Monday, August 19, 2013

Kind Soul. Flash Fiction


“Thank you, kind soul.” 
He calls everyone that—Kind Soul.  I hurry to disguise my accidental revulsion at getting caught downwind of the corner of 2nd and State. 
Like being able to get my preferred train seat or how crowded the elevator ride, I can gauge my commute by Cisco’s placard.  Today, it’s blank, laying at his feet. I’m early for work.
Wearing a matted fleece jacket, zipper gaping through the faded CISCO logo, the man appeared at winter’s end.  Every day since, he set up his remarkably white sandwich board with his calligraphic scrawled doomsday message.  I started noticing Cisco and his prophesy as an indicator of my punctuality. 
I wish I could say I noticed the message originally as they clearly progress.  About the time his fleece transitioned to a tissue thin t shirt of nondescript color, the board read:  You’re Not Listening.
Those three words riveted me to my office window as though they were written for me and me alone. I wasn’t—listening.  I am now.  I drop a dollar or two in his coffee can if there is cash in my wallet and I read the sign.  All Will be Accounted For.  I’m not the only one.  On days he changes the phrase, the can overflows green.
He’s leading up to your typical ‘the end is near.’  That much is clear.  It Comes Upon Us.  There is a running office pool on when that will be and a side, what the end will bring.  I’m in for $20 on a fall megastorm.  The big money is on disease and even bigger on weaponized viruses.  Lacking religious zealotry, very few bet on a flood or rapture.
I find my mind wandering as I absently glance down seventeen floors from the corner of 3rd and State.  The new sandals held up nicely under pressure this morning. I don’t believe in changing my shoes for the commute.  They will keep up with me in every way and look good doing it.  I smile to myself and look outside again.
The Least of Your Worries.
My heart pounds as blood rushes through my ears.  My own laughter interrupts.  The ringing I hear is my phone.  “Your 9:00 is here.” says my assistant.  I have work to do. 
The board doesn’t change for days.  
As summer bakes the city, Cisco loses his shirt completely and turns a muddy brown.  I take to holding my breath half the 2nd Street block. The whiteboard blinds in the sun finally changing its message. 
I win $78, guessing the date right on.  The sign changes later the same day.  Swim Above the Pool.  I walk by the vacant corner well after happy hour and think, not for the first time, the messages seem oddly directed at me. 
I stuff a wad of cash, $78 less happy hour, into the can in the morning, breathing a sigh of relief at the cryptic words, Embrace The Light.  I have no idea what that means. 
“Thank you, kind soul.”  I choke back my nausea, unable to pretend smile.  The smell stings my eyes.
It starts to rain by evening and the sign’s changed again, Embrace the Night.  Whatever that means.  Interest at work diverts to the crane operator two blocks down who appears to drunkenly stagger to his cab 80 stories above the sidewalk every morning.  I put $20 on his being replaced.  Others bet on a demolition catastrophe and some on his demise.
The CISCO fleece comes back early fall; the zipper still holding fast at the top and the bottom leaving bare chest evidence that Cisco has lost his t-shirt.  The rambling messages have warned of the Fall and Blindness For All Who Refuse to See. 
The crane operator finishes his job and presumably moves on without incident.  I can’t remember the last time I saw green poking from Cisco’s can.  I drop a single for old time sake, relishing the fresh breeze.  “Kind Soul.”  He commands my attention, lifting the newly inked board, white as ever.
Your Kindness Will be Rewarded.
Maybe it’s the crisp autumn day, or that he didn’t say thank you.  I look into his startling blue eyes tinged with red and I see the power of his belief.  His madness renders me insecure.  I walk Market Street to 3rd until the snow flies. 
The office has all but forgotten Cisco when he turns up outside the revolving door with his pristine message board.  He’s there for me.  I know it, like I know there’s no cash in my wallet and that isn’t why he’s there regardless.  “Kind Soul.”  He says, showing me the board.  Surrender.
I march by with my nose in the air.  He knows I read the sign. 
I bring cash the next day.  I walk straight up 2nd and State.  Cisco isn’t to be found.  His board, unchanged, is propped against my building.  It’s smudged and wet.  I find that more unsettling than Cisco’s disappearance.  It’s laying on its side the next day, dirty.  The following day it’s gone and for most, forgotten.
Often as I’m climbing into bed, I think of Cisco’s final message.  Surrender.  In the wee hours of the morning, the heat from a brilliant light wakes me.  I’m not meant to shake the vestiges of my dream.  Now.
Cisco waits for me in the light; scrubbed clean, wearing freshness in white linen.  I’m to embrace it and him.
“Kind Soul.”  I say stepping forward.

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Flash Fiction

Drop It

"Drop it.” She said. “Can we just drop it? I’m not taking it. I am so tired of this conversation.” As if to demonstrate how tired, she melted lifelessly into the plush cushions of the oversized chair and sighed dramatically for effect. Closing her eyes, she shut out the stunning panoramic view of the city below the sixtieth floor penthouse windows.

“Easier said than done, sweetheart.” Naked, he walked unabashed to the wet bar for a refill. On the way, he scooped up the empty crystal glass dangling from her perfectly manicured fingers. “We need the money. There. I said it. You need this job.”

She sat up, stomping both her slippered feet to the floor in a puff. “You get a job. How about that? You make us some money.”

“Again, with the easier said…” Even in the shadowy room at dusk, the long tracks lining both his once muscular arms stood out. Similar lines could be seen behind his knees. Lines forever marking him an addict. No one cared if he was clean again or not. He was uninsurable. In this business, a heroin habit could be worked around but not without insurance.

“I won’t do it. I won’t work with that pig. And I sure as hell won’t do sex.” Sweeping the floor with her silk robe, she took the full glass onto the balcony scowling like the words left a nasty taste in her mouth. Sauntering his famous walk, he followed. “I said drop it already.”

His sandy eyebrows lifted and dropped with his shoulders. “Don’t do it then.” He lit a cigarette and leaned over his elbows blowing smoke down at the street so far below. He added casually, “There’s already Oscar buzz.”

She couldn’t help it. Her eyes sought out the glass case at the other side of the room. Side by side, two golden statuettes stood gleaming. Best Actor. He’d won twice—once before rehab and once after, as if it was nothing.

“I said no.” She stuck out her lower lip, crossed her arms over her glorious cleavage and shook her head. No. She’d made millions with that icy bitch stare. He made his millions with a smile that could melt the tundra. He turned it on her now and tugged at the robe tie.

Days passed with no mention of movie casting. The respite was too brief for Natalie Wells, second highest earning actress three years running. Soon, the director called to reassure her that her ex-husband would behave himself. “Promise.” If she would only consider reading. The producers sent a luncheon invitation and Knicks’ tickets. The popular older actress who desperately wanted to play her parole officer, (if she would only say yes!) sent a spa package unavailable to the public.

Didn’t any of them realize the role called for her character to be imprisoned by her arrogant, overacting ex-husband? She would have to spend months with the man who emotionally abused her for years, who made her so insecure she’d actually cheated and been caught with Tristan Hemsley, narcissist, sex and heroin addict. Her publicist and agent coerced into marrying Tris to save her career but not her sanity. No way that could happen when for months on end drug paraphernalia became casual, mingling with used condoms. He made no effort to hide it. Oddly, she understood his pressure. But now, the money thing. Where could all that money have gone? Their accountant called too. Take the role. You need this job.

“Please, Saul. Don’t make me do it.” Saul would understand. Her agent from the start, he knew what working with that control freak would do to her.

“Nat, darling. It is the role of a lifetime. I talked to the director—we can work around cutting your hair.”

“My God! I am not cutting my hair.”

“No, no, dear. No cutting hair. Promise. And. The producers offered back end royalties too.”

“I like that. My movies never die.”

“And, your trailer will be on a different lot. Way way way away.”

“Way away? You promise?”

“I promise. Oscar baby.”

“I don’t think I can do this Saul.”

Together, Saul and Tristan rode with her to the set for the start of filming. She’d avoided her ex until walking up the steps to her trailer, located directly next to his bigger trailer. He plastered a fake smile over his raised middle finger. A week later, he asked that Tristan refrain from breaking his concentration by always being on the set. In true Tristan tantrum style, he left the country.

They clipped her nails and scuffed her pedicure. Let her brows grow uncontrolled. Enhanced the circles under her eyes and smudged her porcelain skin with dirt daily. They filmed at night and she couldn’t sleep with the valley sun shining into the empty rented cottage. Saul’s wife whisked him to Barcelona to convalesce after having his second heart attack in as many years. Finally, they cut her hair.

“God, can’t believe. Let you them cut your hair.” Tristan was stoned out of his mind. Filming ended a month ago. She was exhausted, crying for what felt like days on end. He was laying on the tiled edge of the pool when she woke and stumbled out into the evening. She sat next to him, traced the fresh lines between his toes. He slumping up to sitting. “We’ll go to make room for your Oshcar.” She stared at his chapped lips. She knew where those lips had been.

From his pocket he produced a small packet of white powder and a tin box. He took his time cooking it up, ironically meticulous. “Some?”

Defeated, she laid out her arm.

The stars were out in full regalia as always for the Academy Awards. Saul Motts took the stage attempting to convey grave dignity. “I accept this award on behalf of my dear friend Natalie Wells. I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

Thursday, June 20, 2013

Short Story


How did I get here?  It’s always the same, yet surprisingly unexpected and here I am again.  Home.  In my down covered bed, safe and warm with the sun barely peaking above the horizon.  I stretch my arms over my head.  Sore but not damaged.  Same with the legs and back.  My scalp aches, hair pulling.  I smile.  I’ll remember later.  Many times over and over again, I’ll remember.  Sleep pulls me into white haze-filled dreams of his scalding breathe exciting the hairs on my neck.
This must be the fifteenth time; I blush furiously as I shower.  I should keep a journal but fear keeps me from confiding in anyone, even myself.  Fear of my face on the cover of the Enquirer magazine.  Fear of the splashy headline: “My Lover is NOT the Devil—says Hellfire Concubine.”  No one is going to call me Satan’s playmate. 
My lover is not a demon.  He’s a hot blooded man alright.  A virile, tall drink of water of a man.  Electricity cramps my stomach and I shiver in chills thinking of him.  How long he stalked me I don’t know.  I only know that three years ago when the elevator door opened to him standing there, I recognized him.   I had been expecting him, waiting for him.  I could picture every glimpse of his muscular frame and scowling clenched jaw in a flash before my eyes, the department store dressing room, the locksmith in my building, the swimming pool at my gym, the week my car broke down and he was on the bus; thousands of sightings that lit my insides on fire as I recognized them in that moment.  It was nothing short of rape, our first pursuit.  Notably distinguished as not rape by my rasping screams.  Yes. Yes, yes, yes.  Oh yes.  I suffered complete laryngitis for nearly a month.  How I must have screamed to damage my vocal cords so severely. 
I woke as I did this morning.  Alone, naked, exhausted, utterly sated, tucked into my bed.  My collar bone was broken.  The doctors in the ER pressured me to fill out a police report when they saw the bruises and assumed bite marks. I refused. No one saw me go into that elevator or come out.  I know.  I asked.  Everyone.  I even bribed a peak at the security cameras.  I knew there would be nothing, just like I know we weren’t in that elevator or the park or the stairwell of my apartment or the other twelve or so places he’s been waiting for me.  He’s strong and passionate, my raven haired lover who does not try to hurt me.  His hands blister like fire and I’m called to worship his flames.
My apartment is as it should be with the keys on the hook in the foyer.  The doorman will not recall seeing me return.  His eyes will narrow if I ask.  My body is all the proof I need or will get.  Red welting ribbons, four to a side, etch from my hips to breasts.  Agonizing ecstasy.  He will not return until they are faded scars.  I know this too even as it breaks my will.  I cannot wait.  I will see him in the checkout line, at the subway station, as a passing cyclist and a hundred more places.  I will not know it until I see him standing waiting for me next.  He stalks me.  He stalks me when I would go to the ends of the earth to find him.  He will take me when I have all but given up hope and he will burn me with his desire.
The elevator deposits me in the lobby.  “Good morning.”  Says the doorman cheerfully.
I nod.
“Laryngitis again, Miss?”
“Yes.”  I rasp, smiling to myself.