"Dirty Dish" #Fridayflash

Yet another experiment in writing. Dead silence does work wonders. - CC   


She’s taken her small shoes and handbags and left him with closet space. He appreciates the extra three feet of davenport. He’s covered up the flowered print. He’ll put it out for bulk rubbish in February.

She’s grilled for CAUCASIAN MALE. It seems wise. Her mother would have approved of his severe haircut and pencil-thin mustache.

He thinks about CAUCASIAN MALE often. 5’11” with a slight list to his step from an old football injury. CAUCASIAN MALE with the sideways smile—he should have caught that the first time she shared it with him over boiled potatoes.

He’s stretched out. He’s waiting.

The dirty dish is still in the sink. He’s decided to leave it til Wednesday. She’d hate that.

Photo credit: alvimann from morguefile.com

"Petra" #Fridayflash

 Photo credit: alvimann from morguefile.com

I first saw her when I went to the drive-in. The place had girls on roller skates and satin red shorts. Her hair was long, black, and straight. She had blue barrettes pinned above her ears, of which were festooned with an array of hoops and dangling crosses.


Her legs were perfect, except for a bruise on one knee. I accepted the ice-cream float she brought me, told her to keep the change and watched her backside as she glided away. On the radio "Just Like Heaven" filtered through the haze of cigarette smoke and the tinny music the drive-in played over the dented and rusted speakers above.


The next day I went back and ordered another float. She came out again, her icy blue eyes blinking in surprise when she obviously recognized me. She had a cut on her right cheekbone. A little thing, but I took it in observation and sipped on my drink thoughtfully when she glided away on those old-fashioned roller skates to serve another customer.

On the third day, I asked her for her name. She smiled. Her name tag said "Mindy" but I knew the deal with these places. I drew on my cigarette and gave her the best set of puppy dog eyes I could. My eyes drifted to her left upper arm. Three bruises, each the shadow of a large finger marred her perfection. She was almost milky white. The bruises attempted to sneak up under the hem of her sleeve. Her lip was pierced on the side. She toyed with the silver ring before answering.

"Petra," she said finally, like the answer to some great enigma and was gone, her long black ponytail streaming out behind her. Her wind was bubble gum and patchouli. I started the car, and parked in back. My float melted as I watched for hours. Customers came and went, and every so often I could see Petra. She was a diamond in a sea of river stones. I sipped on the root beer and vanilla ice cream mess and thought of her scent.

The lights went out promptly at 11. The girls were picked up by husbands or boyfriends, or departed in a tiny, affordable battered cars. Petra stood alone at the end of the curb, before sitting down to open her little purse for a smoke. Something made her look in my direction; a blue Chevelle out by the Dumpster, blue smoke wavering in the wind. She rose to her feet and walked towards me.
 Photo credit: msquanna from morguefile.com

"I should call the cops," she said, standing just out of reach at my window, not looking at me.

"You should leave him," I said before flicking one of more than a dozen butts into the night breeze. We both watched the amber arc die in a hiss on the damp pavement.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"You told me your name," I said, moving to take off my seatbelt.

"Don't--" she said, looking around us. "He'll be here soon."

"Good. Let him come." I got out of the car and towered over her diminutive figure. "Petra." I liked saying her name. I liked that the word meant her, in her soft white skin and icy blue eyes. I loved that she existed and stood her with me even though I scared her.

Rebel country music swelled in the distance, along with the unmistakable sound of a Flowmaster exhaust set. She blinked hard, one tear escaping inky lashes.

I went to the trunk, opened it, and loaded my rifle as a brown 4x4 Silverado pulled into the lot.

"Second-Sight" #Fridayflash

Photo credit: rosevita from morguefile.com

He’s hummin’ a little tune as his ears follow that clickety-clack of his walking stick . A white extension of his black self. Dark-leathery skin contrasts with the brilliant white stick, with them red stripes. His nostrils flare. Bertha has fresh pie waiting at the diner already. Coffee. The papery scent lettin’ him know the Sunday edition is waiting in his customary spot.

“Well howdy Nate, got your pie right here,” Bertha says, loud, because people think that blind people is deaf too, he don’t know. He nods and smiles at the sound because he don’t know if Bertha is a pretty missus or a miss or if she’s—

Blackberries. His nose fills up with berries and his hands fall to the table right where his fork and napkin sit because that’s where Bertha’s put them as long as he can remember. She always givin’ him the coffee for free. He tries to tell her sometimes it ain’t right but she laughs and takes his money and gives back the wrong change anyway.

Nate. He was born Nathaniel, but he’s been shortened to Nate, and now it just don’t matter anymore as long as they don’t call him late for his pie—supper—he’ll be just fine. The door jingles. Bertha changes it out every so often. Christmastime she has a set of sleigh bells and he smiles because sleigh bells just sound so pretty. So pretty.

Erma’s gone. Been gone for fifteen years. He still has the old house they shared, still talks to her sometimes just to have sound. He don’t like radio anymore really. It isn’t music. It just isn’t. He hangs up his hat where the old mirror used to be ‘til the night Darcy was born; Erma pulled it down during one of her contractions because it hurt so bad.

The pie settles a little off. He opens the refrigerator with the same creak it’s had for a decade or more since Darcy collapsed in front of it when her heart failed. She’s got a nice job somewhere in Chicago. Pacemaker saved her life.

Maalox is right there on the shelf and he takes a cold chalky swig. Closes the door. Turns to go up the stairs. Halfway up he pauses with a grunt. Leathery black hands let go. Everything is static. Static and hissin’, but it’s the rush of water and he opens his eyes.

Erma smiles down at him and he touches her glowing cheek. She’s just beautiful to look at.

"All of Me" #Fridayflash

“Jesus, would you just listen to me?” I felt my voice rise, which was exactly what I didn’t want to do. He triggered the defensive response. Sometimes I felt like I was shouting into the void, and other times, like I was the void.

He took in a breath and I braced myself for his belligerent scathing retort. He had two volumes: loud and ear-splitting. I stared at a random spot in the wall while he yelled so loud my face was sprayed with his spittle.

We were fighting about something. Three hours ago, I might’ve remembered. Now it was a battle of wills. Of domination and I would lose because I would give in. I always gave in because it was easier than this. This incessant spew of bullshit he thought was important. It was all important, wasn’t it?

He rarely touched me. There was a time before he’d hit a red spot in me and I’d gone black on him. He tried to convince me that he’d fallen. Why did we have to be this way?

This wasn’t love. This was prison.

I tuned back into his voice. Still screaming and stomping around. One of my ceramics hit the floor and then I was pulled off the sofa.

“LOOK AT WHAT YOU MADE ME DO!”

Oops, so careless wasn’t he. The shards cut my hands but I didn’t care. As long as I lived in this endless cycle of destruction, I’d rather be extinct.

###

Courage and valor was my conquest. I stood tall in my boots and stared straight ahead. Gone were the soft curves, replaced by steely form. Circuits snaked in and around my spine. My armor was not heavy.

“You acquiesce then soldier?”

“Yes sir,” I said smartly.

I was prepped and moved to the operating room. There, they took the last part of me and transferred the throbbing mass to a sterile tray. Inserted in its place, a titanium electric heart.

Memory fled at last of the soft, pathetic thing I used to be.