I remember you, she says, looking right through me. The deserted sky flares into tourmaline blue, ballet slipper pink, and flushed merlot, covering the valley like paint. It is the long cold season and the winds swirl, throwing her voice so that it seems to come from somewhere else. I have imagined this moment, ruminated for years about its potential; my heart idling in long-term storage. I purse my lips to speak, but a sound—like a pained animal—comes out. A shrug is the best I can do to cover my embarrassment. It is the winter solstice festival. Throngs of happy people mill about. I am not one of them. You still living on the island, she asks. Her hair is lush. Mahogany-coloured with undertones of red, plum, and chocolate. I remember it being lighter. It hangs long like a filly's mane. She tosses her head and her hair flips off her face, and I'm having a déjà vu. I recall the same involuntary gesture, watching her from the stern of the canoe. She's in the bow and pulling a j-stroke. Her paddle glides out of the water, clean; no splash. But with each dip she tosses her head and her hair flips off her face. In my mind's eye, I can see her long tresses, gleaming like spun gold in the early morning light, as we paddle across the Sound to the cabin. But here, now, she seems a slight impression of her former self. An unexpected turn. She talks about her cooking show, and how the network is taking it in a new direction. I want to take in this moment, to have and to hold, for the next decade without her. But I don't hear much. I'm wondering about the way she remembers me, as if I have been out of sight out of mind, until this very moment. When I have held her at a constant, all these years. It's as if she harbours no emotional attachment. The realization is excruciating. How does she not know, not sense, how intensely I still feel? My stomach winces with vomit. I tell her about my screenplay, its run in the theatre. She's never heard of it. But wishes she had. The moment eclipses as she offers a fond let's stay in touch, and I am again watching her from behind. I memorize the pattern of whorls and rosettes in her hair. But as she is walking away, I realize that the relationship always had an expiration date, like yogurt. My lips quiver as the fantasy fades and reality rushes in like a gas fire. (437 words) Published (as a reprint) in Flash Boulevard Feb 8 2020 Published in Fiction Kitchen Berlin December 27, 2019
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My fingers grip and coil around slender shoots as I hoist myself up into the arboreal forest like a feral animal. Tackling the steep incline, I scramble to keep up with the older boys who sprint ahead like sound waves. The mountain air is fresh, and I am invigorated, powerful, and free. Cedar, musk, and bergamot sit on my tongue smooth like suede. No one tells me what to do, where to plant my sneaker, how to alternate between my left hand and right foot. Being a forest creature has become second nature. I am marmoset, racoon, and fox. I am one with the timberland, thick with evergreen, basswood, and pine. Above me, sparrows and robins flit through the trees. I echolocate the intermittent hammering of a pileated woodpecker, its red head excavating a rotting wood stump nearby. I do not need or want guidance or encouragement. I want independence. I trust my eight-year old physical intuition and prowess. I am in charge of myself. This is the only place where I am. A rush of adrenalin surges as I realize I no longer hear the clambering of feet, swish of shorts, or sense warm bodies in the brush ahead. I am well beyond the network of serpentine paths surrounding the lake far below, and high up on an alpine trail gone cold. I am alone on the mountain. From my vantage point, I can just make out the dock and kayaks through the trees. Mist hovers above the beach as the morning sun is slow to burn off the dew. A haze of bull rushes and pampas grass frame the water's edge genuflecting lightly. It is so very quiet, yet I can hear the faint cries of children playing; the sound carrying long and wide across the lake. I turn back to my quest knowing I am doing something more important. The prize is the Boy Scouts' hideaway, hidden between the sentries of pine and towering oak. I am determined to see what earned them their master craftsman badge. I would never have told my parents where I was going, or what I was off to discover. I surely would have been held back. Undeterred I press on. My intuition is finely tuned, and I move like the needle of a compass. I am not afraid that I will lose my way, or that I will not find my destination. It does not occur to me as a possibility. I am a homing pigeon. After close to an hour I come upon the fort. I am beyond thrilled, impressed, proud; how my body knows the way when my brain does not, I do not know. There is no one here. The boys have already moved on, to where, I don't know. I feel like an intruder, an invader. I have come upon their secret enclave, and I tread carefully, knowing this is not my domain. The older boys probably thought I would never find my way, never discover their hideaway. I do not sit inside the lean-to. I feel this would be disrespectful. I am in awe of what they have been able to erect, so far from home, so deep in the forest, up the mountain. This would have been difficult, maybe even treacherous. But the Boy Scouts are conditioned for such a climb. I know now, I would not be wanted. I am a girl. I leave the way I came. For the first time I am nervous about the way I must travel. Navigating back down is not as clear to me as the way up. I descend, my knees shaky, maybe from being tired and hungry, but likely more so because my confidence has been shaken. I am back in my place of just being a girl, nothing special, on the outside looking in. My animal spirits gone. (634 words) Published (as a reprint) in Flash Boulevard Feb 8, 2020
Mimi saunters into the bank at the same time every Thursday morning with her Bingo winnings from the night before. She pushes through the heavy glass revolving doors and moseys into the atrium in her frumpy camel coat, black leatherette handbag, and vintage Mae West hat, ready to count out every penny. The tellers greet her arrival like Pavlov’s dogs. For amusement they place bets on her bounty, and estimate with surprising accuracy the amount of her deposit. Today is somewhat special: It is Mimi’s birthday - she is eighty-five years old - and the tellers have prepared a modest gift for their long-time customer. But, when she walks in, it is they who are taken by surprise. Mimi looks ravishing. Chiselled away are the deep wrinkles and age spots. The once white-haired pensioner is sporting a blush-pink lamé blouse, pleated dress slacks, and suede Jimmy Choos. On her arm is Fred. She offers no explanation for her boy toy, though her painted lips do some fast talking. Fred beams, his face frozen. Conversation is light all around. The prepared surprise is all but forgotten in the face of the miraculous transformation that is Mimi at eighty-five. She dazzles, leaving them dumbfounded. No one can get a word in edgewise. After a brief rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’, the tellers bid the octogenarian a lovely day. On the way out, Mimi’s Jimmy Choo heel breaks off. She skids across the faux marble flooring, only to be caught mid-fall by Maurice, the security guard, whose quick reflexes break her tumble. Fred does not fare as well. His flesh, a compound made of thermoplastic elastomer - a blend of silicone and polyvinyl chloride, it turns out - suffers a deep gash. While Mimi recovers her composure, her boy toy shrivels and loses his. The once buoyant and enigmatic companion is no longer. Maurice, sensing Mimi’s dismay, takes her by the elbow and escorts her to the counter where she promptly makes a sizeable withdrawal. “No worries,” she declares. “They are a dime a dozen with my senior’s discount! (345 words) Ch'eng Mai lifts the violin from its case and drapes a chamois cloth over her shoulder. The notes ripple and bend like Hangzhou ribbon. She closes her eyes to better hear the Sarabande, its tone, tempo, and rhythm. And only then, when she is ready, does she pick up her bow. Carnegie Hall is hushed in anticipation; every seat filled. The debut of this ingenue from abroad, has been the talk of the town. Young aspiring musicians have flocked to hear the celebrated violinist. The tickets, a fortune; well worth the investment. The piece begins with an exciting flourish. Ch'eng Mai adds florid elaboration to the slow pace of the harmonic movement. Her slender body sways gracefully as she pulls the bow across the fingerboard. Other times she is powerful and vexed, bending and twisting like a seizure. The display is riveting to watch; the music magnetic. Approaching the denouement, she keeps the ornamentation to a minimum, and the piece ends rich in mahogany tones. The audience is on their feet, raving. Triumphant, Ch'eng Mai bows her head. Beads of sweat drip from her brow battering the stage like a timpani drum. It is her fifth consecutive performance this week. A grueling schedule for an eleven-year-old. She steals a glance across the stage past her mother to Ling-Ling waiting in the wings. Her younger sister, prancing behind the heavy brocade curtains, clutches her favourite light-blue plush stuffy and sips fruity bubble tea; tapioca pearls dancing like maracas. Moments elapse and the violinist is still standing with her head bowed. The clapping trails off, and the audience is quiet, confused, expectant. Slowly, the violinist raises her left arm well above her head, and then, with a four-beat count, lets the priceless 18th century instrument crash to the stage floor. The gasps are audible, in unison, virulent. Murmurs, then chatter, splutter, cries, whoops, then shouts of Bravo, Brava, Bellissima resound. The ingenue exits the stage, still, a hostage. (326 words) Published in The Blake-Jones Review - January 25, 2020 |
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