#fridayflash No. 7: “Convergence”

“Convergence” by Jon the Storyteller

 

From the west, the minivan careened along the pastoral stretch of Vermont back road.  The family of five gently bounced along, reacting to the unfilled potholes known to collect on such roads in this area.  They were returning from a Concert on the Green in Castleton, a lively three-hour romp of children’s songs and stories, both spun by a talented old man with a ukulele and an accordion.  They were tired, but the two youngest chatted incessantly while the others peered out the windows at the darkening sky.

Heading south on a nearby highway came a much different sort of traveler.  In a muscled-up Jeep with no doors drove a jubilant man.  He had secured a cushy new job at the local GE plant, and had just shared his happiness with the crew at Paynters.  They in turn, shared their excitement for him one 2-ounce pour at a time.  In between, he chased the shots with a mug of whatever the bartender would pull from the tap: Long Trail, Otter Creek, Magic Hat, and Guinness; he welcomed them all with a smile and a gulp.

The Caravan toddled along between 48 and 53 miles per hour, Mom and Dad holding hands, and the chatty ones gradually losing consciousness.  Home was less than twenty minutes away, but they would not last for the whole ride.  It had been a busy summer, and this was just the send-off they needed before school started up in two weeks.  In the distance and just out of view, the family would soon be passing the cross roads through which they had traveled a million times before.

The Jeep was more quickly coming upon the spot where the two roads shake hands.  Switching from lane to lane, the driver fiddled with the volume on his Pioneer rack after sliding Toby Keith into the face.  Grinning, he pounded the steering wheel in rhythm with “What Happens Down in Mexico” and wailed his own out-of-pitch cover of the song.

Clearing the crest of the hill at Grabowski’s farm, Dad could see the intersection he knew well.  Since it was a familiar crossing however, and one through which he had the right of way anyhow, he paid no more mind to it than he did the moon glowing overhead.  The Dodge tooled along at a steady, leisurely pace.  There was no reason to do otherwise.

The Jeep’s driver had similar intentions.  Neither did he pay any mind to the cars that could be approaching from either side up ahead.  His mind was on his promotion, his music and the girl waiting for him at home, the girl he would take to bed in celebration as soon as he walked through the door.  But that was fifteen minutes from now, and he had yet to cross Route 4A, the route that was funneling the minivan thoughtlessly toward him.

Not ten seconds later, the minivan was less than 1000 feet from the intersection. 

At this angle, the minivan’s driver couldn’t see the Jeep’s headlights to the right, and even with a clear head, it would have been difficult for the operator of the Jeep to see the rays of the van.  Instead, they each approached the other from perpendicular directions, marching with a cadence that, in seconds, would pin their outcomes together.

Closer still, headlights glowed and engines argued.  Speeding Jeep and gliding minivan, neither was prepared for the inevitable crossing.  There was no way now that the drivers would be able to avoid their destiny.  The result was decided before the van’s door automatically closed or the engine of the Jeep had fired up.

Then, they were there.  While children slept and an inebriated driver sang “American Soldier”, fate would have its way.  The two vehicles met in the middle of that intersection. 

And, as quickly as they convened, they parted ways.  Neither one so much as paid a passing thought to the other.  As the minivan crossed under the overpass beneath the fleeting four-wheel-drive, each one became a dimming set of red tail lights.  One south and one east, each car continued upon its intended journey oblivious to the other.

“#fridayflash No. 6: Flash Photography”

Flash Photography

It was an hour and a half before.  Before the end.  Before they would disappear forever.  I was on an all-nighter staking out Little Red, an assignment to catch the diva slinking around the back streets of Chicago; seventy-five grand was on the line.  Word had it she had been seen cavorting with all manner of sleaze and was known to have her two-year-old kid in tow.  I had a man on the inside, a guy who knew Red too well, and I had no reason to think that his intel was bad.

So there I yawned, the fog of each exhale stacking against the windows of my ’66 Falcon.  I swirled clear another patch with the meat of my paw and drew the camera into focus on the back door of the Puffer Belly, a squalid little club where my buddy the Cat plays fiddle in an alternative band.  I held my breath and played dead each time another belly-exposing, narcissistic figurine giggled past my car.  A bear like me isn’t exactly the willowy picture one has of a paparazzo. 

It was getting late and it was getting early, depending on your alarm clock.  I was about to pack it in since I hadn’t seen Red or her entourage in the three hours I’d been kidding myself.  Besides, the three greasy honey burgers I had washed down with a couple of chocolate milks were working on me and I needed to be in the woods.  Cat and I were going to have some words.

I twisted the lens and it snapped free of the camera body as I heard the ‘moo’ from the night sky.  It was exactly three in the morning.  Cow was nothing if not punctual.  As I watched her dip to the western horizon, the corner of my right eye was darkened by a shadow that covered the opposite edge of the moon.  The rectangular figure pulled closer, one edge lit in a soft green glow.  I scuttled to reattach the large cone, but with my eyes locked on the object moving above, I was useless.

The rear door of the Puffer Belly cracked open behind me, but my attention was on whatever it was that sucked up my attention.  My salmon hooks fumbled to get the lens just right, and the solid click told me I had it.  The camera wasn’t even at my eye yet and I snapped off three frames.  The auto-winder did its job, and the film slid inside the box as fast as I could push my finger.

I got off about ten frames when the bottom — I have to assume it was the bottom — of the thing started to swirl.  The pattern in the metal-like skin resembled the curlicues on my car window until it was spinning faster than I could push my kid on the merry-go-round at the park.  Then there was the scream. 

I swung the gun-like lens 180 degrees toward the back entrance of the club just in time to snap a frightening scene.  Cat was lying on the ground, his arms wrapped around the feet of Dish, Red’s well-known frienemy (the Little Red diva must have walked right in the damn front door).  Dish was doing her best to hang on to the feet of her longtime beau, Spoon but it was no use.  Like he was dipped in butter, Spoon slid from Dish’s grasp and into the belly of the ominous craft.  Dish then lost her battle, and was soon clearing Cat’s hold as well.  With the camera now at my side, Cat and I watched as Miss Muffett became the third and final victim to the hungry craft.

Maybe it was out of respect, or disbelief, or maybe it was embarrassment for not helping, but I never turned in the pictures of that night.  Everyone speculated that Red and Dish had a falling out, and that Dish and Spoon just ran away. 

Months later, as I slid the pictures across the desk to the editor, I wondered if guilt had finally gotten the better of me.  I think it was just greed.

“#fridayflash No. 5: The End”

The End

He struggled through the last section of the rock outcropping.  He was sweating as though he had been hiking for days.  Instead it had barely been one.

At the end of the boulder pathway, through the densest part of the woods, he could see the clearing.  This was it.  This was the clearing he could see from hundreds of feet below only hours earlier.  It was this spot he had been striving for, an open place to see the valley below, the end of his journey.

As he pushed apart the trees, the young man stepped onto the ledge hanging over the world below.  From this vantage point there was little doubt.  It was true.  The world he had known just twenty-four hours before, the people whom he had eaten supper with just three meals ago, everything that ever mattered to him was laid to waste beneath his feet.

“#fridayflash No. 4: So Much Mightier”

So Much Mightier

To whom it may concern,

For years I have written, and for you fortunately, it has been under the radar.  Those of you who have been exposed to my writing could not be reading right now as you have met with most certain death.  For this I can do no more than say I am sorry.  What good would anything other than that do for either of us?

I have known since the first time I struck pencil to paper that I have this indelible power.  I was a boy of six, and was quite upset at my brother for something.  The irony is now that the significance of the wrongdoing and the reason for my hatred of him that day eludes me.  Nevertheless, I ran upstairs to my purple room, yanked open my desk drawer, drew out a handful of scrap paper and a pencil and began writing.

The words came naturally to me and when I look back, it seems the ideas were mature for my age.  And irrational.  I began scrawling out what I wanted to have happen to him and sufficiently cursed him out of my life.  Moreover, I wrote that I wished him to be dead.

By morning my callous wish had been granted.  I ran downstairs, alerted by the shrill shrieking of my mother.  At the bottom landing lay Bradley, his head now screwed onto his shoulders at an obvious uncomfortable angle.  Blood was seeping from his nose, and even at just a half-dozen yeas old, I knew what I was looking at.

I stared at Brad for easily five minutes, listening in the background to my mother calling for my father to get an ambulance, a doctor, save my brother.  She was foolish in her demand; anyone could see that.

I ran back up to my room and reached under my pillow for those dreaded pages.  How bad for me if my inconsolable mother should find them.  I tore those sheets into confetti.  Then smaller still, until you could not make out that there had even word one on a single bit.  Out the window I let them fly, the wind taking the paper snowflakes to parts unknown.

You would think me mad that at six years old I would assume I had anything to do with my own brother’s death, by manner of writing, no less.  Coincidence, you say.  For you, I would imagine so.  Nevertheless, I can assure you this incident was not isolated.

I stopped writing for months after that.  They considered me a lost cause when later I would refuse to complete so much as my arithmetic tables.  I could not bring myself to scratch the paper with graphite, not even so much as to fill in the little bubbles on a standardized test.  They blamed it on my reacting to my brother’s death.  That was an underestimation.

However, with the threat to keep me back a grade, I realized I would have to make the attempt.  When we were tasked with writing a final entry in our first grade journals, I hoped something innocuous like that could not hurt.  I wrote about our puppy, wished him well and mentioned how happy he made me since my brother’s passing on.

When I got home, I was shocked to find that he was quite alive still, and had just chewed apart my church loafers.  I was delighted.  My writing hadn’t killed him and I hated those tight shoes.

As I grew, I found I liked writing more, and was ecstatic to find that I could include real creatures as characters, and not bring about their demise.  Well, until I wrote that story.  Once I wrote that one, I realized I would only bring about death if in the story the subject died.

I wrote a story about a skateboarder kid at our school; not my idea of sporting, but he made for a good tale.  I wrote one or two stories about the kid, with little noticeable result.  However, the third story I told about him, had him suffering a horrific wipeout in front of a crowd of people.  He made it to the hospital, but ended up never leaving alive.

Hours later I heard the skateboarder kid got hit by a car.  Though it wasn’t from a wipeout during a competition, he died two days later in the hospital.  I was beginning to doubt it was coincidence.

After that, I did the only logical thing I could do: I began experimenting with my stories.  I wrote happy tales, and found that the people I knew would live to see another day.  Yet, when I would write about someone meeting their maker, within hours I would discover that I had brought about their final destiny.  Every time.

It was not a coincidence any more than your blinking and breathing.  I was killing people with my words.  Sometimes violently, sometimes in their sleep.  Nevertheless, if I wrote that they would not wake from a Twinkie-induced sugar coma, they were within hours of death.

The power was intoxicating; so much so that at last count, I had terminated one hundred twenty-seven acquaintances and strangers, never once leaving a fingerprint.

It has gotten to be more than I can bear now, though.  The burden is unshakeable.  You would think I could just stop writing.  However, as they say, violence begets violence.  I cannot stop.  The power is consuming.  Intoxicating.  Worst of all, fun.

So, I am doing the only thing I can.  By the time you read this, it will all make sense.  Though there may be no explanation as to “why”, there will be a semblance of closure.  A couple hours from now you will find me, and one hundred twenty-seven mysteries may be solved.

You see, once upon a time I wrote a story about me: this letter.  And I finished it with one logical ending, the only ending I could possibly write.

Then I died.

#fridayflash No. 3 – “Monster Problems”

Monster Problems

She heard the footsteps approaching again, and felt the same impending dread.  She knew that, followed by the footsteps, she would again hear the gruesome clanking sound, and then it would happen.  There was no way inside this cramped prison she would be able to avoid it forever.  It would come for her again.

Fortunately, she was crammed into a tight corner, and she had been lucky so far; the monster couldn’t quite reach her.  With it tethered to the ceiling, she was just out of reach of the creature’s gaping claw.  Yet each time the damn thing would extend its yawning jaws it would grab her just a little and each time she would be slightly more exposed.  Today was no different.

The lights always flashed before the creature made its way for her, so she was prepared when it approached.  She felt the sharp points dig into her ankle, and knew this time she might not be so lucky.  The monster drew her from the prison floor, lifting her to the top of the chamber.  She had never been this high before and through the pink hair in her eyes, she could now see that there were others.  Why had they never called out?

She shook the thought from her head, worried about where the monster was now taking her.  The ride lasted for what seemed to be only seconds, and the painful claw stopped.  Below her, she could see an opening; an opening she knew was her destiny.  She had prepared herself for this day, as well as one could ever do, when considering being eaten.

When the claw opened, she plummeted into the creature’s mouth and was swallowed whole.  Closing her eyes, she waited to be chewed to a pulp and dissolved by acids.  Nevertheless, that was not to be.  Instead, at the bottom of the dark pit she thought was the mouth, she saw a flash of brightness, and felt the touch of a warm hand.  A rescuer?

Sure enough, the door opened wide and she was pulled to freedom; this was something she had never counted on.  She was met by a smiling face and was hugged into welcoming arms. 

The pink lioness was free.

“#FridayFlash No. 2″

            Calling by Jon the Storyteller

           “9-1-1, what’s the nature of your emergency?” the dispatcher asks me.

            There’s no panic in my voice as I tell her, “A man’s been stabbed behind Wal-Mart, near the Amtrak station.”  I have to remain calm, because the first responders need to be able to do their jobs.

            “You say a man’s been stabbed,” she squeaks.  There’s a sense of inexperience in her voice, but it’s still a statement instead of a question.

            “Yes, ma’am,” I agree.  “In the neck, by a man wearing a white baseball cap.  They were arguing, and now they aren’t,” I tell her matter-of-fact.

            It’s true they were arguing, over something dumb, I suppose.  Drugs, a girl, or forty dollars, something unworthy of a stabbing.  But as quickly as you can say boo, a knife was drawn and a man was sent to his destiny.

            “I’m sending police and an ambulance,” she assures, as if I’m critiquing her performance.  I’m not.  That’s not my department.  She continues, “Is the other man still on the scene?”

            I look around instinctively, though in my experience in these situations, I know he will not be.  “He’s gone ma’am,” I share politely, adding, “he was being chased down Union Street by another witness.”  Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t.  That’s not my department either.

            Mine is more intricate, more involved.  You know how, when in the heat of passion, you’ve recalled later to your BFF, that you didn’t know why you did what you did or that you didn’t think you had it in you or that you don’t even remember holding a pistol, never mind shooting one?  That’s my department.

            And I have more work to do.  As the sirens approach, the green dispatcher asks me my name, and I fail to answer.  I click shut my clam-shell cell phone and head off to my next assignment: a pregnant mom in Hackensack, if my memory is correct. 

           It always is.

“#FridayFlash No. 1″

It’s still Friday, right?  I made it in under the wire?  Whew, that was close!  Here’s my first contribution to #fridayflash!  And now I present to you:

When a Man Goes Bad

“I’ll bring it right in, Sweetie,” I say, smiling through gritted teeth.  But more and more the act has grown harder to swallow.  Night after night, her obsession with the succulent fruit drives me to a point I have only barely been able to avoid until now.  Sure, sure; I’m probably a contributor, but I thought I was in love.  I guess I Have to admit that I might be partly to blame for our mushy dilemma.

From the time we met that delicious fall day I was aware of her passion.  Though at first I figured she just liked mangoes a lot, I was now — three years later — aware that they were her tender obsession, practically her reason for being.  Personally, I hate mangoes and how they mock my affection.  Little do they realize that they are the reason I will take pleasure in this evening. 

You see, the flood of fruit at breakfast, lunch and dinner, either as part of an entrée or in some sort of side dish, was bad enough.  Then came the mango juices and jellies, and oh that horrid Scrumptious Mango Pie last Thanksgiving.  I would have to say though, that the worst was the evening I came home from work and caught her in the living room enjoying one of the fresh, juicy orbs alone.

But to say she was enjoying it would understate my point.  She was enraptured by it, involved in it.  Without a sound, I stuck to the shadows, leering as she bit slowly into the viscous flesh, savoring the piece, refusing to swallow the juice.  The runny liquid flowed down her chin as she took her second bite.  The look on her face was one I had not seen since our wedding night.  If I didn’t know her better, I would have said she found the food erotic.  I watched her relish each subsequent mouthful, never swallowing that damn liquid, instead letting it soak her light blouse.  She would massage the flavorful fluid into the fabric covering her tender breasts.  Was this something new, or had she been taking pleasure in this activity since before I had met her?  Either way, I was becoming jealous of a frigging fruit. 

So began my quest for an end to her unfaithfulness.  Each night before bed, My Love would have me cut her a mango into sections.  Bite-sized morsels were her preference, skin off and the pit thrown out.  This evening as hundreds of others, the first couple she would want fed to her.  I would once again cringe with an uncomfortable smile, watching her devour each soggy piece.  She was not subtle about the action either; not shy about slurping the nibbles, sucking on them with a voracious, sickening sound.  The son-of-a-bitching fruit gets the pleasure I should be receiving and gives the joy I should be returning. 

So here I stand, preparing the dessert once again for the girl I love.  The blade in my hand is much larger than I need to carve the succulent fruit, and those unaware might even call it overkill.  I am quite sure however that the mango will not be its only intended victim this evening.  A quiet laugh streams from my throat as I watch the mango bleed onto the platter, thinking to myself how sweet the revenge will be — and I snicker at the double entendre.  I have had enough of cutting and feeding the spongy scraps to my Sweets, watching her night after night in a dripping, gooey, fruity orgasm.

Finally, the pieces are perfect and ready for her.  I have cut them into almost exact squares, lining them up like ripe little soldiers.  The mango, the knife and I then make our way to the bedroom.  I am now ready to free her from the unnatural control the fruit has over My Love.  Tonight I will join her for the slurpy evening of conscious infidelity and this time I am going to enjoy it.