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submissions in all genres, particularly flash fiction. Political,
experimental, and cross-genre work welcome. Fringe turns one in 2007!
Now accepting submissions for our first anniversary theme issue,
Feminism, due out in February. See www.FringeMagazine.org for details.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
story: Just in Time
Just in Time
by Rod Drake - mrdrake (at) cox.net
= = = = =
“Time is not linear. It’s circular. Actually, it’s more like a loop, endlessly spinning.”
“So everything runs over and over again?”
“Right. That’s makes time travel possible, although you’re not really traveling through time. Imagine time like a carousel; you merely need to wait until the animal you want to ride comes around and then step aboard. The animal is a moment in time; the carousel is the time loop. If you miss it the first time, it doesn’t matter; it will be around again soon.”
“So, how did you get here from the future? If you’re from the future?”
“Now that would be telling. But you don’t need a time machine or any such elaborate science fiction device. Just an understanding of how time flows. And knowing where the holes in the flow are.”
“Holes?”
“Anomalies. Singularities. Essentially gauze-like areas that let time curve and retain its loop shape. Also to allow for branching time.”
“And branching time is?”
“Time that proceeds from an event, a decision. Each event has limitless outcomes; if you go to work, one timeline develops; if you don’t, a different timeline is created.”
“How do all of these multitudes of timelines fit together?”
“They don’t. The correct timeline becomes dominant, and the others spin off into pocket time universes. However, pocket time universes sometimes create real problems, aligning themselves with the dominant timeline and influencing it, sometimes changing it. But to answer your original question, I just slip through one of the holes in the “gauze” at the moment in time that I want to visit.”
“Why did you choose here? Or rather, now?”
“Good question. Normally I would say it’s better that you don’t know. By knowing, you might influence or change things. But this time I guess it won’t hurt anything.”
“Why not? Or can’t you tell me that either?”
“Because you won’t live long enough to affect anything.” Then the time traveler pulled out a cell phone-looking device, aimed it at his companion and clicked it. His companion disappeared like a television set being turned off.
The time traveler clicked a different button on the same device and held it up to his face. “The subject who created the branching timeline earlier today has been neutralized. The end of the world has been postponed. Time is running,” he smiled wryly to himself, “back on time again.”
= = = = =
bio: Rod Drake lives and writes in Las Vegas. He is not a Desolation Angel, a Dharma Bum, a Subterranean nor is he On the Road. Read Rod’s other stories posted in Flashing in the Gutters, Flashes of Speculation, Fictional Musings, Flash Flooding and AcmeShorts.
by Rod Drake - mrdrake (at) cox.net
= = = = =
“Time is not linear. It’s circular. Actually, it’s more like a loop, endlessly spinning.”
“So everything runs over and over again?”
“Right. That’s makes time travel possible, although you’re not really traveling through time. Imagine time like a carousel; you merely need to wait until the animal you want to ride comes around and then step aboard. The animal is a moment in time; the carousel is the time loop. If you miss it the first time, it doesn’t matter; it will be around again soon.”
“So, how did you get here from the future? If you’re from the future?”
“Now that would be telling. But you don’t need a time machine or any such elaborate science fiction device. Just an understanding of how time flows. And knowing where the holes in the flow are.”
“Holes?”
“Anomalies. Singularities. Essentially gauze-like areas that let time curve and retain its loop shape. Also to allow for branching time.”
“And branching time is?”
“Time that proceeds from an event, a decision. Each event has limitless outcomes; if you go to work, one timeline develops; if you don’t, a different timeline is created.”
“How do all of these multitudes of timelines fit together?”
“They don’t. The correct timeline becomes dominant, and the others spin off into pocket time universes. However, pocket time universes sometimes create real problems, aligning themselves with the dominant timeline and influencing it, sometimes changing it. But to answer your original question, I just slip through one of the holes in the “gauze” at the moment in time that I want to visit.”
“Why did you choose here? Or rather, now?”
“Good question. Normally I would say it’s better that you don’t know. By knowing, you might influence or change things. But this time I guess it won’t hurt anything.”
“Why not? Or can’t you tell me that either?”
“Because you won’t live long enough to affect anything.” Then the time traveler pulled out a cell phone-looking device, aimed it at his companion and clicked it. His companion disappeared like a television set being turned off.
The time traveler clicked a different button on the same device and held it up to his face. “The subject who created the branching timeline earlier today has been neutralized. The end of the world has been postponed. Time is running,” he smiled wryly to himself, “back on time again.”
= = = = =
bio: Rod Drake lives and writes in Las Vegas. He is not a Desolation Angel, a Dharma Bum, a Subterranean nor is he On the Road. Read Rod’s other stories posted in Flashing in the Gutters, Flashes of Speculation, Fictional Musings, Flash Flooding and AcmeShorts.
story: Postmodern Love
Postmodern Love
by Guy Hogan - www.flashfictionnow.blogspot.com
= = = = =
Frank Conti drove, enjoying how the car handled on the long stretches of nearly empty Pennsylvania highway. It was an old, used car but from a good dealer and it gave him no problems. Another person's old car can be big problems, but he'd been lucky and had been driving nearly half an hour before realizing Vivian Thompson hadn't said a word. He looked over at her. She sat looking away, out at an endless empty field with hills behind it and then blue-gray mountains far beyond the hills. The field was completely empty. No animals. No crops. No grass. Just dry dirt. Frank patted Vivian's thigh. She turned her face to him and smiled. She didn't want to talk. She didn't want to talk all the way back into Pittsburgh. They'd been visiting Frank's best friends. The friends were young with a new baby, giddily happy in their marriage. Viv was wearing shorts and a sleeveless blouse. Frank drove through the light traffic in the city and parked in front of her apartment building. As they sat in the car the sun was setting. Viv was fifteen years older than Frank.
"Frank, do you mind if we call it a day?"
"Did I say or do something wrong?"
"I just want to do a few things around the apartment."
"Can't you do them with me there?"
"I need some time to myself"
"I was hoping to spend the night."
"Frank."
"All right," he said. "May I use the bathroom?"
She sat holding her shoulder bag in her lap with both hands.
Inside, after turning on the air conditioning, she sat on the couch and pulled off her sandals. He stood near the couch with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Maybe he should have worn slacks. No, she was dressed casual, too. She put her feet up on the low table. She put her head back and closed her eyes. Frank sat beside her.
"Viv, what's wrong?"
"I don't know. I don't know what's wrong."
"Aren't you feeling well?"
"It's so hot. I've never known it to be this hot."
He watched her. He looked at her hair. He looked at her face. He looked at her arms, legs, ankles and feet. He leaned down and kissed the place where the pulse beat in her throat.
"Oh, stop it!"
She got up, went to the door and unlocked it. She stood holding open the door.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I want you to go."
"What's wrong?"
"Just go."
"Why won't you talk to me?"
"Frank."
"Talk to me."
"Frank, please."
"All right," he said. "All right then."
"Frank?"
"Yeah."
"I liked your friends."
"We grew up together. We were kids together."
"When will I see you again?"
"I don't know."
"Call me?"
"We'll see."
Several days later Frank took Viv out to dinner. Afterward, they walked holding hands like the young couples out that night in a nice residential neighborhood near the campus of CMU. A warm breeze blew. The full moon hung in the star speckled black sky. Families sat out on their front porches.
Frank said, "Let's get a place together."
"We've been all through this."
"It doesn't make sense renting two places."
"I like my privacy."
"What's that suppose to mean?"
"Just what it says."
They walked through a pool of light from a streetlamp. Just ahead, a young couple got out of a car parked at the curb, locked it and went into a nearby home. Frank and Viv walked past a church.
Frank said, "You lived with Ted."
"Ted was my husband and God knows I need another husband like I need a hole in the head."
The homes in this neighborhood sat behind neat lawns. The air was full of the smell of freshly mowed grass.
Viv said, "What brought this on?"
"I went down to the river today. I just sat and thought about things down by the river."
"What things?"
"Things in general."
"But what things?"
"You know," he said. "Just things."
"Well, let's leave things the way they are."
Still holding hands, they strolled on.
She said, "You want out?"
"No," he said.
"Are you positive?"
"I'm sure," he said.
"You let me know."
"I'll let you know," he said.
"Don't cheat on me," she said.
He said, "I'll let you know."
Just then the streetlamp ahead of them blinked out.
= = = = =
bio: Previous publications are Pittsburgh Quarterly, Chick Flicks, Word Riot and the book Compressionism: The Pittsburgh Stories (self-published at www.iUniverse.com).
by Guy Hogan - www.flashfictionnow.blogspot.com
= = = = =
Frank Conti drove, enjoying how the car handled on the long stretches of nearly empty Pennsylvania highway. It was an old, used car but from a good dealer and it gave him no problems. Another person's old car can be big problems, but he'd been lucky and had been driving nearly half an hour before realizing Vivian Thompson hadn't said a word. He looked over at her. She sat looking away, out at an endless empty field with hills behind it and then blue-gray mountains far beyond the hills. The field was completely empty. No animals. No crops. No grass. Just dry dirt. Frank patted Vivian's thigh. She turned her face to him and smiled. She didn't want to talk. She didn't want to talk all the way back into Pittsburgh. They'd been visiting Frank's best friends. The friends were young with a new baby, giddily happy in their marriage. Viv was wearing shorts and a sleeveless blouse. Frank drove through the light traffic in the city and parked in front of her apartment building. As they sat in the car the sun was setting. Viv was fifteen years older than Frank.
"Frank, do you mind if we call it a day?"
"Did I say or do something wrong?"
"I just want to do a few things around the apartment."
"Can't you do them with me there?"
"I need some time to myself"
"I was hoping to spend the night."
"Frank."
"All right," he said. "May I use the bathroom?"
She sat holding her shoulder bag in her lap with both hands.
Inside, after turning on the air conditioning, she sat on the couch and pulled off her sandals. He stood near the couch with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Maybe he should have worn slacks. No, she was dressed casual, too. She put her feet up on the low table. She put her head back and closed her eyes. Frank sat beside her.
"Viv, what's wrong?"
"I don't know. I don't know what's wrong."
"Aren't you feeling well?"
"It's so hot. I've never known it to be this hot."
He watched her. He looked at her hair. He looked at her face. He looked at her arms, legs, ankles and feet. He leaned down and kissed the place where the pulse beat in her throat.
"Oh, stop it!"
She got up, went to the door and unlocked it. She stood holding open the door.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I want you to go."
"What's wrong?"
"Just go."
"Why won't you talk to me?"
"Frank."
"Talk to me."
"Frank, please."
"All right," he said. "All right then."
"Frank?"
"Yeah."
"I liked your friends."
"We grew up together. We were kids together."
"When will I see you again?"
"I don't know."
"Call me?"
"We'll see."
Several days later Frank took Viv out to dinner. Afterward, they walked holding hands like the young couples out that night in a nice residential neighborhood near the campus of CMU. A warm breeze blew. The full moon hung in the star speckled black sky. Families sat out on their front porches.
Frank said, "Let's get a place together."
"We've been all through this."
"It doesn't make sense renting two places."
"I like my privacy."
"What's that suppose to mean?"
"Just what it says."
They walked through a pool of light from a streetlamp. Just ahead, a young couple got out of a car parked at the curb, locked it and went into a nearby home. Frank and Viv walked past a church.
Frank said, "You lived with Ted."
"Ted was my husband and God knows I need another husband like I need a hole in the head."
The homes in this neighborhood sat behind neat lawns. The air was full of the smell of freshly mowed grass.
Viv said, "What brought this on?"
"I went down to the river today. I just sat and thought about things down by the river."
"What things?"
"Things in general."
"But what things?"
"You know," he said. "Just things."
"Well, let's leave things the way they are."
Still holding hands, they strolled on.
She said, "You want out?"
"No," he said.
"Are you positive?"
"I'm sure," he said.
"You let me know."
"I'll let you know," he said.
"Don't cheat on me," she said.
He said, "I'll let you know."
Just then the streetlamp ahead of them blinked out.
= = = = =
bio: Previous publications are Pittsburgh Quarterly, Chick Flicks, Word Riot and the book Compressionism: The Pittsburgh Stories (self-published at www.iUniverse.com).
Monday, October 02, 2006
story: White Moth
White Moth
by Christian Smith - christianmyth69 (at) yahoo.com
= = = = =
A white moth, huge, wings stained with eyes and lines, rests in the corner where the windshield meets the roof. How the hell did it get in the car? For that matter, how the hell did the car come to stand on end like this? I lie back in the comfortable seat, looking straight up at the black sky, pondering these questions. So sleepy. Christ. I oughtta pull over. Close my eyes for a few minutes. Float backwards for a while.
I snap awake. The moth. It's a big fucker. Never seen one so big. At least a foot across from one wing tip to the other. Big as a bird. How did it get in the car? It's like a dream where you don't remember the thing that just happened, but you do recall the thing which happened just before. We’d been to a party, Ginny and me. So lit up we’d actually danced. It was nice. We haven't danced in years. Her smile whispered promises of the tastes we would share at home. On the long drive home, though, she crawled into the backseat and fell asleep. So forget about that. Still, it was nice to dance.
I feel sick. I'm not used to this much drink. It’s not my fault, though. They just kept pressing them into my hand. I turn my head and vomit blood and glass into the water.
The moth moves; an agitated flutter. Its wings hum. I wonder if Ginny sees it, if she's awake. The rear-view mirror shows her face. She is pale and white in the bright glare of the dome light. Her eyes are open. Ginny smiles at me through the shimmery curtain which has been drawn between the front seat and the back. Her hair floats about her head, buoyant upon a gentle wind. Seems strange that I see her so clearly. Strange that she looks so white.
She blows me a kiss and a bubble rolls from her lips. Water tickles the back of my ears. The moth flaps its wings, stirring the air before my face. It floats in space turned topsy-turvy.
Moths seek lights and flames because they navigate by the moon. The big moth eclipses the dome light. The car is darkened. The moth disappears but the darkness remains. I can't see Ginny anymore. The water in my eyelids is too cold to be tears.
I'm angry for a moment, and seek someone to blame, but this also soon dies. An old song plays on the radio, or maybe it's Ginny singing in the back seat. It is the song we had danced to, or maybe it's not. I can't remember. I try to laugh, but something blocks my throat.
The car dives backwards into the darkness of the lake. I open my mouth and a glorious moth flies from my lips, seeking the moon.
= = = = =
Bio: Christian Smith is a stay-at-home Dad who blogs at http://christian-lunatic.blogspot.com/ Come up and see him sometime.
by Christian Smith - christianmyth69 (at) yahoo.com
= = = = =
A white moth, huge, wings stained with eyes and lines, rests in the corner where the windshield meets the roof. How the hell did it get in the car? For that matter, how the hell did the car come to stand on end like this? I lie back in the comfortable seat, looking straight up at the black sky, pondering these questions. So sleepy. Christ. I oughtta pull over. Close my eyes for a few minutes. Float backwards for a while.
I snap awake. The moth. It's a big fucker. Never seen one so big. At least a foot across from one wing tip to the other. Big as a bird. How did it get in the car? It's like a dream where you don't remember the thing that just happened, but you do recall the thing which happened just before. We’d been to a party, Ginny and me. So lit up we’d actually danced. It was nice. We haven't danced in years. Her smile whispered promises of the tastes we would share at home. On the long drive home, though, she crawled into the backseat and fell asleep. So forget about that. Still, it was nice to dance.
I feel sick. I'm not used to this much drink. It’s not my fault, though. They just kept pressing them into my hand. I turn my head and vomit blood and glass into the water.
The moth moves; an agitated flutter. Its wings hum. I wonder if Ginny sees it, if she's awake. The rear-view mirror shows her face. She is pale and white in the bright glare of the dome light. Her eyes are open. Ginny smiles at me through the shimmery curtain which has been drawn between the front seat and the back. Her hair floats about her head, buoyant upon a gentle wind. Seems strange that I see her so clearly. Strange that she looks so white.
She blows me a kiss and a bubble rolls from her lips. Water tickles the back of my ears. The moth flaps its wings, stirring the air before my face. It floats in space turned topsy-turvy.
Moths seek lights and flames because they navigate by the moon. The big moth eclipses the dome light. The car is darkened. The moth disappears but the darkness remains. I can't see Ginny anymore. The water in my eyelids is too cold to be tears.
I'm angry for a moment, and seek someone to blame, but this also soon dies. An old song plays on the radio, or maybe it's Ginny singing in the back seat. It is the song we had danced to, or maybe it's not. I can't remember. I try to laugh, but something blocks my throat.
The car dives backwards into the darkness of the lake. I open my mouth and a glorious moth flies from my lips, seeking the moon.
= = = = =
Bio: Christian Smith is a stay-at-home Dad who blogs at http://christian-lunatic.blogspot.com/ Come up and see him sometime.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
story: Pink Flamingos
Pink Flamingos
by the name is dalton
= = = = = =
I wanted to see the window one more time. The lock on the front door hung loose, anybody who wanted to come in and see my collection of things could and at anytime. This never alarmed me that much. The few things I did want to see were not in my home but out on the lawn, which I could see from the window.
= = = = = =
bio: The Name Is Dalton is a punk rock bass player with too many beers in his fridge and too many Bukowski books on his shelves. His work has appeared in Culture Freak, Flash Flooding and Long Live The King.
by the name is dalton
= = = = = =
I wanted to see the window one more time. The lock on the front door hung loose, anybody who wanted to come in and see my collection of things could and at anytime. This never alarmed me that much. The few things I did want to see were not in my home but out on the lawn, which I could see from the window.
= = = = = =
bio: The Name Is Dalton is a punk rock bass player with too many beers in his fridge and too many Bukowski books on his shelves. His work has appeared in Culture Freak, Flash Flooding and Long Live The King.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
story: The Goat on the Mountain
The Goat on the Mountain
By Peter Wild - peter (at) wild1234.wanadoo.co.uk
My wife doesn't understand me, he says as he sits writing at the bar.
The pretty girl balanced on the stool next to him takes a sip from her Bud and says, I hear you.
I feel like a tiger left out in the snow, he writes in his notepad, pencil gripped awkwardly between stubby fingers. Or a?
Or a?
He lifts his head and catches the girl's eye. She is really not bad. She has a nice smile and hair the color of straw. He likes hair the color of straw.
Or a goat left untethered on a mountain looking for affection from an outcrop of rock.
She thinks: he's cute. She evaluates. She thinks: sure, he's not as tall as her regular boyfriend but it's quarter to ten on a weekday night and there probably won't be any better offers and anyway who chooses to sleep alone? No-one.
So she punches his arm hard enough to hurt and says, are you going to scratch away at that notebook all night or are you going to buy me another one of these?
He looks up. She is holding the neck of the bottle between her index finger and her thumb and jigging it back and forth, the base of the bottle rocking like the ass of an Egyptian belly dancer.
He says:
Same again?
= = = = =
bio: Peter Wild is the editor of a forthcoming series of books for Serpent's Tail, the first two of which - Perverted by Language: Fiction inspired by The Fall & The Empty Page: Fiction inspired by Sonic Youth - will be published in 2007. He is also editor of The Flash, which will be published by Social Disease in February 2007. His fiction has appeared in Word Riot, Pen Pusher, Scarecrow, Thieves Jargon, Rumble, The Beat and a bunch of other places. He also runs the Bookmunch website.
By Peter Wild - peter (at) wild1234.wanadoo.co.uk
My wife doesn't understand me, he says as he sits writing at the bar.
The pretty girl balanced on the stool next to him takes a sip from her Bud and says, I hear you.
I feel like a tiger left out in the snow, he writes in his notepad, pencil gripped awkwardly between stubby fingers. Or a?
Or a?
He lifts his head and catches the girl's eye. She is really not bad. She has a nice smile and hair the color of straw. He likes hair the color of straw.
Or a goat left untethered on a mountain looking for affection from an outcrop of rock.
She thinks: he's cute. She evaluates. She thinks: sure, he's not as tall as her regular boyfriend but it's quarter to ten on a weekday night and there probably won't be any better offers and anyway who chooses to sleep alone? No-one.
So she punches his arm hard enough to hurt and says, are you going to scratch away at that notebook all night or are you going to buy me another one of these?
He looks up. She is holding the neck of the bottle between her index finger and her thumb and jigging it back and forth, the base of the bottle rocking like the ass of an Egyptian belly dancer.
He says:
Same again?
= = = = =
bio: Peter Wild is the editor of a forthcoming series of books for Serpent's Tail, the first two of which - Perverted by Language: Fiction inspired by The Fall & The Empty Page: Fiction inspired by Sonic Youth - will be published in 2007. He is also editor of The Flash, which will be published by Social Disease in February 2007. His fiction has appeared in Word Riot, Pen Pusher, Scarecrow, Thieves Jargon, Rumble, The Beat and a bunch of other places. He also runs the Bookmunch website.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
story: Office Hours
Office Hours
by Jarrett Neal
= = = = =
Cecil apologized to the three students waiting outside his office and closed the door. He unbuttoned his sport coat and crossed his arms. His jaw clinched. His brow furrowed. “I told you about coming up here,” he said.
Curtis placed the framed picture back on Cecil's desk and took a seat. “When mama give you this?”
“What do you want?”
Curtis opened his eyes wide and scratched his beard. “Man,” he said, “can you lend me fifty dollars?”
“Curtis,” Cecil said as he returned to his desk, “why do you come up here bothering me like this without calling? Midterms are this week. I have a hallway full of students I need to see.” He straightened his pictures.
“See man,” Curtis said, “Val 'bout to get her lights turned off and all she need is fifty dollars. She got them kids, man.”
There was a knock on the door, and when Cecil answered, Mary, a diminutive pear-shaped white woman, stood in the doorway. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.
“No, Mary,” Cecil said.
“I wanted to make sure you got the E-mail regarding the tenure committee.”
“Oh, yes. Yes. I've marked down the new time. I'll be there.”
“How you doin'?” Curtis craned his head over Cecil's shoulder and offered his hand to Mary.
Cecil glanced down at the calloused palm and dirty nails. The odors of motor oil, tobacco and marijuana mingled in his nose. He began to perspire.
Mary took Curtis's hand. “I'm Mary Zucker. Are you Cecil's partner Gary?”
“Partner? Nah, I'm his big brother Curtis.” He turned to Cecil. “What kind of partner you got?”
“Cecil's brother?” Mary said. “Oh. Well, it's good to know you.”
As Mary said her goodbyes Cecil saw two more students take seats on the floor beside his office. He closed the door and stood in front of the wall opposite his desk. Four diplomas hung from that wall, and the midmorning sun cast them in brilliant golden light.
“I don't have time for this,” Cecil said, and exhaled a short breath.
“Man look,” Curtis said, “I know how you feel about me but don't let Val and them kids suffer, know what I'm sayin'? They ain't did nothin'.”
“And how do I know this money won't get smoked up?”
“It ain't. Man I swear to God I ain't smoked nothin' in six months. I swear to God, man.”
There was another knock on the door. Cecil hurriedly reached into his wallet and took out three crisp twenty dollar bills.
“Thanks, man. Thanks. I'ma pay you back.”
Moments later Jamal Brinkley, one of only three of Cecil's black students, sat before him holding his last paper which bore a red C+ on the front. He looked at Cecil with patient wide eyes.
“What you must always bear in mind,” Cecil instructed his pupil, “is the Joad's background. They came from meager circumstances which were only exacerbated by the destruction the Dust Bowl left in its wake.”
Cecil glanced out of his window and spotted Curtis sprinting across the university quad. He reached the parking lot and got into a red sedan. The car was dented in several places and expelled a trail of thick smoke as it drove off with Curtis in the passenger seat and several children crowded in back. Cecil closed his eyes for a moment then resumed his talk with Jamal.
“At its heart, this is a novel about a family who love each other so much that they'd rather die in grinding poverty than live without each other. That's what makes this novel universal. It isn't a story about a poor Southern white family in the Depression. It's about all of us.”
Cecil gave Jamal a list of themes he could explore in his next paper before he sent him on his way and received his next student.
= = = = =
bio: Jarrett Neal holds an MFA in Writing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and is the author of the forthcoming novel "A Dangerous Man".
by Jarrett Neal
= = = = =
Cecil apologized to the three students waiting outside his office and closed the door. He unbuttoned his sport coat and crossed his arms. His jaw clinched. His brow furrowed. “I told you about coming up here,” he said.
Curtis placed the framed picture back on Cecil's desk and took a seat. “When mama give you this?”
“What do you want?”
Curtis opened his eyes wide and scratched his beard. “Man,” he said, “can you lend me fifty dollars?”
“Curtis,” Cecil said as he returned to his desk, “why do you come up here bothering me like this without calling? Midterms are this week. I have a hallway full of students I need to see.” He straightened his pictures.
“See man,” Curtis said, “Val 'bout to get her lights turned off and all she need is fifty dollars. She got them kids, man.”
There was a knock on the door, and when Cecil answered, Mary, a diminutive pear-shaped white woman, stood in the doorway. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.
“No, Mary,” Cecil said.
“I wanted to make sure you got the E-mail regarding the tenure committee.”
“Oh, yes. Yes. I've marked down the new time. I'll be there.”
“How you doin'?” Curtis craned his head over Cecil's shoulder and offered his hand to Mary.
Cecil glanced down at the calloused palm and dirty nails. The odors of motor oil, tobacco and marijuana mingled in his nose. He began to perspire.
Mary took Curtis's hand. “I'm Mary Zucker. Are you Cecil's partner Gary?”
“Partner? Nah, I'm his big brother Curtis.” He turned to Cecil. “What kind of partner you got?”
“Cecil's brother?” Mary said. “Oh. Well, it's good to know you.”
As Mary said her goodbyes Cecil saw two more students take seats on the floor beside his office. He closed the door and stood in front of the wall opposite his desk. Four diplomas hung from that wall, and the midmorning sun cast them in brilliant golden light.
“I don't have time for this,” Cecil said, and exhaled a short breath.
“Man look,” Curtis said, “I know how you feel about me but don't let Val and them kids suffer, know what I'm sayin'? They ain't did nothin'.”
“And how do I know this money won't get smoked up?”
“It ain't. Man I swear to God I ain't smoked nothin' in six months. I swear to God, man.”
There was another knock on the door. Cecil hurriedly reached into his wallet and took out three crisp twenty dollar bills.
“Thanks, man. Thanks. I'ma pay you back.”
Moments later Jamal Brinkley, one of only three of Cecil's black students, sat before him holding his last paper which bore a red C+ on the front. He looked at Cecil with patient wide eyes.
“What you must always bear in mind,” Cecil instructed his pupil, “is the Joad's background. They came from meager circumstances which were only exacerbated by the destruction the Dust Bowl left in its wake.”
Cecil glanced out of his window and spotted Curtis sprinting across the university quad. He reached the parking lot and got into a red sedan. The car was dented in several places and expelled a trail of thick smoke as it drove off with Curtis in the passenger seat and several children crowded in back. Cecil closed his eyes for a moment then resumed his talk with Jamal.
“At its heart, this is a novel about a family who love each other so much that they'd rather die in grinding poverty than live without each other. That's what makes this novel universal. It isn't a story about a poor Southern white family in the Depression. It's about all of us.”
Cecil gave Jamal a list of themes he could explore in his next paper before he sent him on his way and received his next student.
= = = = =
bio: Jarrett Neal holds an MFA in Writing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and is the author of the forthcoming novel "A Dangerous Man".
Firefly Fiction
A forum based, free flash fiction workshop/ writer's community. Members supply each other with prompt, using them to write flash fiction stories that can then be submitted for critiquing/ reviewing. Also included are forums for asking grammatical type questions, for keeping up on who's recieved rejection/acceptance letters for flash pieces, and for general chit-chatting about whatever.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
story: Innè
Innè
by Ricard di Costa
= = = = =
The unrelenting chase had all but beaten us. In a room overcome with shadows we paused. I gripped with one trembling hand a curious book, "The Flame of Rnyga". With the other, my cherished companion, Innè, a young girl. We had survived on the book's cryptic power those few perilous hours. In dodging the Beast of the house we had come to treasure the wicked and beautiful rituals held within it, and within ourselves.
"In his pursuit of us," breathed my weary cosset in my ear, "the Beast has left me weak. We have ascended and recanted a dozen flights and flung ourselves about this prodigious House for such a time! I cannot--"
"Rest now, child," said I, "For a moment at least, we have discomfited him."
I had no wish to weigh further toil on my frail abettor, but our pursuer lay closer than I dared divulge. I hid the book away in my cloak, and with my remaining strength bore up my sweet one full in my arms.
No sooner had I brought her face to mine, than there came Bedlam echoing through the great House, just some few yards behind. In a second I was on my feet, and bid them out pace my fear. The bright slap of my naked feet on dead gray marble added to the cacophony of the Beast.
My beloved cried, "It is here! It is here!" and wrung her ams tighter round my neck.
"I have you! I have you!", was all I could manage, though my desire was to cover her completely, to posses, for the moment, both our souls in a single body.
Our breathing and crying coalesced, and the roar behind us grew staggering. My heart and my darling in my arms were baptized in hideous black light as the Beast thrust his full weight forward to catch us up.
"Inithanab iotachen! Bolegoth camithata eratu!" My mouth was not my own- my angel twisted herself so tight to me in that venery as to drive the air from my lungs, and with it the bewitchment that rang out from us.
Now- there is nothing. No light. No sound. No Beast. Though that black house lay far behind, I still carry my beloved, and she still breathes the air in my lungs.
"Can there be no soul but ours?" we asked.
Darkness.
"There can be no soul but ours."
= = = = =
Composer, Artistic & General Director @ Turing*Shop
http://www.TuringShop.com
by Ricard di Costa
= = = = =
The unrelenting chase had all but beaten us. In a room overcome with shadows we paused. I gripped with one trembling hand a curious book, "The Flame of Rnyga". With the other, my cherished companion, Innè, a young girl. We had survived on the book's cryptic power those few perilous hours. In dodging the Beast of the house we had come to treasure the wicked and beautiful rituals held within it, and within ourselves.
"In his pursuit of us," breathed my weary cosset in my ear, "the Beast has left me weak. We have ascended and recanted a dozen flights and flung ourselves about this prodigious House for such a time! I cannot--"
"Rest now, child," said I, "For a moment at least, we have discomfited him."
I had no wish to weigh further toil on my frail abettor, but our pursuer lay closer than I dared divulge. I hid the book away in my cloak, and with my remaining strength bore up my sweet one full in my arms.
No sooner had I brought her face to mine, than there came Bedlam echoing through the great House, just some few yards behind. In a second I was on my feet, and bid them out pace my fear. The bright slap of my naked feet on dead gray marble added to the cacophony of the Beast.
My beloved cried, "It is here! It is here!" and wrung her ams tighter round my neck.
"I have you! I have you!", was all I could manage, though my desire was to cover her completely, to posses, for the moment, both our souls in a single body.
Our breathing and crying coalesced, and the roar behind us grew staggering. My heart and my darling in my arms were baptized in hideous black light as the Beast thrust his full weight forward to catch us up.
"Inithanab iotachen! Bolegoth camithata eratu!" My mouth was not my own- my angel twisted herself so tight to me in that venery as to drive the air from my lungs, and with it the bewitchment that rang out from us.
Now- there is nothing. No light. No sound. No Beast. Though that black house lay far behind, I still carry my beloved, and she still breathes the air in my lungs.
"Can there be no soul but ours?" we asked.
Darkness.
"There can be no soul but ours."
= = = = =
Composer, Artistic & General Director @ Turing*Shop
http://www.TuringShop.com
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