Issue 11 August 2014 Flash Fiction Online August 2014

I like to believe I can fend for myself — that I’m a strong, capable woman who can take life on the chin. But every now and again, when I’m sent reeling toward either end of the spectrum, extreme happiness or sadness, I find I’m not quite so invincible by myself. I need companionship. Family, friends, and loved ones are there to celebrate the highs and commiserate the lows. Even when I pretend I’m walking my path alone, it doesn’t negate the fact that they’re still with me.

John Dunne said, “No man is an island, entire of itself.” I think that sums this issue up nicely.

In Ashe Thurman’s fantasy story,“Kitsune no Yomeiri”, a husband’s attempt to embrace his pregnant wife’s culture goes painfully awry. “6 Attempts to Win Jennifer’s Heart” by James Aquilone is a humorous scifi stab at office romance. And finally, in Alison McBain’s mainstream piece “On the Fly”,  Jorge struggles with his place in life, both in and out of the kitchen.

Enjoy!

Anna

Publisher, Flash Fiction Online

I found the painting in the basement in a Japanese tansu. Noriko had moved in a lot of antique furniture when we got married, primarily from the late Edo period, and I had lost track of most of it. The painting itself was buried underneath a stack of clothing and wrapped in old brown paper. I wouldn’t have even known to look for something solid had the chest not made a large thunk when rolled out of the corner.

It was a beautiful painting, full of deep, rich, earth tones and free from any significant deposits of dust and grime. Through the wooden frame a parade of foxes dressed in fancy, patterned kimonos carried lanterns in a procession up a mountainside. They looked as though they were celebrating something important.

Above me, I heard the sound of a door being opened and shut quickly. An umbrella being closed. The quick clack of her shoes lasted only a second before she was padding across the floor in bare feet. By the time I reached the top of the stairs, I could follow the sound of her gentle singing to the back bedroom that we were slowly turning into a nursery. She was folding some onesies on the new changing table, already out of her work clothes and in a flowery maternity dress.

“Hello, otouchan,” she chimed.

“Presents from a client?” She nodded ruefully, and smirked just a little. Something funny had probably happened. She would share in a few days. The conversation would begin with “you know a funny thing happened at the office, the other day, ” then she would spin a fanciful yarn, and it would be perfect in every way.

“Hey, I found this in the basement.” I had held the painting under my arm, and now I turned it to show her. “I thought it might look nice in here.” Her face, already fair, went stark white. The pregnant glow fell from her skin, and she all but ripped it from my hands and held it to her chest.

“Where did you find this?”

“In the rolling trunk in the basement.”

“No, you need to put this back. Right away, and just move that thing back into the corner.” I moved toward her a little, and she stepped back half a step.

“Nori? What’s up? What’s it a painting of? Is it, like, a bad omen?” Japanese bad been hard to adjust to. Noriko had been in the country since she was five, but her family had fought assimilation tooth and nail.

“No, no, it’s….it’s a kitsune no yomeiri.”

“A what?”

“A fox bridal procession. When it rains but the sun is still out, that’s when the foxes have their wedding.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“Nothing, just put it back.” She shoved the painting into my hands. “Just, please.”

“Honey, you’re kind of freaking me out.” I stepped toward her again, but she evaded to the side.

“I’m…going to get the mail.” She made for the front door, faster than I had seen her move in awhile. No shoes, but she grabbed her umbrella and was gone.

I made my way back down to the basement. I had left the brown paper open on top of the trunk and turned the painting over to figure out how to rewrap it. There was crisp calligraphy in the bottom right corner of the frame painted with a fine brush and silver metallic paint. I recognized the kanji for “Tachibana,” Noriko’s maiden name. Then there was the one for “marriage,” one of the few other characters I had picked up. Then there were a bunch I didn’t recognize at all followed by a date from the 1850’s in English numbers. I turned it back over for a second look. This painting was old, then, older than I expected from how good a condition it was in. I wondered, then, if the clothes I had found with the painting were equally antique.

I opened the big drawer again and pulled out the piece on top. A tiny silk kimono with orange flowers bursting on pale green. In my head I saw an image of our future little girl draping the fabric around her, of mama wrapping the obi around her thin waist and tying the otaiko on the back just so, of obaachan’s impossibly deft hands retying it “properly” as a grandmother does, of a wooden box containing a hair pick passed down through the generations, of the love that these traditions would pour upon her. I laid the kimono out across the top of the trunk next to the painting, and something caught my eye. The pattern on the kimono of the third fox was orange flowers blooming on a pale green background.

The realization that she hadn’t come back yet washed over me before anything significant about this observation clicked into place. I had been down there awhile with complete silence upstairs. I worried she had slipped on the wet pavement and immediately panicked. I hurried up the stairs and opened the front door to the gentle rain shower. There was no Noriko, though, not anywhere. The umbrella was at the end of the driveway, laying on its side but otherwise intact. I called her name. Nothing. I wandered out onto the pavement and down the sidewalk a block to the small park that backed up to the woods edging the neighborhood. In the grass was her dress, crumpled in a heap. But, still, she was nowhere to be seen. I fell down onto the grass. Something felt wrong around me, like a heavy weight had dropped into my chest. I flopped down onto my back and stared up into the rain. The sun was shining again, but the rain continued on, ever so lightly pattering the sidewalk, just like it had the day of our wedding.

It was ten fifty in the morning and he was squinting through one eye as he diced vegetables. The other eye was swollen shut. Jorge had just a vague recollection of the fifth–sixth?–bar last night after work, and someone talking smack. The fat ass kept on calling him “Chef” as they played a game of pool. Every time Jorge had knocked a ball in, the turd had said, “Nice shot, Chef.”

Until the eight ball went in and the man wouldn’t shake his hand. “Don’t want to get salmonella,” he’d laughed to his white friends. That’s when Jorge had swung at him and missed, getting an eyeful of big, meaty fist instead. It all went a little hazy after that, but he remembered the looks he’d gotten on the subway ride home.

But, here he was, on time as always. Late once and he’d be fired, no matter that he’d been working here for three years. On payroll, he was just another immigrant working the shittiest job in the kitchen.

Manuel walked through the door, took one look at him and grunted as he headed into the back. Probably as hung over as he was. Actually, now that he remembered it, the older man had left before that last bar. Good thing, too. His wife would never have forgiven Jorge if Manuel had gotten involved in another barroom brawl.

That was when the Kid came in, shiny with the polish of culinary school, already on a fast track for management. Sure, the chef was hard on him, but there was no doubt that while Jorge would still be washing dishes in five years, this kid might be running his own restaurant. He looked paler than normal–still trying to keep up with the big boys at night, men like Jorge and Manuel who’d been drinking since this boy was in grade school. “Hola,” the Kid said.

“Hola, boss,” said Jorge. Manuel came back in dressed in his dishwasher shirt and took out his board and started chopping. The Kid headed into the back. As soon as he was out of earshot, Manuel said, “You look like an ass,” in Spanish.

“Acted like one,” he replied in the same language. “What did Carmelita say when you got home?”

“Usual.” Thunk, thunk, thunk went their knives. “She wants you over for dinner on Sunday.”

Jorge snorted. “Who is it this time?” Manuel’s wife was always trying to set him up with “some nice girl.”

“Cousin.” Manuel disappeared into the walk-in, returned with the next bin of veg for both of them. “Not bad looking.”

The Kid came back in, dressed in chef whites. The two of them ignored him as he moved around the kitchen, getting his own prep ready and trying not to look out of place as they continued to speak in Spanish. The Kid knew only Spanish swear words, they’d found out when he started work.

“Looking like this?” Jorge asked. “She’d kill me on the spot.”

Manuel considered him for a moment, finally nodded. “I’ll put her off.”

“Thanks.”

“Only temporary, you know. Next Sunday, she’ll be sure to get you.”

Jorge laughed. “Fine.”

He sent money back home to his parents for his brothers and sisters, but what was left over after that? Enough for a beer or two after payday. He didn’t want a wife and kids, not yet. Manuel worked two jobs, like Carmelita, just to support their family. There was more to life than working all the time.

“Fucking Friday,” murmured Manuel as the kitchen filled up. One of the worst days of the week, although Saturday was the true amateur night. On Friday was the preview: orders sent back to the kitchen, the chef yelling at the top of his lungs from the moment service started until the end of the night. The frenetic energy of the staff ramped up as the hours stretched into late afternoon, and his friend said, “Here we go,” as the first orders came in.

There was never any way to brace for the dinner rush. Just grin and sweat through the work until the noise died down and another day was done. It wasn’t until midnight, stinking of food and industrial strength cleaner through his civvies, that he said goodnight to Manuel.

“Don’t do it.”

“Do what?” he asked innocently. The older man just walked off, shaking his head.

At this time of night, the bar down the street was already filled up with smoke and noise. He moved through the crowd, alone, shorter than most of the men and women there. He found the man he was looking for at the pool table.

“Well, lookee who it is!” the fat man exclaimed. “How’s it cooking, Chef?”

Jorge eyed the man’s companions. They didn’t seem to be the same guys as last night, but it was hard to tell. He’d been pretty drunk.

“Wanna play pool?” he asked.

“Sure, sure.” The man reached into his pocket for quarters. “Game’s on me, Chef.”

There was no better time, with the big man’s hands in his pockets. Jorge ran up and slammed his fist into the other man’s face, throwing all his body weight behind the punch so that when the man went down like an avalanche, Jorge fell on top of him. But he was up like a light before the man’s drunk friends could react, and darting through the thick crowd. He broke out through the door and ran like hell down the street.

The next morning, Manuel eyed Jorge’s swollen knuckles and smiled. “Don’t forget next Sunday,” he reminded him.

Attempt 1: Talk to her.

“Hi,” I say in the break room at Innovations Worldwide, though this is debatable. I might have only cleared my throat. Regardless, I am counting this as the first word I have uttered to Jennifer.

She looks up from her tablet. Her green eyes sparkle in the fluorescent light. She’s most likely reading Stephen King. That’s her favorite author. She’s been listening to the Misery audiobook in her cubicle (which is next to mine) every day this week. I want to tell her he’s my favorite writer too. (But one thing at a time.) “Do I know you?” she says.

“Hi,” I say. My brain has run out of words. An invisible hand tightens around my throat.

I do the only thing possible: I run away.

Note: Technology is your friend.

#

Attempt 2: Try again using Dr. Tomokats’ TimeTripper©.

“Hi.”

“Aren’t you Dr. Tomokats’ quality-control officer?”

I think I nod.

Then I run away.

Note: Time travel solves nothing.

#

Attempt 3: Impress her.

I reprogram Dr. Tomokats’ BattleBorg©.

It enters the break room. “Destroy! Destroy!” the cyborg screeches as it lumbers toward Jennifer. Klaxons blare from its head, its eyes flash red and yellow. (That’s all I programmed it to do; it’s harmless.) I swoop into the room, ready to “save” my co-worker from the “killer” cyborg.

Jennifer taps on its head three times. It deactivates. I had no idea.

I make myself a tea and slink back to my cubicle.

Note: Recommend Dr. Tomokats configure more difficult deactivation protocol.

#

Attempt 4: Seduce her.

I sit at the bench that Jennifer passes every morning on her way to work. I had placed Dr. Tomokats’ Pheromone Amplifier Cologne© on all my pulse points. For good measure, I placed it everywhere else.

I try to keep calm by humming softly to myself, but my nerves kick into overdrive anyway and in time I’m soaked with flop sweat.

Before she turns the corner, I vomit.

Then I run away.

Note: Recommend issuing warning label for Pheromone Amplifier Cologne’s possible toxic reaction to perspiration.

#

Attempt 5: Write her a romantic song.

Words often fail me. So I use Dr. Tomokats’ AutoHitMaker©, which creates and then streams ten thousand songs about Jennifer. Among them: “Jennifer in the Sky With Diamonds,” “Jenny, I Need Your Loving,” and “This Guy’s in Love With You, Jennifer.” I play them all day long in my cubicle. I even sing along. (Under my breath.) I think I’m being pretty overt; in fact, my boldness is giving me a heart attack. But she doesn’t seem to notice.

It’s not until an hour before quitting time that I learn she is being transferred to our downtown facility after only two months here, and she had spent most of the day with her friends on the third floor saying goodbye.

When she returns to her cubicle, she listens to the Watership Down audiobook. It’s breaking my heart. I love that book too.

Note: You’re an idiot.

#

Abort Mission: Move on. Drown yourself in work.

It obviously wasn’t meant to be. I turn my focus on testing Dr. Tomokats’ latest invention, the Multiverse Viewer©.

The first thing I do when I enter Earth-Beta is look for my alternate self. You kinda have to do that, right? I’m living in the same Brooklyn, New York apartment. I pass through the door like a ghost. The place smells like potpourri and the decor is nicer. My Earth-Alpha apartment smells like a warm Ham & Cheese Hot Pocket. I enter the living room and my stomach drops.

Earth-Beta Jennifer and Earth-Beta me are snuggling on the couch watching Jay Leno. (On this Earth Jay never leaves The Tonight Show. It’s classified as a Grade-2 dystopia.) I exit the parallel dimension even more depressed. I’m totally jealous of my alternate self.

I jump into Earth-Tau, where the world is ruled by a werewolf-Hitler. Soon I discover that Jennifer and I are married and lead a band of resistance fighters against Nazi shape-shifters.

In Earth-Zeta, I watch as we board a generation starship that will eventually carry our great-great-great grandchildren to a habitable planet to ensure the continuation of the human race.

On Earth-Omega, a zombie apocalypse has turned us both into the walking dead. I look closer and notice we’re holding hands—and maybe it’s my imagination but our undead faces look kinda happy.

I visit one dimension after another, and we’re always together. So why aren’t we a couple on Earth-Alpha? Is this the one world in an infinite number of possible realities where we are not meant to be together? Am I the unluckiest of all the iterations of me? God, I hate being shy. But Dr. Tomokats hasn’t invented an anti-introvert pill.

Technology has failed me. What now?

It hits my Rube Goldberg of a mind like a ball-bearing that has dropped into a tiny basket, fallen down a length of string, and landed on a tiny bell. It’s so simple. It’s so damn terrifying.

I take a deep breath, I think of those brave bunnies in Watership Down. Then, my heart pounding like mad, I pop my head over the cubicle wall, and I–

#

Attempt 6: Ask Jennifer on a date.

Note: I don’t run away.