⚡ Flash Fiction

I didn’t always inhabit the subway. Now I prefer it to my room. The rocking motion of the car keeps my nerves from twitching and straining.

You could call the subway my backshop. It’s my principal retreat and solitude. Montaigne said that everyone should have such a place. I read it in a book I found on the A train.

The book’s cover described Montaigne as a “bemused and befuddled aristocrat trying to make sense of it all.” That’s me—except the aristocrat part. I never vote Republican and sometimes, alone in my room, I lie in bed for hours listening to “Fanfare for the Common Man.”

I tell myself stories on the subway. Well, not stories exactly. “Noddings” is what I call them because I always tell them as I’m nodding off. They’re about what I see on the subway.

Take today, for example.

Today on the A train I saw a person in a red jacket with gold braid and brass buttons; a pucker-mouthed, candlestick of a girl wearing wireless earphones and dandling her flaxen head from side to side; a lank, old gentleman with pink, pendulous ears and girlish manicured fingers drumming on a closet augur that rested in his lap; and a cheerless matron with deaf-looking eyes and a heaving bosom, carrying a party sign that read, “Fun Ahead.” . . . Oh, I almost forgot the blind man with a tabby. He was sitting below a Yoga ad that depicted a shapely jogger’s rear end, over which were layered the words: “Keep Your Eyes on the Road.”

I told myself such a curious nodding today that I don’t even recall passsing Spring Street, for twenty-three years my regular stop. (Since the company I worked for filed bankruptcy I’ve had no need to alight there. Which suits me just fine, I tell myself, because for twenty-three years I’d wondered what lay beyond Spring—my wife and my boss, as it turned out, on Canal. . . . You  can see what drew me to Montaigne. Oh well. “There are defeats more triumphant than victories,” I tell myself nowadays. . . . Still, I’d have liked to leave the job with my 401K.)

My nodding today on the A train had a pretty girl in it, with thin, sensitive lips, when they weren’t pursed. And a bandleader with grey, sardonic eyes. The bandleader was cleaning a room—a rumpus room or, perhaps, a bathroom, I couldn’t decide, which is often the case with my noddings—ambiguity, I mean. Sweeping and mopping, mopping and sweeping, that’s what the bandleader did in the room in my nodding—sort of like me, I guess, coming and going, going and coming—I’m never sure which these days.

The room was full of party paraphrenalia, which made it seem like a rumpus room, except that the girl stood behind a glass door showering, which made it seem like a bathroom. You can understand my ambivalence. In any event, the bandleader didn’t notice the girl showering, and the girl showering didn’t notice the bandleader sweeping and mopping, mopping and sweeping.

Then my nodding got even more lifelike.

The girl and the bandleader stood on a road, a distance of, say, twenty feet separating them. A suggestion of a smile played about the corners of the girl’s mouth, but not the bandleader’s.

After a while, the girl sachayed down the road, turning now and again to cast sheep’s eyes at the bandleader. The bandleader stood quiet and still. Then the girl turned full around, as if to address the bandleader, when a cat suddenly darted about her feet, nearly knocking her down.

The girl shooed the cat away.

“Did the same thing the last time I was here,” the girl said, of the cat, but she could have meant the bandleader, from whom no word came.

Then the girl drifted off and, like a midnight mum, faded away behind a picket fence at the end of the road.

From out of a yellow fog the cat slunk toward the bandleader, seeming to grow with each silent step until it morphed into a tiger—an immature tiger, to be sure, but a tiger nonetheless.

I may call this nodding “Seduction”. . . or something else. I haven’t decided. But I will write it down, like all the others.

I have almost enough now for an anthology. Maybe I’ll call it A Nodding Acquaintance and, turnabout being fair play, send it to my exes and let themtry to figure it out.

Or maybe I’ll just drop it on the tracks in front of an A train coming into the Spring or Canal station. . . . I wonder what I’ll do at the very last minute—leap down and retrieve it or not?

“To practice death is to practice freedom.” Montaigne said that, too. THE END  ⚡

The old man with grey streaked hair warmed himself over the fireplace of his modest Boston area home. Now 67 and in the winter of his life, Brian was a recent widower, trying to navigate the senior dating scene after 40+ years of marriage. Nancy had been a wonderful wife and partner for him.  

The knock on his door startled the man out of his thoughts. Opening the door, he found Karen McLaughlin, a widow and member of his church, standing on the landing of his house. 

"Oh my Karen. I am surprised to see you. Please come in." 

The older woman smiled. "Just wanted to bring some peach cobbler over for you. I know how hard it has been since Nancy….since Nancy has passed." 

Brian Walker smiled as the woman continued to speak. "It's so cold today," the attractive older woman commented as he took her overcoat off, looking intently at Brian.  

Brian Walker smiled before replying. "Yes but I think spring just came early when you arrived." And with that, the older woman blushed.  The End  ⚡

Ashley strolled by the maître de’s lectern as though she was in a garden instead of the Manhattan restaurant that had just earned its third Michelin star. Carlo, the waiter assigned to their table, arched his eyebrows at the teenager, sighed over his own private thoughts and bit his lip until she passed. 

“Darling,” her mother said, standing up. “How was the flight? Tell me all about Geneva. You’re forty minutes late. Did the car service delay you?” 

“Mama.” Ashley tossed her black messenger bag on a chair, air-kissed her mother and flopped into the adjoining seat. “Tiresome, tiresome and Customs is so tedious.” 

“Home for the holidays,” her mother said in a voice that trilled like a pigeon’s coo. “There’s something so — I don’t know — deliciously Bing Crosby-like about Christmas. Was school…? 

“Also tedious,” she sighed. “Daddy?” 

Her mother snapped, “Don’t be awkward. He’s moved out. Phoenix or someplace where he can regain his testosterone.” 

“Oh!” Ashley brightened. “I want to tell you I’m getting married! This wonderful fellow at the école, Mohammed al-Fasi. He’s Moroccan.” 

“Ashley,” her mother said, inhaling sharply, “what the hell are you talking about?” 

“Is that a rhetorical question or are you hard of hearing?” 

“Are you out of your goddamned mind? You’re sixteen years old! I was 18 the first time I married, and only because I was carrying you.” 

“Lucinda,” the girl pointedly emphasized her mother’s name, “we don’t plan to breed children. There are people now — surrogates — who do that for you if you feel some atavistic urge. Mohammed’s richer than Daddy, and marriage will give him a green card to become an American. You can call our arrangement a humanitarian gesture instead of you having to write checks to starving people in Darfur.” 

Carlo approached their table and struggled to keep from touching the teen’s mountain of tousled blonde hair. She and her mother, both devoid of any physical flaws, were like twins separated by twenty years. To Lucinda, he asked, “Something from the bar?” 

The older woman shuddered, still digesting her daughter’s words. “Vodka gimlet, rocks, Grey Goose. Make it a double." 

“Two,” Ashley said. Carlo opened his mouth to request age identification when the girl continued, “Don’t even say it. My father has a 15 percent interest in this joint.” She gave Carlo her tiger smile. 

“I can just see it,” Lucinda snarled, “you marching down the aisle in a burqa with Spandex and sequins. 

“Ah, remind me to invite you and Daddy — if you can find his address.” 

“Are you insane?” she asked, too loudly. Heads turned at neighboring tables, hearing heresy in their dining sanctuary. “Your Mohammed will be collecting extra wives like camels.” 

Ashley said, “Don’t forget your grandpa was a Mormon. He fled to Mexico with a wagon full of wives and the Army hot on his heels.” 

Their voices rose, enunciating each syllable as though snapping off bread sticks. 

“Your father and I simply won’t have this! We’ll drag you back to school in America!” 

“I am in America, so live with it, Mother Dear. I divorce thee, I divorce thee, I divorce thee. That’s how they do it in Rabat.” 

Carlo hovered nearby and began shaking as their voices rose and patrons stared. A kaleidoscope of memories crossed his face.— of Europe, death, slanderous accusations, and more recent events. 

“Stop it!” he shouted at Ashley. “If you were my child I would turn you over my knee and spank you.” Glaring at Lucinda, he said, “If you were my wife I would lock you in the bedroom. You are both rich, stupid people, ungrateful for what you have. And, you make my ears burn, my eyes weep salty tears!” 

Ashley spoke first. “Watch it, you immigrant. Next thing you know you’ll be serving food at a homeless shelter.” 

Carlo’s back arched. “I would gladly go where I am appreciated, and I appreciate the few things that I have.” 

Patrons erupted in applause simultaneously. “We’ve got you covered, Carlo,” a man with a deep tan shouted. “Go for the goal, Carlo,” called a woman with silvered hair. “Kick them out.” 

Lucinda rose as though lifted by invisible strings from some heavenly institution. “Come, Ashley. We’ll go where we’re appreciated.” 

The two paraded across the dining room floor the way saints might demonstrate their faith by walking on water. Lucinda turned at the door and screamed, “And don’t you forget it!” 

At that moment, a woman in bluejeans and a black coat pushed Lucinda aside and elbowed past Ashley. Lucinda huffed with a “Well, I never…,” but fell silent as she saw the woman raise a small silver pistol. 

The woman’s first shot shattered a crystal wall sconce. In a voice pitched high with tension, she cried, “Carlo, you emptied my bank account.” The second shot drilled a planter. “You abused my niece! She killed herself!” Her third shot punctured the menu Carlo was holding to his chest for protection. “And, you left the freezer door wide open.” 

“There, you bastard,” she said as he fell forward. “I got the last word in!” Then, she turned the gun to her temple and fired a final shot. 

Silence fell over the room before Ashley wailed, “Mommy, take me home.” Her last word was drawn out in the howl of a wounded animal. 

“My baby,” Lucinda whispered wrapping her arms around her daughter. “What kind of world are we living in?”  ⚡

He was old. An unfathomable number of their years, not that she could count so much. Her kind did not live so long. But he—enormous and old—was very, very dead in the frigid night. Nesting covered his body, the way it did all of them, as if it to make up for the fur they didn't have. Naked they were under it, almost all of them (though this one had some fur not just on his head, but other places too). But not enough; that fur and his nesting covered him, but still he froze.

The nesting; this was a problem. She ran up and down the length of him, pointy nose and whiskers busy, hairless tail sweeping for any missed information. It might be some time before the others came, but came they always did. And they would take him away before she could figure a way. Cold, so cold; if it were only herself, she would take her chances and start gnawing. But her nest was full of little ones, little ones who hungered. If she could just get enough to hole up until the weather was warmer…

She shivered and curled one paw under her chest. It was that time of the cold season when the Big Ones, not content with their little stars, strung myriad stars of kaleidoscoping colors all over their giant nests. She remembered; after all this was her fourth litter and she was still alive and providing. Always, at the darkest part of the cold time, when the days were so very short, out came the bright stars. And the Big Ones were everywhere! Usually in the dark she was safe from their big feet and their hurled objects. But when the many stars appeared, they swarmed out of their nests just like her own kind did when the sewers flooded in the warmth of the new season. That was the time to have a litter, not now, not when it was so cold and she could hardly find enough to feed herself, let alone sustain those mewling little babies.

She knew there was good eating in these Big Ones. A few times, not many, surely no more than she could count on her tiny digits, she had eaten their meat. Faces usually, they were the easiest to come by, but a mean portion. Quick to fill a belly, but not succulent, not rich and flavorful, like the parts deep in their flanks. Her mouth watered as she thought of the soft chewy organs that might feed her tonight.

There! Noise—one of the Big Ones, coming this way, its gait unsteady. Not surprising—they often walked like babies just born when they had that sharp smell of fire about them. All the ones she saw seemed to have that stench. This dead one too. But no time to think about such things, it was getting closer. She hated to leave her food, but there was little she could do against the Big Ones.

It shambled down the alley, muttering to itself in their odd language of multifarious sounds. More songs than any bird had a right to—how could they understand one another? Her babies, only days old, already knew her cries: hide! food! quiet! What more could these Big Ones need to say?

The new one approached the body and she slipped down the back side, skittering away into the shadows. The creature bellowed at the fallen one and shook it with its paws. The dead one rolled over limply, one forepaw lying now in the icy puddle. The Big One grunted and touched the eyelids of the other. Standing up, it shook off some of its nesting materials, then reached down to take some from the corpse. With difficulty, swaying from side to side, it fitted the nesting over its forelegs and put its own covering back on. Reaching down once more, it tugged the nesting from the bottom half of the dead one. That was a struggle and it fell over backwards with angry cries. Clambering back up, it continued the battle and finally the nesting came free. It threw the soft covering around its neck and limped back down the alley, muttering still in its sing-song voice.

She couldn't believe her luck. Its nesting gone, the Big One lay there unprotected as her little babies—and almost as soft. It would not be possible to take a large part, bones were heavy, though she could dream of such bounty. Anyway this was a male creature, and without its nesting the good, dangly bits lay unprotected between its legs. One of those! That would feed her family for some time, when maybe the worst of this cold spell would have passed.

She set to work at once, gnawing away at one of the sacs. It would take some time to chew it free, but the anticipation of a few warm days made her tired jaws work faster. A full belly was the only heat she could hope for these days, but the cold season would not last forever—

Her head snapped up. She had been so intent upon her prize she had almost missed it: the Evil One! It was here in the alley, but where? Nervously she glanced around, drops of blood flying from her white whiskers, nose working frantically to local the danger. Her senses cried for flight, but she knew to hold herself in check until she could find the location of the Evil. It came in many forms, but the Evil was always the same.

There! High on the boxes piled by this creature for a nest. The blood had drawn it, no doubt. Yet the smell of the Big One was enough to make it cautious. The Evil One feared the Big Ones and she had seen enough to realize that the Big Ones were as likely to hurl stones at the Evil One as they were to take them in and feed them. But the Evil One meant death to her kind—always. If one were quick and smart, sometimes that death might be avoided, but the Evil One was quick—oh, so very quick—and that mattered so much more than smart when there was nowhere to hide.

Did it see her? She wasn't sure. It looked back up the alley, as if in fear of the Big One returning. It was the color of night with eyes like spring grass and a long tail which whipped back and forth in the air. Often the Evil One would play with her kind, pretend not to see them, then pounce—wham! and shake them in its teeth. Even after they were dead, the Evil would continue to play with their bodies, rolling them back and forth between its paws, acting as if they were still alive, before settling at last to chomp the soft belly while making that rumbling sound of happiness. It had happened that way with her own mother, sacrificing herself for the litter. A dim memory now, but it was a well-learned lesson about Evil.

She slipped down a little more into the space between the Big One's legs. Dangerous, but it was so cold and she stubbornly refused to leave her good meal if the Evil One hadn't seen her because only a few more bites, if she pulled really hard the flesh sac would tear and she would have her prize. Maybe, maybe, she hoped to herself—but then the Evil One turned its head toward her end of the alley, laid back its ears and hissed with hot anger. She felt her mouth go dry and her belly tense with terror. It saw her. She was going to die. She tried to flatten herself between the thighs of the Big One, laying her own ears back like the Evil One and silently licking the salty blood from her whiskers when a shadow fell over her. Rolling her eyes back, she saw what it was and lost all control, a thin trickle of water flowing hot from her hindquarters.

Another Evil One. This one was shadows, like night and dirt alternating down its coat, ending in rings on its tails. Its eyes blazed like the bright yellow stars and a low rumble rolled from its chest. She just had time to think of her poor babies freezing in the cold of the nest without her before the Evil One sprang. She could hear too that the other Evil jumped as well, a sickening scream accompanying the leap, coming her way.

But then, inexplicably, crazily, dizzily, the two Evil Ones locked in embrace, screaming, hind paws digging furiously, jaws clamped on one another in murderous hatred. They were attacking each other! How could this be? Yet there they were rolling and yowling in the dirt and debris, each one crying for the other's blood, fur flying around the battle.

Get out, the mother part of her mind told her sharply, get out with your food before it's too late. With a renewed frenzy she tore into the flesh, pulling with clamped jaws on the delicate flesh, feeling it almost ready to give way, almost—keeping her eyes on the struggling Evil in case they should deem her worthy of notice—a little more, a little more, and yes! It was free.

Triumphant, she clamped the reward firmly between her teeth, turned her back on the freakish combat behind her and ran drunkenly for the wall, the hole and safety. Darting into the hole, she dropped her juicy meal for a moment and looked toward the Evil Ones. Still they wailed and fought. Fresh blood filled the air. She stared, amazed, another lesson learned, then took up her tasty burden again, running down the corridors and around the darkened corners. Her children would feed well, grow strong. And she would sleep comfortably on her full belly and ponder the way to turn Evil against Evil.  ⚡

"Are you sure that's all that's missing?" 

The detective looked inquisitively at the teary socialite. "Yes officer. That's all that was taken." Detective Miller shook his head as he looked around the plush penthouse apartment. Who gets robbed of a single high heal shoe?? 

"Please go over what happened one more time." The woman sighed and repeated the story that she had told the detective just 5 minutes earlier. She had come home last night after a fundraiser for the arts, escorted by "Garrett", a young man she had met at the event. The two of them had coffee and chatted for a while before he finally left to go home. He had left around 1 AM and she had immediately gone to bed. The next morning, she noticed the door to her apartment ajar and on searching her apartment she had found one of her high fashion shoes to be missing. "Someone must have come in during the night and taken it." 

Miller shook his head as he pondered the story. The story made no sense. Who would want a single shoe? 

Looking around the room once again, his eyes caught a small bump on the bed, just under the bed sheet. Casually, he walked over and pulled off the rumpled sheet from the bed. A thud could be heard as something fell out of the sheet, landing just to the right of the bed. A shoe. The missing shoe. 

"Oh," replied the embarrassed socialite, turning red as she looked at the detective. "Looks like you found it." 

Miller turned away from the woman to hide his grin. No one back at the precinct was going the believe this story……. The End   ⚡

We’re going to take you hostage.” 

“What? You can’t do that,” I said. 

“Don’t panic. Everything’s going to be fine.” 

“I don’t feel fine.” I could hardly stand straight but I didn’t want to show the three of them any weakness. 

“That’s because you’re fighting us. Let it go.” 

Why were there suddenly ten of them staring at me? Where did they come from? 

“Look. We can do this the nice or the hard way. Your body is now under our control.” My head spun when another ten strutted by. 

“Who are you anyway?” I asked. 

“You know exactly who we are. Just do as we say and we’ll play nice for the next forty weeks.” Now, fifty of them said in a perfect chorus. 

“What if I-” 

“Uh uh. Shush.” 

After some blissful weeks of peace, something was wrong. 

Was it normal to drive in socks to the doctor? Why did I have a conniption fit when my husband surprised me with strawberries instead of chocolate truffles? How did I end up in a road rage incident when I only wanted to chase a naughty Chevrolet Suburban driver with my Mini Cooper? 

This wasn’t me anymore. I was possessed. 

Was there an exorcist for pregnancy hormones? 

I asked them, “You said if I’m nice, you’d behave and I wouldn’t even know you were there.” 

Hundred eyes scowled back. “We didn’t say that. Why are you so upset? Everything looks fine.” 

“Nothing is fine. Dammit! I’m not myself.” 

As an answer, a wave of sickness made me run to the bathroom and ended the conversation. I shouldn’t have talked to them. The morning sickness turned into an evening sickness and at week 8 I had both. 

At week 14, everything was gone. I was suspicious. Was this the calm before the storm? Did they leave? Did I earn a break? 

The peace lasted for seven weeks. 

I knew they were back when I was forced to eat an entire jar of Nutella. Every day. 

This went too far. I didn’t want to end up like an overweight hippo. 

“Stop the cravings. Immediately,” I demanded. 

“We didn’t do anything. That’s all you.” 

“I would never eat so much Nutella. You made me an addict.” 

“Calm down. Eventually, everything will be fine.” 

Two of them stepped forward and wanted to tap my shoulder. I wiped them off and stomped my feet on the floor. 

“Absolutely nothing is fine. Give me back my body. NOW.” 

They shrugged, “As you wish.” 

A sharp stinging pain crept up from my groin to my abdomen. I fell on my knees and cried out. 

“Stop! I’ll do whatever you want. I swear. But stop the pain,” I moaned. 

They gave me another shot of mind numbing pain and then it stopped. 

I exhaled. 

“Let this be a warning. One more peep from you and you’re going to be sorry.” 

At week 28, the turn-around came or in other words, I developed Stockholm syndrome. 

I took advantage of being pregnant. The world bowed to me. I never had to stand in line. At Whole Foods I got extra samples. The last Nutella was handed over to me, unresisting. I was a great bully! 

Week 39 came. My personal army of hormones empowered me by the second. I felt like superwoman. But fighting invisible dust puppies on midnight expeditions through my house got boring. Like superwoman, I needed some real criminals. The first chance came on my daily visits to my local supermarket. My chosen one was on Ecstasy and caught my attention when he smashed into the revolving doors and catapulted me in the seasonal fruit stand. I will only say he learned the hard way to never mess with a pregnant woman. 

But when I stunned a stupefied burglar in our garage with only my hormone soaked aura, my kidnappers got frightened. 

“Do you have a death wish?” They demanded to know. 

“Shut up! I’m great. I’m in control.” 

They looked at the young burglar. It was obvious that I scared the wits out of him. I was so proud. 

“You’re not you anymore. You’re a monster.” My hijackers claimed. They watched the police taking the burglar and then turned back. “Ok, we’re releasing you now. We’re done.” 

“What? You can’t do that!” I panicked. 

They left without a proper good bye and my contractions started. 

Withdrawal symptoms arrived a few days later. I don’t talk to them. They’re grumpy.  ⚡