Issue 57 June 2018 Flash Fiction Online June 2018

We brought you home, driving far under the speed limit, turning oh-so-slow, your mother worrying over how your head lolled in the carseat. The world, inexplicably, was still full of Wendy’s and gas stations and billboards for Michelob Ultra, heedless of the monumental shift that had occurred at your birth.

When we finally laid you down in your cradle for the night, I could not fathom leaving you there alone. I lay down on the carpet, covered my legs with a patchwork of tiny blankets, and trailed a hand up to rest on your stomach, feeling the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of your breath.

My fitful dreams were woven through with glittering images of you as a grown woman with a charming smile, a confident posture, and clothes that spoke of success.

I imagined for you a life without heartache.

#

You were two and a half years old and the sickest I had ever seen you, coughing so hard you retched, your face crusted with phlegm and wet with tears.

First, I lay down with you in your big girl bed, wedged against the safety railing, inhaling the menthol of vapor rub and patting your back while you whimpered hoarsely. When I figured out my presence was keeping you awake, I relocated to the floor.

My arm, though, could no longer reach from the floor all the way up to where you slept. Up above me, so far, you struggled alone, your rickety wheeze mingled with the constant hiss of the humidifier. They tinged my sleep-deprived thoughts with swamps and mold.

#

It was your tenth birthday, and you wanted a slumber party with your three best friends. We spent all May and June planning, but Ellie’s family decided to extend their vacation at the last minute, Laticia was sick, and (hardest of all) Brooklyn had another slumber party that she went to instead.

Your other friends came for cake and games, but it wasn’t the same. I discreetly asked a couple parents if their kids might stay the night, but the question of why I hadn’t asked sooner was heavy in the air. I got no takers.

When your last friend left, you went to your room and cried. Your mom and I cleaned up the icing-smeared paper plates and discussed how Brooklyn was the worst person on the planet and her parents weren’t so hot either.

After that we brought the bead-making kit into your bedroom and informed you the slumber party was still on. Mommy would be Ellie; I would be Laticia. I spoke in falsetto until my throat hurt.

We all camped on the floor of your room that night, you snuggled between us in your new mermaid-tail sleeping bag. My fingernails were each painted different colors and my skin shimmered with sparkle makeup in the glow of your nightlight. I smelled like bubblegum bodyspray.

I remember waking up in the night to go to the bathroom and finding you smiling in your sleep, clutching your threadbare stuffed kangaroo.

I resisted the urge to bend down and kiss your forehead.

#

You were seventeen and acting strange. At dinner you wouldn’t meet our eyes, and you answered every question with either a shrug or a grunt. When you excused yourself and went to your room, your mom forcefully gestured for me to follow you, but the door was locked.

It wasn’t until nearly midnight that I tried again. Your sobbing had woken me up.

I scratched at the door. You let me in wordlessly.

Pictures of you and your boyfriend, Warren, were strewn all over the floor with the stubs of movie tickets and other knickknacks. Some of the pictures had been ripped in half.

I gathered you into my arms. You cried even harder.

You had a recliner in your room at the time. I tucked you into bed and pulled the recliner over so I could stroke your hair.

You didn’t speak a word, so I kept my mouth shut too and tried to convey everything I wanted to say with that touch. This will pass. There are still people who love you. I am here.

I am here.

#

You were so excited to move into your dorm room. Our trip to Target to decorate it was bittersweet. You were full of delight as you shopped, happy to the point of frenzy. You couldn’t stop babbling.

Your mother’s smile was wistful and mine felt mechanical. We’d shop together again, I was sure, but ever after, it’d be different. Why had I never paused to enjoy the act of going to Target with you?

We went out for lunch after. Then, to draw it out even longer, stopped by Wendy’s for Frosties. After that, though, there was nowhere else to go but back to the dorm. I piled the Target bags onto your bare bed and stood awkwardly in the doorway beside your mom, hoping you might ask us to help you put everything out, but knowing you wanted to do it yourself.

I croaked out some stilted words then about how proud I was. Then we said our goodbyes.

Your mother and I wended our way out of campus in silence, far slower than the speed limit. Late that night when we stepped into the husk that had been our home, your room drew us to it.

You only had a single poster on the wall, a framed Wonder Woman one centered over your bed. Stencils of spaceships and planets adorned the rest, clashing with the kittycat drapes. Your stuffed kangaroo watched through its one remaining button eye on your shelf, waiting for you to return.

“I think we should sleep here tonight,” said your mother, her voice thin.

I nodded.

“You take the bed,” I said.

My place was on the floor beside it.

Jessica squeezed the keepsake box in her pocket for strength, then stepped through the dangling curtain of finger bone beads that served as a door. A strand caught on the harp case over her shoulder. She plucked it free and waited just inside the dim room while the clattering susurrus faded.

Oil lamps burned fitfully, illuminating walls plastered with posters–Jimi Hendrix, Bob Dylan, the Grateful Dead. The air smelled of patchouli. An old woman’s head appeared from behind a stack of old LPs. Her long, white hair fluffed around her face, and tortoise-rimmed glasses perched halfway down her nose.

She waved a hand at a pair of chairs in the corner, one covered in magazines, the other holding a potted fern. “Come in. Have a seat.”

Jessica hesitated, swallowing against the dryness in her throat.

The old woman narrowed her eyes. “Chamomile tea?”

At Jessica’s nod, the old woman poured a steaming cup from a Delft-patterned pot. She offered Jessica the cup and saucer. “Who’re you grieving?”

Jessica sipped cautiously. The chamomile took the edge off her jitters. “My husband, Rick.”

The old woman nodded. “Gone too soon.”

“Did you know him?”

“Didn’t need to. He’s standing just behind you.”

Jessica nearly dropped the saucer.

“Now, dear, no need to be afraid.” The old woman cocked her head, staring at the air over Jessica’s shoulder. “Not a looker, was he? But oh, his eyes when he’s watching you…”

Jessica blinked against the sharp sting of tears. That look in Rick’s eyes had been the world. She’d never really believed he could die–not even when the doctors made it clear as compassionately as they could–until he was gone.

“Brought your harp, I see.”

“The flyer said to bring something I associated with… the deceased.”

It still hurt to say the word.

Jessica had begged the mortician for a relic she could keep, something to make facing life without Rick just the smallest bit less terrifying. Despite his initial resistance, the mortician had finally relented and given her the last bone of Rick’s pinky finger and, with it, a weathered flyer topped with the words, Death doesn’t have to be the end.

Stupid, stupid hope, but Jessica couldn’t put it from her mind. Three months later, she finally got up the nerve to track down the address.

The old woman’s voice shattered Jessica’s reverie. “Finish up that tea, then let’s hear you play.”

Jessica downed the tea in three gulps. She handed over the cup and saucer and glanced at the chairs. “Can I move the fern?”

“Of course.”

No matter the oddity of her surroundings, the ritual of tuning the harp was grounding. By the time all the strings were settled, the old woman had cleared off her own chair and sat cross-legged in it, her bare feet sticking out from pink-and-purple harem pants. She smiled encouragingly. “Go on.”

Jessica drew in a breath, set her fingers to strings, and began to play a Celtic tune. Its slow, modal melody was a familiar one she used to play while Rick gave voice to the words, his rich baritone a caress down her spine.

The old woman swayed, eyes closed, hands palms-up on her knees. She began to hum, so low that at first Jessica wasn’t sure it was coming from the old woman at all. The vibrations in the air were almost tangible. For a moment, Jessica thought she felt rough fingertips against the back of her neck.

When the song came to an end, the old woman opened her eyes with a soft exhale. “Oh, yes.  He’s eager to be with you again. But you have to understand, this won’t be like truly having Rick back. You won’t be able to ask questions or hear his words. No affirmations. No love vows. Only the sense of him there beside you. Some folks find that almost-there-ness worse than a soul being lost. If he’s gone, it’s easier for you to move on.”

Jessica’s knees tightened around the soundboard. “I’m not looking to move on.”

“You know the price?”

With hands that trembled only a little, Jessica withdrew the little carved box from her sweater pocket. The soft thud of the bone hitting the side when she tipped it felt heavy. Final. The bone was real. A part of Rick that Jessica could cling to forever. If she gave it up and this woman’s promises were nothing more than wind, would she regret it forever?

“Only if you’re certain, child.”

The fern rustled, despite the lack of a breeze. A frond grazed Jessica’s shin. She shivered and offered the box to the old woman. “Please.”

The old woman stashed the box between her breasts, reached over, and laid her hands over Jessica’s eyes, her voice slow and hypnotic. “Play your memories. Play your dreams. Your wishes and your fears. Play Rick’s voice. His eyes…”

Jessica didn’t need to see to obey. Her fingers danced over the strings. A gentle ballad with the whispered hopes of love new-sprung. The insistent rhythm of spilling passion. A wistful air for the child who would never be. His eyes–oh, his eyes–as they clouded with pain. Tears became lament, pouring from the harp’s belly.

And with each note, a subtle shift in the instrument’s timbre. Warmer, deeper–curling low around the base of Jessica’s spine. Rick–given new life in the voice of the harp. Forever as close as the touch of her hand.

Jessica’s fingers stilled, and she slowly opened her eyes to find a bare room, coated with dust and the lingering scent of patchouli. She licked her lips and packed away the harp with utmost care.

A single set of footprints marked the dusty floor. Jessica followed them wordlessly into the night, solitary, but no longer alone.

Previously published in Galaxy’s Edge Magazine, November 2016. Reprinted here by permission of the author.

Goddamn, it was hot.

Even in the shade, I was dripping with sweat, my mouth so dry it felt like I’d spent the last hour eating sand.

However, some clients are so big you don’t hesitate. They want a face-to-face, you give them a face-to-face. You don’t even think about asking them to stop by the office. You drop everything and head to them, even if that means hopping in a shuttle and schlepping halfway across the galaxy to some desert dustbowl of a planet with a number for a name.

“I’m not saying returns this year were unacceptable,” Mr. Park smiled, his eyes locked on the horizon, a laser rifle cradled in his arms, “merely, I expected better.”

“We appreciate that,” I replied, mopping my brow with an already sodden handkerchief. “Unfortunately the empire’s entered a stable period, and stable markets are a double-edged sword. Less volatility means less risk but also lower returns.”

Mr. Park wasn’t even sweating. Either his clothing was a nano-fibre composite with internalised temperature control, or he’d gotten himself some high-end implants. Probably both.

“Still, 9%? Government bonds would’ve given me that with no risk whatsoever.”

“Yes sir, but that would be boring, no?” Not a by-the-book response, I’ll admit; however, I was counting on my personal assessment of Mr. Park. The man had money to burn; did he really care about a few percent? I had him pegged as a gambler, and gamblers gambled for the thrill of it. The winnings were just a bonus.

When he laughed, I knew I’d called him right.

“You know, I remember the early days of the empire.” He grinned, fingers drumming on his rifle’s stock. “Back then, wars erupting left and right, the markets were a thing to behold. Peaks and troughs like you wouldn’t believe; fortunes made or broken overnight.”

I nodded. Nothing stimulates an economy like a war–or cripples it.

“That’s what we need. Another war,” Mr. Park continued. “Like with the Karaks! That was a good war.”

“The Karaks?”

He waved the question away. “Insectoid species. Before your time; long gone. Good for the economy, though.”

I wondered how old Mr. Park actually was. He didn’t look a day over thirty-five, though for men with money that hadn’t meant anything in centuries. Could he genuinely have been around for the birth of the empire?

“Ah!” he yelped, the sudden outburst making me jump.

“Sir? Are you alright?”

“Shh!” The laser rifle levelled with the horizon, Mr. Park’s eye glued to the scope. “Quarry.”

I peered at the desolate plain of sand. If there was anything in this hellhole, I wasn’t seeing it.

I was still scanning the horizon when the rifle pulsed, a needle-thin beam of light searing away from us. It vanished in an instant, the smell of scorched ozone creeping up my nostrils.

“Okay, let’s go!” Mr. Park announced, shouldering the weapon.

It took us almost twenty minutes to reach his “quarry,” and when the speeder finally touched down, I couldn’t even see the ridge we’d been standing on. The heat haze limited visibility, but we must have travelled at least a dozen kilometres.

However, I still found myself standing over the carcass of a medium-sized bipedal creature. There was a neat hole, a centimetre across, burrowed into its temple.

“Nice and tidy, see?” Mr. Park showed me, tilting the lifeform’s head. “The beam cauterises the wound, so you don’t get your hands dirty.”

“Yes, sir,” I nodded, wondering what kind of work had been done to the man’s eyes to allow him to make that kind of shot, let alone his musculature and nervous system. How much of him was even human anymore? “Very nice.”

Noticeably pleased with himself, Mr. Park reached into his pocket and withdrew a small remote. With a flick of his thumb, a drone detached from the speeder and swung over to hover above our heads.

“Smile!”

Another flick, and the drone zipped around us. Sensors strobed, lenses snapped, and the moment was captured in every visible spectrum.

“I’ll send you a copy,” Mr Park said, guiding me back to the speeder once he’d reviewed the imagery and satisfied himself with the reproduction.

“Thank you, sir,” I replied, out of courtesy rather than genuine interest. “Aren’t you going to collect the kill?” The speeder had already begun to lift, and the creature’s body was still lying in the dirt.

“Whatever for? The meat’s vile, utterly inedible, and would you want it as a trophy piece? It’s not exactly impressive.”

I nodded, barely listening, watching instead as a number of creatures shimmied their way up out of the dirt around their fallen comrade. Tendril-like fingers extended from mottled bodies, and they stroked the corpse with sorrowful sweeps. As one turned to me, glimmering eyes locked on mine, I saw a silent accusation.

“Anyway, back to the markets,” Mr. Park continued, gunning the accelerator, the speeder powering us away. “Like I said, what we need is another war. Nothing boosts the economy like a good war.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, my mind wandering uncomfortable paths, my gut already a few steps ahead.

I wondered how soon the image would “leak” (with ample assistance to ensure its reach), and which of mankind’s “allies” would be the first to see the parallels. The creature’s death itself meant little, but as a symbol, it spoke volumes. Humanity; we kill other sentient beings for fun!

It would likely be just the first of many little jabs, and inter-species diplomacy is tricky at the best of times. How much would it take, really, to go from “friend” to “threat?”

No doubt Mr. Park was betting “not that much.”

It occurred to me I should do the same. It wasn’t like I had much of a choice; I was standing right next to him in the same image that was poised to destabilise an empire.

The markets would move, because gamblers love to gamble, and there’s no greater thrill than betting it all.

When not writing the Brimstone Files, preparing for the debut of Mavericks of War, or teaching six classes at various schools, institutions, and search engines, I’m an improv actor. Which means in exchange for stage time, I perform completely improvised theater that is mostly comedic but often dramatic and weird to an audience of primarily improv students. Kinda like writing short stories: creators are the main consumers, at least where I am. Yes, “careers” in improv exist, but most of us do it for the loves. Very few people not running theaters make improv their dayjob.

Don’t Think Twice is a great film about improv, ego, and sadness written and directed by Mike Birbiglia, an improv, sketch, stand-up, and storytelling machine who has done some great specials, features, and who also works as a contributor to This American Life. Thanks to a talented friend’s efforts, I saw a sneak-peak early-release of this film at a jam-packed theater in San Francisco in 2016. This was back when I was used to performing every weekend, seeing shows every weekend I wasn’t performing, taking workshops, and scheming new programming. Improv was my main joy.

DTT follows six improvisers as they search for meaning in art and life. When their theater closes down, they have to reassess their commitment to their craft. Chris Gethard’s character fears what this means for his identity. He works a shit job at a grocery store, being treated like garbage each day, but what makes it bearable is this: “I go on stage. I kill. I crush. I’m a superhero. Without improv, I’m kind of just a loser.”

In the theater after this revelation, the silence was frigid. I looked around at stunned faces and almost died laughing, with my final words being, “It’s true! It’s all true! We are such a bunch of losers!” Thankfully a friend shook her head before my yap opened. Decorum prevailed.

I find myself torn over such sentiments. Being an artist is great. Writing novels, history, and doing improv brings me joy. I love the process and product of these arts. And that my CV looks like a jigsaw puzzle.

But there were times when I could do no writing. No history. Now, improv is starting to slide away from dedicated focus. When their candles dim, does the loser emerge from the shadow? Who tells you that you are a loser? In my case, it’s me. Because, honestly? The rest of the world doesn’t give a shit if I live or die. Spending time on the metrics of loserhood for other peoples is a sport best left in high school. Or at TMZ.

Having to return to more dedicated dayjob stuff makes me realize that this issue of superpowers is, go figure, simplistic, reductionism, and ultimately harmful. Yet, by using the Gethard Equation, might I suggest teaching is my superpower. Not improv. Not fiction. Not history. Yet these are the superpowers of artist. Or so the equation goes.

I’ve heard a lot of great things about me as a teacher (loser). I’ve spent most of my professional life making educational products, creating courses, and teaching (loser). I say this having an individual income just double that of the Federal Poverty Level for one person (though that’s changing, thanks to TEACHING and other things… loser). I’ve taught commanders of armed forces, leaders in tech, and kids. And I’ve done it just about as long as I’ve been writing fiction and history. Here, I am crushing it (… loser). Without teaching, I’d be… a loser who could not afford improv classes, or a home to write fiction, or the time and expense of historical research…

Which reminds me of a colleague’s notes that the voices of the poor are silenced in the arts, making much of pop culture the dreams of those who think they are middle class but are really the new lower class.

But in the world of superheroes, if fame and excellence as an artist makes you Superman, recognition as a teacher makes you… Cypher, a mutant hero who was great with languages… a skill that can change lives but can’t stop bullets.

In the film, I would be Birbiglia’s character Myles, who pines for celebrity but is best at teaching prodigies who become celebrities. The failure of his improv superpower to turn him into a star makes him bitter. Indeed, teaching is considered the job of failures, like driving a cab or waiting tables. Working class and lower middle class shit jobs played for laughs. In real life these are things you endure because your dreams failed.

And this is where superhero analogies become horrific. And why this film is great.

The other side of the Gethard Equation is this rule: your superpower relates to scarcity and success. Keegan Michael Key plays the one member who reaches for the brass ring (a SNL-type show) and gets it. His superpower goes nova and he leaves the group, causing a shit storm since he can’t take the losers with him. There’s only room for him (or so it seems: watch the fucking movie, okay?). The rest try in various ways to get on the show. Most fail. And all realize something.

That improv superpower? On its own? It may make them special, but alone it won’t make them happy. They have to try new things. There has to be more than a Friday night show and dreams that won’t come true. Some go into comics. Some become parents. Others try out teaching. And one owns a theater. And they all keep doing improv. Not because it leads to fame and glory. Because they love it and each other. That’s it.

Not being a slave to binaries? Even if your identity only thinks it’s special because of one fucking thing?

That’s the real superpower, True Believers.

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When Irina says for the gazillionth time that she’s going to escape, we coax her away from the barred window. We smooth her hair and shush her, but we don’t touch the shiny laminate that coats her arms.

We don’t know if Irina can feel anything underneath that brittle gloss like a nail-polish top coat. If we asked, she’d say Eso no es de la incumbencia de ustedes, which basically means, nunya.

With Irina, we’ve learned to wait and see. For three months we thought she was a crybaby, until we overheard the Bulgarian nurse telling the nurse with a Texas-shaped birthmark on her cheek that Irina can only sweat from her eyes.

Rajesh peers up at Irina like she’s a card castle about to topple. “Iron bars, Irina.”

Irina gets in his face, and Rajesh backs up. “You think they’ll let us out, hermanito? You like our little cage?”

Rajesh is silent as Irina turns to the rest of us. “You’re really just going to wait.”

“Not fair,” Rachel calls in a faint underwater voice from the window onto her special room. “Hitomi can’t even move. You’d just leave us?”

Hitomi is trying to sit up in bed, but her eyes squinch tight and her skin ripples frantically over the second brain growing next to her heart.

That’s it–Irina’s escape plans are forgotten. She’s at Hitomi’s bedside, tilting a water glass to Hitomi’s bluish lips.

The door rattles, opens, and a high-heeled foot appears in the gap, followed by Bulgaria, grunting as she swings herself inside with our lunch trays.

When we’re eating, we’re almost normal. The sparks from Rajesh’s fingers retreat to a soft glow in his fingernail moons. Hitomi’s rippling skin dies down like water recovering from a breeze as Bulgaria spoons hot pozole into her mouth. When Rachel bends to say her mealtime prayer, her many-threaded green iris disappears from the window. When she eats and no one’s watching, Rachel isn’t a giantess. She’s just a hungry thirteen-year-old girl.

Irina will now lie in her bed, staring at the gauzy curtains as she crunches her chicharron chips. The food is good here. We don’t give a shit. We’re four of hundreds Big Agro has stashed all over the world.

After lunch we usually play checkers and trade stories until Bulgaria comes again to ask us the questions: How tired are you, on a scale from 1-10? Do you have any control over what makes you different today? Any vomiting in the last 24 hours?

Today is different. After Bulgaria leaves, the streets outside begin to boil with farty brass music. A pleasant hysteria made of children’s squealing and vendors’ long call builds until the party might as well be in our room. No checkers today, no stories. Eyes closed we recline in our beds, listening to the children beating their drums in the heat for the Virgin of Guadalupe.

At three, Irina jumps up. Her billowing gown transforms her for a moment into a Strawberry Queen, the girl chosen to ride in the Irapuato parade every year. Irina says she was the favorite to be Irapuato’s next queen, until her skin started flaking scales like micah the winter before she turned fifteen. When she got into a car crash with her boyfriend outside of Nogales, the policeman made a call. Before I could even try on the elbow length gloves, Irina said.

“I love you all,” Irina says, watching Hitomi, who stares calmly back. “I do. But I’m going to trick that guard who can’t grow a mustache.”

We look away.

“I bet he’d like to know if I’m glossed all over,” Irina hisses. Hitomi tches, but Rachel snorts her milk, spattering her window. Irina minces a funny dance, letting the sun catch her prismatic skin.

“I told you,” Rajesh pleads, turning to of each of us, fixing our eyes. “The last time the suits came they were thinking, PR campaign. I had a headstorm; I heard. Poster children, they thought! I’m close to pyrokinesis–”

“Pyrokinesis?” Irina laughs. “You’re full of shit, puta madre.” Back in her bed with her knees pulled up, Irina turns away. “I have to know,” she mutters, “if I’m special, or if I’m just sick.”

We have nothing to say to that. We all want to know the same thing. After all. Hitomi has known the cold stars over Fukushima. Rachel shot up until she towered above her father’s Iowa fields of Ready Gro Grain, and Rajesh swam with his brothers in the stinging brown waters of Agra. Irina has picked in the toxic Irapuato strawberry fields, but was never the Strawberry Queen.

We fall asleep in the blue night to the streetlamps pooling on the floor below the window and the wanton children beating their drums into the dark.

The next morning, they wake us: Bulgaria, Birthmark, a brick-jawed doctor, and three nurses we’ve never seen. They shriek and skitter around the room while the doctor glares. Rouged lips open and shut. They grab us by the fronts of our gowns, demanding answers.

At the window, the sunrise spreads a grin along Rajesh’s cheeks. He stares at the pavement below, covered in streamers from the Virgin’s celebration like a plate of painted noodles. Over them is a spray of gold powder in the outline of a girl.

Maybe our differences will gradually weaken and fade, as Irina’s must have done until she could shatter her patina with one good jump. Maybe Hitomi’s second brain will shrink. Rachel will not, but she’ll play pro ball somewhere. Rajesh’s useless amperage will quiver and die, all of this just a phase, like acne or poltergeists.

Deep in our winded hearts, we know that even if we become normal again, they’ll never let us go.

Until the nurses come back, we’ll tell each other that Irina’s red cheeks under their gloss made her look like a wooden angel in a basilica painting. Now, somewhere out there, Irina just looks like a girl.