Chanel sunglasses, like she’s forbidden fruit. We swoon along the back wall, expanding and contracting in our Amish pencil skirts and Mary-jane slippers, studying her every move. Our parents willing us home before curfew. Consuela knows we watch. On the beach the following afternoon, Consuela is flexing her long legs like a grasshopper, toning and sculpting in an itsy-bitsy polka-dot string bikini atop her vintage Hermès picnic blanket. The sizzling mid-afternoon rays sweeten and ripen her, like she’s forbidden fruit. We are sprawled like beached sea lions basking on gritty khaki sand, our clotted-cream skin burning under layers of Oil of Olay, our hair piled high like beehives. We dream of places we’ll never go, boys we’ll never kiss, and gawp at the long line of hungry suitors foraging on her blanket like army ants. Consuela knows we watch. It is early evening when Consuela slips beneath the silky layer of waves embroiled in ribbons of sea kelp, her skin shimmering and goose-bumped. But we are busy doing calisthenics, jumping jacks and burpees in stretchy-knit bloomers and daisy-pink headbands; the hand-crank radio blaring “A Little Less Conversation”. We do not see the puckering of the water, the glassy surface turning velvety-blue. We do notice the olive-skinned dreamboat tearing down the embankment plunging into the breakers after her, like she’s forbidden fruit. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation lasting long into the golden hour. Saturated juicy colours streak across the sky. Consuela knows we watch. On our way home, we detour through the alley behind the soda shoppe and discover Consuela on her knees, head bobbing. Bad boys lining up around the block. Gasps ball up in our throat. Like viewing a head-on collision and its mangled driver, we cannot avert our gaze. Consuela’s dark curls slip from her Dior headscarf, silk twill and hand-rolled edges wrapped in gold-tone blend and metallic thread shimmer and fade. The swarm of hungry boys taunt and jab. Ferrari-red painted lips kink and bruise. Forbidden fruit are highly sensitive and lose their grandeur with the slightest misapplication of pressure. No one has to tell us to move along. Consuela cranes her neck. The posse, gone. 'Forbidden Fruit' was published in The Disappointed Housewife, October, 2022 "Forbidden Fruit" was nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Sonder Press' Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfiction.
When the lights came back on the aircraft was in full nosedive. Walter had been thrown from his seat and hurled some three rows ahead. I couldn’t get rid of him sooner. Bad passenger seat etiquette. Wouldn’t stop talking even when I pointed to my earbuds, looped my hair behind my ear exposing it to show they were plugged in. Like a studio ‘on air’ red light, indicating recording in progress, quiet, shut up, shut the f-up, he just didn’t get it. The worst part about flying is sitting next to someone who enters your personal space and won’t leave. I tried to be invisible. I used to be good at it, good at disappearing. I’d minimize my presence, retreat into myself, into the deepest recesses, down dark corridors that only I knew how to navigate. Burrow so far inside that if someone tried to follow, they’d get lost. I’d hide for as long as I needed, sometimes longer, especially when my father’s rage had a short refractory period and could ramp up anytime. The blows would come fast and furious, but I wouldn’t feel a thing. Insulated like industrial spray foam. The black and blues, welts and stings, surfaced only much later when everything died down and I was left alone to nurse my wounds. But until then I’d be far removed. The sounds muffled, like noise canceling headphones. But those didn’t work today. Walter had to be ejected. The smell of fear filling the cabin. The short shallow breaths. 'Short Shallow Breaths' was published in Maudlin House, October, 2022
The crowd has ballooned by the time we arrive. Mathieu does his wheely thing. A Cirque du Soleil improv. The multitudes are mesmerized, buzzing with excitement as the rhythmic hammering of the cymbalom and snaking of oboe arpeggios enchant, leading attention astray. I rifle through pockets and half-zipped purses, filling my pouch with every nugget I can pilfer; sifting through the loot will come later. The crowd gasps and laughs with nervous delight as Mathieu wheels atop the unicycle weaving to-and-fro losing his balance threatening to crash into onlookers and recovering within the very last inch with nothing to spare, thrilling the crowd. The Quartier is a mix of exhilaration and danger. Danger when the first onlooker reaches into their bag to retrieve their coin-purse, their iphone, their keys; their shrieks no longer register pleasure, the pitch a little higher a little thinner as their breath is dislocated in their chest gasping and hyperventilating in panic. One after the next goes off like a pop toaster. Catchy like a virus. 'Virus' was published at 10 BY 10 Flash October, 2022
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