The man, bare-chested and burly, stands before a sliver of mirror affixed to the lamppost drawing a razor down his throat, the buildup of foam lather plopping off onto the sidewalk with each stroke. He nods as I walk by; customary. Zeus in tow pulls at the leash. I maintain my pace, but the dog is insistent, hanging back. Wafts of delicate Mediterranean herbs and spices: garlic, tarragon, anise, sage, coriander, smoked paprika, and sprigs of thyme, flow in and out on the man’s breath. I detect a hint of Baba Ghanoush, with sumac – 5 stars. He is clothed in brown oversized trousers, suggesting he has lost some weight, and three-quarter dove-grey dress socks in well-travelled Birkenstocks. Deep purple and black chevron tattoos cover his arms. A crisp clean white shirt hangs drying on the coat rack. He insists he is not homeless. Although the sidewalk and this intersection cannot be considered residential. His accent is thick. Eastern European maybe. Mixed with flecks of French, Flemish, Farsi? I resume walking, but Zeus is rooted, paws stuck like flypaper. The razor continues up his cheek and now he’s chatting with the dog, saying he appreciates his stopping by to socialize. He pats Zeus on the head with his free hand and the dog sits politely. I haven’t seen this behaviour from Zeus before. It’s like they share a bond, fought in the same regiment, or competed on the same rugby team. I’m the third wheel. The intersection is now on my morning walk before work. I come upon the man again in his morning routine, shaving. I don’t interrupt but wait for him to bend down to pat Zeus. I spot something new on the card table. A linen tablecloth. It’s clean, camembert-white. Just a few droplets of Turkish coffee in front of the demi-tasse someone has left on their way to work or on their dog walk perhaps. A good Samaritan has knitted an Afghan blanket. It is casually draped over the green velour couch. It matches. I’m now compelled to take the same route in the afternoons. When I pass by, the man is playing chess. His partner, a guest, is older, weathered, a poor vagrant and fellow wanderer. They are concentrating. It’s a close game. The board is lovely. Hand-carved, hand-painted pieces, mythical beasts and birds. A gift? When he looks up to acknowledge my presence, residue of oily mackerel and hot spicy piquant garlic olives, swirl on his breath. Crumbs of the hard dry crusty bread he tore up to soak up the infusion of mouth-watering flavours, frame his bottom lip, and sprinkle across the tablecloth. In the morning there is a small gathering. Someone has brought croissants, elderberry jam, Turkish coffee on a silver tray, extra demi-tasses. The coffee is kept warm in a cezve perched on a mound of hot sand. I meet my neighbours for the first time. They become familiar. Someone is lending a book. Offering concert tickets they cannot use. Zeus makes friends with the shy Saluki, Pascal the Giant Schnauzer, Lola the Bouvier des Flandres. Much has changed in the neighbourhood since the arrival of the man. On a whim I pass by on my final dog walk of the evening. I overhear animated conversation, laughter, and clinking of cutlery before I round the corner. There is a group of passersby around the card table finishing a late-night indulgence. Bottles of wine, ouzo, schnapps, drippy candles standing in the empty bottles. Remnants of liver and onions, potato vareniki and sour cream on plates pushed to the side. The linen tablecloth stained with Rorschach-blots. The candles cast no shadows, there are no walls. I linger for a while. The conversation, about living life to the fullest. Setting down roots, and wings. And traveling, always travelling. The neighbourhood is a buzz. The flavour European. There is a camaraderie, a cohesion, not experienced before. Priorities have changed. I meet Gaston. We walk together. His saluki, my vizsla. We pass the boulangerie over on Avenue de l' Esplanade, stop at Parthenon Deli on de Maisonneuve; pick up humous, pita, dolmades. Without discussion we retrace our steps and circle back to the intersection, pull up a chair, and settle in. The man joins us. He eats well. His pants fit better. I am away for a week in the Azores, the first vacation I’ve had in two years. A dream eco-tourist trip to watch the annual migration of sperm whales, common dolphins and bottlenose dolphins. Gaston takes care of Zeus. I am eager to get back, to see them both. I round the corner. It’s oddly quiet. Gaston, the saluki, and Zeus are waiting for me. My heart is alive with desire. There are red tulips in a cellophane sleeve, yellow gerbera and pink carnations tied in craft paper lying on the card table. More bouquets on the sidewalk leaning against the lamppost. Neighbours standing around chatting at low decibel. They exchange stories about their time with the man. Afternoons of double-espresso, croissant, potato vareniki, and schnapps, late evenings engrossed in chess. There was an accident. A drunk driver. Car ploughed right up over the sidewalk. Zeus sniffs and hops up on the couch. My mind’s eye keeps showing me the man’s hand, the rhythmic tic-ticking of worry beads slipping through his forefinger and thumb; his favourite refrain quoting Kierkegaard, Do it or do not do it, you will regret both; the pile of French and Farsi newspapers left unread on the table, his preferred discourse with those who would sit a while with him. I feel numb. Afterward, when I turn the corner onto the intersection, the sidewalk is empty. The following few days I encounter no one. I see how inept we are, how limited and isolated we have once again become. Our social footprint, tiny. Left on our own, it’s all we can manage. A pale, seldom-seen blue moon lingers. The scent of olive oil in the air. "Flâneur" was published in OPEN: Journal of Arts & Letters (O:JA&L) December, 2022
0 Comments
Undulating pistachio-green hills cover the valley like fondant in the small peaceful hamlet of Parisot. Horace, the hamlet’s lumbering menace, has been thrown down the oubliette. The dungeon’s musty stink jolts, and Horace lets out a wail for Pétunia, his zaftig sow. The pig, the runt of a litter of nine farrowed in June, is pregnant, and left without breakfast in her muddy pen. The last time the Elders consigned Horace to stew, this time they are intent on teaching him a lesson. *** It is the season of Clémentines, within six days of the harvest. Katydids and crickets chirring. Horace is on the prowl bent on snatching the plump ripe fruit to tempt his precious pig. A single remaining Clémentine tree stands tall on the secluded hilltop, nestled among juniper haircap moss and wild pink phlox. The solitary tree is prized and cared for by the valley folk as if it was the last of its kind. Garnet-red flesh encased in glossy orange skin, fringed with dark green velvety tapered leaves, flavour irresistible, is coveted like crown jewels. In the murk of night, its colour beacons like fireflies. Horace trembles with excitement. The delectable syrupy Clémentine confiture infused with hibiscus honey, zest of bergamot and pinch of cardamon, already titillates lips and tongue in anticipation. But they are watching. Under the sheen of the blue wolf moon, Horace is clumsy and obvious. A stinging arrow stops him in his tracks. *** When they release Horace after the treasured crop has been harvested, he makes a beeline for his farm and directly to Pétunia’s pen. It is empty. He scours the winter barn, the one held for the two Valais Blacknose sheep during the frigid season. It too is empty. He wails loudly calling to her through hurried incoherent yodels. Blubbering, he takes off in the direction of his neighbour’s backwoods farm. She is sure to be there. His neighbour would have tended to her, of course. Pétunia, the runt of the litter squeezed out of the feeding line from her mother who had eight teats for nine piglets, was bottle-fed and slept under layers of linen coverlets like the princess and the pea in her first few weeks, in bed next to Horace. When he held the feeding bottle for her to suckle, the soft contented grunts and dainty blush-pink Pétunia-shaped birth mark on the piglet’s snout, made him swoon. He takes the long route trekking through woodland trails to the creek expecting to find his precious ensnared in the underbelly of tree knots, whorls, and exposed braided roots. The pig would look for dark muddy cool spots and shade, some berries, duckweed to munch, wild purple yam. He uncovers bits of dried scat, ungulate hair, and bone fragments, but none recent. The neighbour does not have Pétunia. Horace gallops back home on thick brutish thighs, unhinged leather galluses flapping at his sides. He throws open the latch and door to the summer kitchen. An enormous salver of whole roast ham garnished with sprigs of rosemary and thyme, soupçon of black prune and red currant, occupies the middle of the harvest table. Potbelly stove stone cold. — She was the last of her kind. Bereft, Horace drinks himself into a stupor, slobbering in a fit of rage and despair. In the morning he wakes to the sound of snuffling and grunts on the front porch. The hefty Pétunia bumbling around the slat-boards. The Elders take their disciplining far too seriously. *** "Clémentine Season" was published in LIterally Stories December, 2022 The three times Lola went down we pretended as if nothing had happened. And nothing did, at first. She slid off the pew like a Slinky, all coiled and springy. Her arms bendy like Raggedy Ann. There were no warning signs, she would say, no blurred vision, seeing of spots, ringing in the ears, or sensation that the room was spinning. Each episode came on like an eclipse, a gradual fading to black; except for the glowing white corona that hovered above like a halo. Each occurrence a revelation. When she came to, Lola's speech was musical and snappy. A distinct change in vernacular. It took us a while to catch on, to recognize the patterns. The roll of her tongue, click of her palate. Struts and strolls over multiple consonants. Hops and skips over double vowels. She spoke with an exaggerated sing-song, a two-step rhyme, and fancy tongue-twisters that made us blush. For an unassuming mousy housewife of few simple words, words that flowed ever so softly they almost sent you to sleep, Lola was full of beans. At first, worshippers took to their knees, expert at reviving the fallen. Some made proper use of their hymnals, others simply fanned. Is there a doctor in the house? Lola’s pulse taken, forehead dabbed, holy water sipped, and yellow floral skirt smoothed. She was given a clean bill of health. Her fainting and spirited display was chalked up to the unseasonably warm weather. What else could it be? The second time Lola went down, Della was approaching the altar, her bouquet of rosy petunias drooping gently against her big belly. The tizzy she aroused. Lola, not Della. We all knew what Della was carrying. We weren’t so sure about Lola. A flurry of chatter and gossip pulsed through the pews. Something’s definitely off. Whispers and tales were spun. A nosey-parker sent rumours through a broken telephone. She just wants the attention. She’s faking it. The unsavory sentiment nested in the shadows. The third time Lola went down, Bertha was thumping the pipe organ, bellows swelling and collapsing, congregants fervently swaying in glorious praise and song. As the rousing pitch climbed higher, Lola began her descent, spooling and kinking and pleating. Her mumbo jumbo was chevron and checkered, zigzag and chintz. Her tongue performed high-wire acts like a flea circus. Moses supposes his toeses are roses — Mrs Puggy Wuggy has a square cut punt. Parishioners were in awe. Some believed Lola exalted. Others thought her possessed. We gathered around to witness her testimony. But no one could decipher the riddles, unscramble the puzzles. Was she for real? Everyone guessed, no one knew. From then on, Church became a popular place. Packed to the rafters and crammed like sardines. The collection plate full. Pastor Jeremiah was not a fan. Lola's fainting became a holy distraction. The Sunday service taking second fiddle to her kerfuffle. The Pastor would stand at the pulpit with one eye cast in her direction, praying that this would not be her day. Lola kept all of us guessing, attentive. Not to the sermon, not to the Promise of the Gospel, not to the Second Coming, but for the next hullabaloo. We started taking bets. We’d look up from our Book of Common Praise, swivel our heads back towards Lola to see if she was on her way down. Elbow the fella or gal sitting next to us to alert them to her imminent fall. We’d wager on which parlance would burst forth. Necks craning like swans to catch the first utterance. And, just as Lola was reviving, Bertha would work the bellows into a brisk tempo, suspenseful, like ‘Charge!’ music at a stadium hockey game. A stirring backdrop for the reveal. When Lola would walk in the door, we’d sit up tall in our pews, our hands folded neatly in our laps, listening intently. Not to Pastor Jeremiah, or to the unchanging heart of Christ, but for sounds of Lola slipping off her wafer-thin cushion. "The Three Times Lola Went Down" was published in Ghost Parachute December, 2022 The year Drag Barbie came out was my best ever. Long leggy hi-octane black-patent thigh-high boots with diamond-studded drill bits for heels, Prussian blue faux-fur shortie jacket, poofy Bichon Frisé hair, black pearl choker and lashes that go on like Whoa, Nellie! She occupied the top drawer of my highboy hidden from prying judgy-eyes, until the dog dragged her under the sofa and chomped her Tickle My France-y mani-pedi to bits. I envied the doll’s lustrous pompadour, my own close-cropped buzz-cut a perennial oppressive albatross; a control mechanism my permanently house-coated mother intended for me to grow old in, straight. 'Drag Barbie' was published in The Woolf, November 2022.
The Master comes around only once a year. I wait by the bay window longer than is necessary. Food and potty brought to me so I do not leave my perch. His arrival timed to the second, but I do not know which one. My feet leaden like a toy solder as I fight to keep my eyes open. When he appears, my outstretched hand will be shaking. If he looks me in the eyes I will melt. His message in a sealed envelope, tailor-made for me. I only hope that I can decipher the code, play my part, make him proud. I tell myself I am made for this, that nothing else matters. But when the doctors come around, they do not share my belief. Their heads tilt this way and that, clicking like a metronome, blocking my view. They know not what they do. I yell for them to get out of the way, their chatter will scare him off. But it is me they want to put away. And as they wheel me down the corridor, I glimpse out of the corner of my eye the Master who has come to save me, holding that manila envelope with words that would set me free. He tips his hat and offers a half-smile letting me know he’ll be back again next year. And until then, like waiting for Santa, I’ll try my best not to kill anyone. "The Master" was published in Suddenly and Without Warning, November, 2022
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 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
Sonia’s fingers skim the surface of the keys. Hover really. She disremembers so many thingamajigs. Compilations, occupations, collaborations, ornamental and supplemental. The infarct cycloned through her temple one ordinary afternoon wiping the slate clean. Irreversible, they say. But inside is music. And the orchestra is playing. And Sonia is dancing up a storm — THREE one TWO, THREE one TWO. Her brain still imagines the mazurkas and polonaises. Fingers tap-tap searching for sharps and flats. Sonia’s daughter does not notice the tempo rubato dancing in her eyes. Disregards the pitter patter of her toes, the swish of her slipper, kick of her heel, that clearly mark the syncopation on the parquet floor. Sonia’s daughter does not feel the sis boom bah, the boom chicka boom. For her the music has stopped. In the mornings, when Sonia hums, chirps, warbles, and purrs, her daughter shuts the door, misreading her noises as gibberish. She believes Sonia’s innards merely gummy and in-decay, especially when she gimbals and is prone to sway. No memory to consider, nothing to feel. But inside is music. And the orchestra is playing. one TWO THREE, one TWO THREE. In the evenings, Sonia’s daughter doesn’t see her fingers trailing along the graceful lines of the century old Bösendorfer baby grand. The Bavarian spruce tonewood frame unblemished after all this time. But there is memory in her touch. And joy. Instead, her daughter thinks Sonia is leaning in for purchase, to offset a fall. She rushes in to shuttle her to safety plunking her down in the paisley wingback chair. Leaving her catatonic by the bay window to watch the shuffle of traffic on the street below. But inside is music, and the orchestra is playing. Zoom, whizz, zip, the vehicles whoosh east then west. Sonia’s foot flicks counter then clockwise, tapping out the beat like a metronome. A waltz glides, a minuet walks, a mazurka stomps. Inside is music. "Inside Is Music" was published in Potato Soup Journal, September, 2022
|
No part of these stories / blog may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied form without written permission of the author, Karen Schauber
Contact Karen Schauber for written permission Archives
April 2024
Visit: http://GroupofSevenFlashFiction.weebly.comCategories |