Will Power
The room was dry air and decay. And Leonard Talbot lay there dying. He was in the metal hospital bed they had brought in along with the hospice nurse and a morphine drip. Next to the bed there was a small table where Leonard kept his glass of water and a book. Although he had become too weak to read, having the book there made him feel like living while dying was at least a possibility. Across the room, each in his and her own winged-backed chair sat his children Margot and Leonard Junior.
“How are you feeling, father?” Margot asked as she continued to turn the diamond ring on her angular finger.
“Lovely,” Leonard answered.
“Father, we’re here to try and talk some sense into you about your will.”
“I know why you’re here. And why you’re not,” Leonard said, trying to push his voice into something beyond a weak crackling.
Leonard Jr. stood up and walked over to the window. He would have rather been anywhere other than in the room with his father and sister. They didn’t know him. And they didn’t want to. He was a performance artist who went by the name Toblat, which was his last name spelled backwards. He had been arrested for stealing a child’s wheelchair for one of his installations. He was given to self-induced heart palpitations, and he thought he might feel some coming on. “You know, I’m sure you’re enjoying yourself, amusing yourself, with this plan to give everything to the zoo. But you’re running out of time to make things right. I mean, I think I would feel at least a little better if you were giving our money to the mangy mutts at the humane society instead of the zoo. At least I could feel like your joke on us did some good somewhere.”
Margot, agitated by this suggestion, rose out of her chair and walked over to her brother. She knew she had to take charge. She knew she was the only one capable of getting anything done the right way. Steel your spine, she told herself. She leaned into him and through clenched teeth she whispered in his ear, “For once in your life would you please stay focused? We are running out of time here.”
Out of nowhere, Leonard knocked his hand on the slate-gray metal rail on his bed. Margot and Toblat were startled by the force of the sound coming from their father’s corner. When he knew he had their attention, he let the silence hang on the heavy air. He wondered to himself how he could have possibly brought such miserable creatures to life. Clearing his throat, more like a soggy gurgle, he said, “Well at least I know you’re not over there plotting my death. You need me alive so you can change my mind. Maybe that’s reason enough to keep saying I’m going to leave all my money to the godammed giraffes,” and with that he was once again exhausted.
Toblat let out a tiny whimper and Margot flared her nostrils. Margot turned to her father, and smiled.
“I understand we have not always lived up to what you wanted us to be, father. I, we, know we have not been perfect,” she said, glancing at her brother, “Far, far…far from it. But we have always tried.”
Leonard rolled his eyes. He was struck by the amount of energy it took to perform this simple task, which in the past was part of his daily repertoire of outward expressions of emotional discontent.
Margot, unfazed, kept going, “If you won’t reconsider this insanity for us, why not for your grandchildren? One of us has given you three of them, and so far they have managed to not do anything to screw their lives up. Why punish them and force them to go around being beggars?”
With that, Toblat broke. What a twit you are, he thought as he shot his sister eyes like slits. “Oh for god’s sake, Margot. It will only mean they will have to get a job. Something you may not be familiar with, but hardly begging! Besides, it may do the horrible little brats some good.”
“Shut up, you deviant!” Margot hissed from under a curled lip. Why you didn’t just die at birth you freak of nature, she thought as she twirled and twirled her ring.
Leonard was on the verge of breaking in, just as he normally would about now. Cutting his children off at their weak little beggar knees. But this time he thought he would try something else. This time, he didn’t care if they killed each other. In fact, he thought to himself that if they actually preceded him in death, he might actually leave all of his money to the grandchildren. And as a bonus before he drew in his last pathetic breath, he would get to see those two monsters claw each others little black rat pellet eyeballs out.
Leonard laughed to himself and said, “Do you want to know something funny? One of you miscreants was adopted. If you figure out which one before I die, I’ll give the entire fortune to the other.”
Invisible Men
The cost of war goes well beyond visible wounds and the tragic loss of life. The cost of war can also include loss of identity, dramatic shifts in perceptions of the world, as well as the life-long and horrific invisible wounds of trauma. In J.D. Salinger’s short stories, A Perfect Day for Bananafish and For Esme` – with Love and Squalor, Salinger brings the reader into the lives of two men who suffer from these invisible wounds. Both men’s trauma is ignored by the adults who should be helping them to recognize and deal with the pain, and both men are moved by the innocence of children and how that contrasts with the innocence they left on the battlefield.
What was once called shell-shock is now identified as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. In the story A Perfect Day for Bananafish, we are introduced to Seymour Glass and we are told about his post-war experience through a phone call with his shallow wife, Muriel, and her probing mother. Muriel’s mother expresses concern regarding Seymour’s mental stability and tells Muriel that her father has consulted a doctor on the subject. Her mother says:
He told him everything. At least he said he did – you know your father. The trees. That business with the window. Those horrible things he said to Granny about her plans for passing away. What he did with all those lovely pictures from Bermuda – Everything.
In a somewhat hopeful sign, Muriel follows up with her mother and asks about the doctor said. Her mother tells her:
Well, in the first place, he said it was a perfect crime the army released him from the hospital – my word of honor. He very definitely told your father there was a chance – a very great chance, he said – that Seymour may completely lose control of himself.
Tragically, Muriel is far more interested in fashion, gossip, and the color of her toes to take interest in her husband’s mental health. Read more…
I’m fairly new to #FridayFlash, and right now I don’t have near enough time to devote to posting here. But I have to say reading the Friday Flash entries has become a great source of enjoyment and relaxation. And that’s coming from someone with two kids who is in the last semester of an English Major facing 700 assigned novels and thirty essays which must be written about them. (Okay, it just feels that way.)
I have also enjoyed reading outside of the genres I am typically drawn to, such as fantasy and maybe even a little spooky stuff here and there.
One of the wonderful writers in the group recently gave me this little blue badge to pass on. So thank you Skycycler, and here are five writers off the top of my head who I look forward to reading more of. Five among many.
@Dijeratic, @markerstetter, @LauritaMiller, @chadredden, @3S_Stories
I would have included several of these writers, but skycycler beat me to it:
Linda Simoni-Wastila @drwasy, CJ Hodges MacFarlane @h0jp0j, Christian Bell @christianbell37, Marc Nash @21stCscribe, DJ Kirkby @djkirkby and
Shannon Esposito @soesposito
Taken by the Sparrow
Alone,
in my crumbling, one room apartment
in the seedy part of any city.
I’m listening
to my vinyl record of Edith Piaf
the tenth time in a row,
feeling her more each time.
I’m covered in paint just the same
as my otherwise bare wooden floor
and yet another ruined canvass.
I’ve not eaten in a day,
my hunger made worse by the scent of garlic
from the restaurant below
permeating air that serenades my open window.
I wrote this from a prompt on the Editor Unleashed forum, and even though I think I may be the only person who likes it, I am posting it for Friday Flash.
My Name is Bill Franklin
When I was growing up I stayed with my Great-Aunt Sadie most all the time until I was about nine or ten. She lived down a dirt road in what used to be a town called Eufaula Alabama. Back then I thought it was the most boring place that had ever been forced on a kid. I didn’t want to be with an old lady and her old stories and old skin. I wanted to be with my mother, who was out dancing and charming the men of Eufaula and all its surrounding counties. So any chance I got, I would go outside where things didn’t feel like death. Every sunny afternoon, I would play outside right by myself for hours and hours, happy not to be cooped up by the rain that would fill the ditches along the road, and cause the frogs to get loud, and make the smell of summer to rise up off the hot ground.
But just when I had completed a fort or defeated an army, Aunt Sadie would open the screechy door on the screened-in porch that had been added to the front of her tiny green and grey trailer, and she would yell for me to come in. If I was ever dumb enough to ignore her, she’d threaten me with a switch from the Willow Tree.
During the summer, Aunt Sadie was always wanting me to help her with the beans from her garden, so I’d sit down in the rocking chair next to hers as she put the bucket down on the concrete floor in between us, and before long we were rocking together, but not ever in sync. I’d pick a handful of beans out of the bucket, and so would she, and soon the snap, snap, of the beans mixed with sound of our chairs rocking slow, back and forth, and back and forth. As we worked, the day would fade and the fireflies would get so thick it felt like the stars were snowing down to earth. And in the middle window of the trailer, there was this small hourglass hurricane lamp with delicate hand-painted flowers and a lacey brass crown, and it would be spilling just enough light, and luring me inside where the smells turned from honeysuckle to biscuits.
Now I am 68 years old and retired from my job at a print shop. I live by myself. And every Saturday I’m up with the birds. I get my newspaper off my side porch and I write down every garage sale within twenty miles. After a quick bowl of oatmeal, I head out for my search. No matter the weather, and no matter if I am sick or well. Because I am convinced that someday I will be able to find a lamp that looks like Aunt Sadie’s, and then I can put it in my window and remember what it feels like not to be so completely alone.
After Lorrie Moore’s How to Become a Writer
Instructions: Parent Teacher Conference for a Retarded Child
Find a tight spot to parallel park your car in front of the school. Remember you lived in Manhattan and this will give you confidence. Try not to cry when you get inside. You’ll be overcome with the perfect innocence of the small school. It will remind you of things. Walk down the long hallway, past the other moms and dads sitting on benches, waiting their turns. Don’t mind the loneliness. When you get to the last classroom at the end of the hall, you’ll see the little black chair outside the door where you are to sit and wait. Sit down on the little chair and take out the book you brought with you. Think to yourself that someday you should get into books that have pretty pictures of handsome people on the cover. Look up and notice each time the other parents walk by. You will know they are thinking about how sad it is that people have retarded kids, about how lucky they are, and some will even feel slightly emboldened, superior.
Read another page of feminist theory, think about Darwin. Close your book. Look at the other parents again. Notice how they seem so content as they talk about their kids and their kid’s lives. Note the irony of having one of the fastest brains in the house, a brain that is always looking, always curious, always asking, as you wait to talk about your child who only asks for his dinner, his cartoons, and as many hugs as he can get on any given day. Your child who can’t walk up the stairs without touching the wall and who is still in diapers at twelve. Now smile for the things he shows you. Think about how when he runs he isn’t running to or from anything, he’s just running for the pleasure it gives him. Think about his smile. Try not to cry.
Wait for another half an hour past the time of your appointment. Breathe in deep, they are the smells of childhood. Look down the long hall, shiny floors, and beige walls. Notice how it is empty now. Listen to the sound of doors shutting. Get up from the little black chair and pace. Although it is manipulative, walk by the classroom door so the other parents and the teacher remember you’re there. When they all come out a few minutes later, smile to let them know you didn’t mind waiting. (Forget that you fell down on that just a little bit.) The teacher will smile back at you. This will re-organize your entire nervous system. You will feel like all of your limbs have been reattached. You will remember, and like, the power she has over you.
When you go into the classroom, try not to cry. Sit down at the low amoeba shaped table, on a tiny plastic chair painted with a primary color. Look around, let the feeling of being a bull in a China shop pass. Look at the teacher and then you’ll feel small again. Let her guide you. She knows what she is doing. She’ll tell you about the child, and how well the child is doing. She’ll tell you about the problems, too, but it will feel like she’s holding your hand the whole time. Before long you’ll be sharing cute stories about all the funny things he does. At some point, you’ll even feel hopeful in a way that you had not expected.
After an hour or so, it will be time to realize you can’t keep the teacher there all night. She will tell you that it is okay, and then she’ll give you a present from him. It will be the turkey he made out of brown and orange construction paper. You’ll love it, even though you know he had a lot of help making it. Say goodnight to the teacher. Remind yourself that hugging would not be appropriate. When you leave and walk down the long hallway toward the door, it will seem as though even your breath is causing an echo. Pull your coat tight, it will be cold outside. Walk to your car, the only one left, and let yourself cry.
Intersections
It was a cold day. The kind that hurt. The overpass was getting icy. Multiple train tracks ran underneath, curving together toward the horizon. On the other side of the highway the newlyweds drove their older-model Mercedes into the Hispanic neighborhood known as Tammerville. The sun was working its way down and the trees were already morphing into silhouette.
“What do you want for dinner?” she asked as she wrapped her tan coat tighter around her.
“I don’t really care. I just want to get the hell out of this part of town before it gets really dark,” he said tightening his grip on the steering wheel.
“At least people are honest here.”
“Honest?” he laughed, “Is that what you said?”
“Yes.”
“Do tell how you see that as being the case.”
“Well, unlike the people we know, these people are forced to confront life and reality. They can’t hide from the despair. They know what it is like to wake up every day knowing they have to keep pushing their rock back up the hill, even though it is completely futile. And they don’t get to sit down at the end of the day with a nice Delamain in a fifty-dollar glass that’ll break if you so much as look at it the wrong way.”
“Okay, I see where this is going.”
“Or fly off to some white sand island lapped by see-through water.”
“Right, I forgot you see having money as being dishonest. I mean, for heaven’s sake it allows you to enjoy life as opposed to gritting your teeth and earning your existence,” he said before pointing to two men standing on a street-corner with brown paper bags in their hand, “Yes, look at those earners. Pushing a rock with their bruised and bloodied shoulder.”
“You’re such an ass.”
“Just look at all this honesty. It’s almost more than a pretender like myself can absorb. I mean, right over there we have Anthony’s Image Hair Salon. And there, look, there is the Oasis of Grace Worship Center! Yes, I see it now. No hiding here.”
“Just stop it.”
“No escape. All truth. All good. Damn, why the hell do we have to be such liars?”
“I’m not a liar. I actually remember where I come from.”
“Well you certainly win the self-loathing gold star,” he said as he stopped at a red light.
She looked over at him, picked up her purse from the floorboard. “I need some time alone. I’ll take the bus and see you at home later.”
“Are you serious?”
She opened the car door and got out. She started walking east. A man who was heading in the opposite direction on the other side of the street yelled over, “Hey Muchacha! Wanna ride with me?”
I haven’t had any creative writing time in the past few weeks, it’s all been footnotes and not fancy free. However, I did not want to fall off the Friday Flash train, so I am going to post one of the first sketches (…or flashes) that I wrote a few years ago.
Yellow Ribbon
It was the second white glove inspection of this particular Saturday. Tessa wondered how many more she would need to go through before finally passing. Because passing meant she would be allowed to go out and play with Heather. Her thoughts were wandering back and forth between the toy that had been in the wrong place during the last inspection, and her newly acquired hair ribbon. The toy was her tattered Mrs. Beasley doll, whose black plastic glasses only remained attached in one place, causing them to hang down her worn-out cheek on the other side. The new ribbon was a bright yellow color and long enough to tie around Tessa’s head as a headband, just like all the girls at Terrace Elementary were tying theirs. Best of all, it matched her old soccer uniform just perfectly.
Tessa had learned to wait out this ritual. But unlike other childhood rituals, she found no comfort in this one. Her father made the Saturday white glove inspection a lesson she could never learn. He drank cans of Budweiser because he deserved to. Watched football because he wanted to. And inspected Tessa’s room without giving her a chance at success because it was fun. Every Saturday he inspected and found one thing out of place and every Saturday he told her he would come back in one hour to re-inspect. One more hour of punishment for being alive. And one more hour to clean more than she had to, all in order to fill the horrible minutes around the two it took her to meet his demand and earn a chance at going outside. Sometimes she got out after two or three hours of re-inspections, and sometimes she gave up just as the sun was giving up to the night.
Tessa looked at herself in the mirror on this Saturday and admired her pretty ribbon. She liked to take it out of her hair, just so she would get to put it back in again. Then she heard him coming down the hall. Her heart picked up speed and her breathing became increasingly shallow with each approaching footstep. He walked in and laughed, “Tsk…tsk…tsk, Baby Marine,” he said, pleasing himself with each syllable. “Looks like you are going to be in for another hour because I can already see something out of place.” She felt her life seep out with her breath. “You failed,” Tessa’s father said as he smiled again, exposing grey teeth.
But unlike all the times before, and for a reason she didn’t even know, Tessa decided in that instant to stand her ground. She screamed, “No! I am going out to play! I passed your stupid inspection!” She moved toward him to try and fit her small body through the tiny bit of space his six foot frame did not steal from the doorway. “About Face! Baby Mac!” he snapped like a pit bull. But Tessa wasn’t stopping. And just as she could feel the freedom on the other side of the door, she also felt the familiar sting of her father’s hand. It burned like fire under the skin on her leg. She knew his pink hand print, outlined with blood-tinged welts, would soon follow. But she also knew there was no one else home that day, and that she was going to get it way worse if she didn’t keep going. So Tessa did. She kept going, down the narrow hallway and straight out the front door. Then she ran as fast as she could, because she felt him reaching for her, even though she knew he was still in the house.
Tessa arrived at Heather’s green and white house and smiled when her friend opened the door. Heather’s father stood behind her welcoming her inside. “Hey, you wanna play?” Tessa asked.
“Sure.” said Heather.
“You wanna trade hair ribbons?”
The Block House 