He stands outside the Starbucks at the corner of Portage and Main, a scruffy, disheveled-looking fellow, arm outstretched. His faded NYC cap flipped over remains empty. The passersby are not generous today. Monday, always a rush. Pushing out spittle, he smears his fingertips with his pasty white tongue and smoothes the bristles on top of his head. Maybe if he tidies up a bit. It’s that pesky mutt muscling in on his turf. It’s back again; an urban ghost. He takes a kick at it, shooing the critter along, but the miscreant doesn’t budge. Smells something awful too. A woman in a tumble of blonde curl, stoops to drop a few coins in the cap. His arm now fatigued, droops low. He musters an anaemic smile, the spaces, black and melanoid. The dog is circling, looking for shade, water, grub; comfort. Loose corrugated skin dripping off bone. Another good Samaritan. Black coffee and banana. He sinks down along the wall, on the shady side, to feed, legs outstretched, his cap back on his head. Coffee still hot. The dog too slumps down in the shade. The pavement here is cool against its belly; its panting beginning to slow. “It’s fresh, man,” the passerby says, extending the deli-wrapped pepperoni. Wafts of spice and grease tickle the sinuses as he swipes the bounty under his nose like a fine cigar. “Here Lucky” he whispers, leaning toward his sidekick. “I ain’t gonna forget you none”. Word count - 242 Forthcoming in Poems for the Writing: A Textbook
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William Roxby Beverley (1811-1889) - Fishing vessel in a squall Catalina was feeding her grandmother when ocean waves swelled bringing news of her brother Tamas, long gone on a misguided sailing expedition. The blustery winds of the high seas played mischief with the pious families of the village, spreading rumours and lies, twisting and winding them up like a chroniker with no hands. Today it was Catalina’s misfortune which blew in to insinuate itself. The grandmother who was used to these inflammatory gusts and currents, had sway over their interpretation, and while her granddaughter was held hostage by the disquieting whispers and mysteries, she, hardly paid them attention. Slender feathered birds, cloaked in turquoise and citrine plumes decorated the wallpaper in the kitchenette where they dined. Perched above the applique mirror pool the Modigliani figures gawked at the moon’s reflection and ruminated on secrets kept hidden on its shrouded side. Inserting one finger after another into to her deep cavernous mouth, the grandmother lathered them with loud smacking sounds indicating her pleasure and satiety and signaled the end of her gorging. Her exaggerated volume leaned into Catalina, who, preoccupied with melancholic thoughts of her long-lost brother, was not prepared for her grandmother’s ill-conceived prognostication, which the matron disguised and professed as divinely inspired. Catalina knew of no other heart. When she dreamed of the golden eagle's sharp talons poised to pierce and crush its prey, and the cunning lynx stalking its victim ready with a precise bite to the throat, she awoke in a fitful sweat; her grandmother faithfully caressed her cheek and soothed her brow with an uncommon tenderness. But the young Catalina did not recognize or heed the dream’s vivid warning, which her grandmother interpreted only too well, and concealed. The mammoth figure crumpled over to bath and scrub the young Catalina, perfuming her pubescent body in aromatic water in which purifying herbs and aromatic leaves had been boiled, the latter clinging to her puerile form, preparing a vision to be worshiped like Aphrodite; her flowing yellow tresses brushed and left unadorned and alluring. Within days, throngs of expectant men; soldiers, farmers, tailors, vintners, and smugglers all, responded to the grandmother’s call for wise council; a salute to her maleficent fabrication which she continued to disguise as prophecy. They congregated outside the modest cabin as the stench of deceit and greed was ripening, the grandmother, licking and sucking her lips in grotesque anticipation, took up her position as custodian of the coffer at the entrance, ruminating on her dreams of grandeur, like a troll waiting under the bridge to collect coin from the lustful as they crossed the transom to enter the damsel’s lair. In her innocence the beauty would put the lotharios to shame. Catalina prepared her questions for each of the hungry wolves in the herd. They would offer clues as to the whereabouts of her brother, she understood, in exchange for a gaze, a touch, a taste, a moment to lie with her; nothing too costly or ruinous her grandmother promised. The young girl took stock of the accursed dark and motley men, the sizes and shapes that paraded before her, the stains of musk and char and barbarous intent. She closed her eyes, an indefatigable expression settled across her cherub face – she would soon know the whereabouts of her beloved brother. As if on cue, incomprehensible melancholy floated on the wind, banging and slapping against the wooden sideboards of the modest cabin, an impatience, unrelenting and insistent, interrupted the boorish procession; grotesque and diabolical figures all. The wind became unbearable, flapping like the free sail of a drifting sloop. Over the whistle of the brewing storm and the lash of the water, a gust of rain forced its way into the cabin like a pack of hounds. Catalina could hear distant shouts, the howling of far-off creatures, the cries of the fateful shipwreck. – She woke up out of her stupor, knowing that it was the wind of her misfortune, and finally understood in her heart that her dear brother was dead. (670 words) Written in the tradition of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, after 'The Incredible and Sad Tale of Innocent Eréndira and Her Heartless Grandmother' Produced, Broadcast, Performed on Short Story Show April 2, 2020 Published in Fudoki Magazine, January 28, 2020 Published in Flash Boulevard, September 22, 2018 L'arte surreale di Christian Schloe TIPTOEING Mirabella takes care not to step on the cracks when she walks down the sidewalk. The MARMOTS are abundant along the river side of MacArthur Island, in Kamloops ... and they're not too shy! Walking quietly and carefully with one's heels raised and one's weight on the balls of the feet, is the least one should do. WHISPERING Mirabella carefully avoids discussing difficult or sensitive subjects. ELEPHANTS have good hearing, detecting sounds as low as 14 to 16 hz (human low range: 20 hz) and as high as 12,000 hz (human high range: 20,000 hz). Whispering a message through ‘broken telephone’ is the polite thing to do HIDING Mirabella does not turn on the lights in her apartment at night. ANTS are social insects, so when one ant enters your home, others follow. Mirabella hears the footsteps of armies marching. She buys plush carpet. BLENDING Mirabella likes to wear high-contrast and bright coloured clothing. The bat-faced TOAD found among the leaves of Amacayacu National Park in Colombia is masterful at blending into its surroundings. Mirabella has a playful side and is not trying to make life difficult. ~ People take different roads seeking fulfillment and happiness. Just because they’re not on your road doesn’t mean they’ve gotten lost. Word count - 209 This is a 'Found Flash' collage/remix piece. Inspired by Meg Pokrass's 'Experimental Exercises in Flash Fiction', with materials sourced through Google, remixed and transformed. Published (as a Reprint) in Better Than Starbucks: Not Your Ordinary Poetry Magazine January & February 2019; Vol IV No I Published (as a Reprint) in Ariel Chart, October 2, 2018 Published (as a Reprint) in Ekphrastic Review September 6, 2018 Published in CarpeArte Journal, July 29, 2018 The first time he sees her she is plummeting to the ground, a stream of chiffon and chantilly lace. His heart leaps into his throat as he jumps from his seat gasping, arms outstretched, ready to catch her fall. The leather harnesses and ropes yank her back up and out of his reach, ricocheting like a bungy cord, depositing her high atop the wooden scaffolding. There she rests perfectly still, a shimmering blue heron overlooking a mirror lake, letting out the barest of breath while the audience, aghast, recovers theirs. The act is death-defying, mesmerizing, a tour de force. But for Eduardo, it is another matter altogether, something unimaginable. While risking life and limb, she looked at him, truly looked at him. And, she did not avert her gaze. Now, back again, Eduardo takes his seat in the front row along the edge of the rotunda in the Grand Chapiteau. The excitement is palpable. The air hot and electric. Dreamy oboe arpeggios snake and coil through the audience, curling toes, limbering bodies, wiping away the weight of the weary-worn. They come from the orchards and the fields, to sway and weave, and, to be enchanted. Tonight, he sits waiting for her to re-appear; perchance another encounter. He thinks of little else. The spotlight searches the cavernous room, illuminating heavy brocade drapes, guy wires, and towering king poles. The crowd whoops and claps. The hammering of the cimbalom rings loudly. On cue, she swoops down, her sinewy form undulating and twisting, her elegantly arched back and powerful legs dangling, shimmying. Then in a flurry she is gone, floating up into the rafters. Each time it is the same. She holds his gaze until she reaches the top,and for that split second everything is there: everything he has been missing. It is an eternity found. He is beyond happy. He is almost brave. He decides this time he will go to see her. He will wait by her dressing room. He will let her know. He has rehearsed their face-to-face meeting. He worries that up close she will see his scars, the disfigurement, permanent and blue. He fears she will be deterred; that she will turn away. He is all too familiar with eyes that turn away, eyes that are lowered. But her gaze gives him courage. He feels she is different and imagines the moments in their future; the true things one sees when one does not look away. He tells himself that "In the end we only regret the chances we do not take." Eduardo gets up and leaves his seat. He weaves his way through the tiered pews toward the exit and backstage. He will be there waiting for her to arrive after her performance. It is the finale. He has seen her penultimate flight untethered before. Turning to catch a last glimpse of her in terminal flare, he wonders if she will notice his empty seat, that he has gone. ‘Next time’, he mumbles, pulling on his cap letting the stage door close behind him. Maybe next time. Word count 511 Published in Fiction Southeast March 7, 2019 It begins the same each night during the twilight hours, the mist curling up around the spires. the grey ghost pricking up its ears; it too senses the coming onslaught. He has been asleep for only a short while, and is again this night awakened, compelled by insidious, all-consuming, fear. He reaches for his phone, his fingers groping wildly in the dark. Blue light pierces, assaulting his eyes. There is no going back now. With his free hand, he swipes through, readies, bracing himself. It is the same each time. He is a hostage and cannot tear himself away. The screen comes into focus. The @TheRealDonaldTrump tweet storm appears in rapid succession cascading down the page. Jane reaches over to comfort, her touch kind and patient, ‘Let it go Bernie, my love, let it go”. 135 words Published in 'Postcard Shorts' July 5, 2018 (Sadly, Postcard Shorts folded Oct, 2018; archive & website gone) |
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