Flash Fiction Grill

A waitress comes through the swinging door of the kitchen holding a tray of dirty glasses, plates, silverware, and a large amount of uneaten food. Jessie notices the tray as it passes by the counter and sees that the undesired meal was a pork chop that he cooked earlier. It’s the third pork chop he’s seen half-eaten tonight, and the couscous side is the same: still on the plate. Jessie thinks about all the pork chops he’s grilled since the dish was added to the menu, and then he thinks about the cutting and preparation that went in before the meat was cooked. He thinks about the burns on his wrist, and the bandage he wrapped over a cut on his middle finger the night before.  The bandage is coming loose and Jessie will have to redress it soon because it slips when he handles the frying pan. Jessie wipes the sweat from his forehead and looks at the ticket in the counter window, another pork chop.

“Jesus, no one’s eating the pork,” Jessie moans while removing a slab of meat from a plastic container in the refrigerated storage bin next to the grill.

                “It’s getting pulled next week, I talked to Anne,” Ramon is mixing some veggies in a large pan next to Jessie as he responds. Ramon is Jessie’s boss and the head chef of The Red House. Jessie shakes his head and flips the pork chop on the grill before stirring a boiling pot of water for his couscous.

                “About time. Think you can cover for me in a minute Ramon? I gotta fix this bandage.”

                “Si, just finish that plate first,” Jessie pokes the slab of meat to determine how much longer it needs to cook and dumps a cupful of couscous into the boiling water. There aren’t too many tickets coming in tonight, which is steadily becoming a trend on weekends. The Red House had been failing for several months because of internal conflicts between staff and the owners. Jessie had never disputed with the owners until they fired John, the head chef before Ramon. John had a strong personality, perfect for organizing and commanding a busy kitchen. Ramon can hardly speak English.

                Jessie flips the pork chop once more, sees that it’s ready and places it on the counter next to the grill. He drains the couscous and gathers a plate from above the counter. Using a spoon, he places the couscous in the center of the plate before cutting open the pork chop. He arranges the sliced meat next to the couscous and lifts the dish into the window. After pulling the ticket from the window and calling for a server, Jessie signals to Ramon and walks to the back of the kitchen.

                Striding down a closeted hallway, Jessie approaches the bathroom and removes the soiled bandage before opening the door. He washes his hands, giving extra attention to the pale, bloodied spot on his finger. After drying off, Jessie opens the first aid kit in the cupboard underneath the sink. He rummages through its contents trying to find a Band-Aid, but the one he just threw out was the last. Cursing to himself, Jessie decides to use a strip of medical tape. As he pulls a small square from the roll he feels a vibration in his pocket. Placing the tape on the counter, he takes out his cell phone and sees an incoming call from an unknown number. He answers and has a brief conversation with the owner of Michelle’s, scheduling an interview for the head chef position at their new location down the street from The Red House. Jessie hangs up the phone and smiles at himself in the mirror before rushing out the door, back to the kitchen. Wind from the closing door blows the contents of the open first aid kit around the counter, spinning the medical tape into the sink. 

Flash Fiction

       “Why the hell did I do that?” Stated Abby sitting in the principals office.

       It had been a long day and hot day, it it seemed to go on forever in the eyes of the ninth grader. Fighting had never been her forte and it never crossed her mind that she would get into one in her first week of school. But people seem to be much more sensitive in the 103 degree New England weather.

       She had always heard stories about how the high school was probably the worst in the nation but it wasn't her decision, she lived in Central Falls and that was the only school to go to. She figured she might as well make the best of it, and get through the four years as fast as she can. Although now this wasn’t the case, she was primary target numero uno, getting into a full fledge fist fight with the toughest girl in the school. The words that came from the contorted and snarling mouth of Amanda still rang through her ears. 

       “You’re dead you hear me.” Knowing not to take these words lightly.

       “Why me...” As she looks around the room for a friendly face.

       The sound of footsteps come from down the hallway, where she heard the sound of her mother and Principle Henry’s lack of dialog. Abby’s stomach dropped instantaneously. Feelings of disappointment, fear, anxiousness, and despair all seem to take over her mind. Heavy tears roll down her face, stinging the small cut on her cheek. Mixed emotions soon follow as she wants to hug her mother, but fears the backlash of what has occurred. 

       As the duo walk towards her, the somber faces bring no sign of hope to the graveness of this predicament. An instant connection is made between the eyes of mother and daughter, foreshadowing a harsh conversation. 

       “Thank you Principal Henry, I’m sorry for the trouble.” Shaking his hand. 

       Standing up Abby follows her mother out of the building and to the parking lot where they get into the car. 

       Taking a deep breath trying to stop the ever flowing tears, her chin begins to shudders taking in a deep breath.

       “I’m. Sorry. Mom.” Beginning to hyperventilate.

       A deep sigh comes from her mother and then begins to open her mouth before it is snapped shut.

       “Saint Mary’s!”

       “What?” 

       “Saint Mary’s. Do you think you can handle it there?”

       Abby still grasping the air with her mouth, begins to calm down now. “I think so.”

       “Thats not a good enough answer for me to start working two jobs because you can’t stay out of trouble.”

       “I’m sorry Mom. I can.”

       “Good you start Monday. Don’t screw up this time.”

Flash Fiction

      Ridgewater Elementary School twitched to the sound of the closing bell, as Mrs. Catherine Carter waited – sitting on a brittle park bench along the street in front of the school’s stone-arched front entryway – for her son, Nathan, to finish for the day. Within a minute of the bell, students pushed through the propped-open exit and winced in the sunlight. Nathan, hound-eyed and smaller than his classmates, filtered through the crowd, and Mrs. Carter watched as his unadjusted eyes scanned the high-contrast exterior of the school. With a slow wave of her hand, Mrs. Carter caught Nathan’s attention, and he trotted over – his knapsack swinging on his back, oscillating around the beeline he followed. Mrs. Carter stood up. She grabbed one of her two crutches from the bench to use for support as she stood.
      “Momma!”
      He hugged Mrs. Carter gently, making sure to avoid rubbing against her bandaged knee. He wished he could have shown his excitement with a more physical form of affection, like a jump into her arms, but he repressed the urge and just imagined that he had done it anyway and that she had tossed him and caught him and that he had screamed, signaling his joy in a more primal form.
      “Momma, why are you here!? Daddy – ”
      “Yes I know, exciting isn’t it? I told Daddy that I’d pick you up today.”
      Mrs. Carter reached down for her second crutch, so that they could walk to her car. Nathan, faster than she, dipped and pulled the crutch up to meet her casted hand halfway. On the walk over, Mrs. Carter crutched with grace and smiled at the parents of her son’s friends, even though their attention was averted to their children.
      On the ride, Mrs. Carter drove the speed limit. She wondered whether they’d need to pick up groceries. Nathan sat in the back seat with his temple pasted to the glass window.
      “You take a different route than Daddy does. We always go passed the pond with the cattails. He says they look like cigars.”
      Mrs. Carter nodded, and stopped at the stop sign.
      “Hey Momma? Have you ever thought about the worms when it rains – really pours – have you thought about the worms? We learned today that they come up out of the earth to free themselves from drowning in the soil. Did you know that?”
      “Yes Nathan, I did.”
      “But I was thinking, have you thought about the worm families that live and dig around underneath buildings or parking lots? Or even just under streets. What happens to them when it really rains, like it did last night? What happens when they try to surface?”
      “Nathan, I’m not sure. I didn’t notice that it rained last night.”
      “Well it did Momma. I heard it.”

Flash fiction

Drunk Cat

            She knew exactly how she’d ended up in the tree.  The problem was that she didn’t know how to get back down.  She’d burst through the doors of her apartment complex, about an hour earlier, onto the city street, which was traversed almost solely by stumbling couples zig-zagging from apartment to bar and back. In the middle of March, in the forty-degree air, she wore only her favorite low-cut, sexy pink dress. Jess wasn’t cold, though.  Her bare limbs felt fully clad with the seven shots of liquid courage; liquid comfort; liquid blanket; vodka, that she’d downed before stumbling outside from the loud, cramped confines of her apartment.

            Jess’s post-shot-trot brought her to a tree, standing alone in front of a building about thirty feet down the road from hers. She wouldn’t be able to explain why she knew this was her walk’s destination, but through her whole body coursed the irresistible urge to be up there, perched like some night creature semi-hidden by the few leaves the maple had held onto through winter.

            Jess’s past few hours had been so loud, so enclosed, stuffy, and chaotic that she’d just had to get out.  And when just being outside wasn’t enough, she planted her bare right foot against the tree’s trunk and scurried with surprising ease to a rest on level with the second-story balcony behind her.

            Her friends wouldn’t come out with her, though she’d tugged on their arms and shouted obnoxiously at them for ten minutes straight to, “smell the glorious night air!” But now she was glad they hadn’t come.

            “Too fucking cold out,” they’d said, but she was perfectly comfortable, and now laughed to herself because she got to enjoy this, and they did not.

            First she got her thrill from the fact that no one knew she was up there.  It took all the self-control she still had left in her to hold her sniggers in as drunkenly-bickering pairs passed under her -- oblivious to Jess’s owl-like presence in the tree.  One couple, clearly not drunk enough to miss the hot-pink of her shirt amongst the branches, stared, not amused, as they passed. As they walked away she heard them mumble something about “drunks in trees.” It irked Jess that her intoxication was so obvious.

            Her mind hummed electrically. She wanted to enjoy her own silence but her brain was buzzing to be heard.

            So then she began to make noises at the strangers.  They were subtle, at first, or that was at least her intention.  She shook branches and whistled her best attempt at a bird call. When even this wasn’t noticed or acknowledge by a vast majority of under-walkers she began to meow like a cat. Maybe people would think she was one and call the fire department.

             Now a guy and a girl, having left the bar a block away, are approaching holding hands.  Jess, meowing softly, looks down at the girl’s tight, pink dress and instantly switches her meow to a hiss. She is wearing the exact same dress, and is ready to fight about it. Her inner barbarian had been fed by the vodka. She wants to swing down from the tree like Tarzan and kick the dress right off that girl so she can never ever wear it again. But when Jess looks for the first time down at the path she’d taken to get up to her perch, she feels her plan shrivel. There are barely any branches beneath the one she’s sitting on, and already she’s forgotten how she’d been able to climb up with such ease.

            The couple stops and looks up.

            “Hey, she’s wearing the same dress as me,” The girl says to her man.

            “Meow,” says Jess back down to them.

            “Are you stuck?” asks the man.

            “Meow,” says Jess.

            And the couple walks away, murmuring and glancing back periodically.

            A minute later, an orange cat, scared by the neighbor’s golden retriever, darts up the tree as quickly as Jess had and stops on a branch right next to her.

            “Meow,” says Jess to the cat.

            The cat licks its paw and says, “Don’t speak, enjoy the view.”

BFFLs

BFFLs

My parents are workaholics: a doctor and a lawyer. They never have time for me, but my house is amazing. My house has five bedrooms and three bathrooms, just for the three of us. It’s big, white with green shutters, and is one of the nicest homes in the whole neighborhood. My backyard is even better. Flowers, a garden, lawn chairs, and a pool; It’s a fenced in paradise.    

Cynthia is my only friend. We like all of the same things: Halloween, spaghetti, narwhals, you name it. We discuss boys while we wait for the bus. She thinks Tyler Simpson is cute, but he doesn’t even know she exists. Sometimes people stare at us; I do not know why. Cynthia is optimistic about it.

            “They’re just jealous of our friendship,” she tells me, so I ignore them        

            At school we are in all the same classes: Psychology, Algebra, Theatre, and Gym. We sit next to each other in each class too. At lunch we have our own table. Underneath it I wrote: Cynthia and Caitlyn = BFFL. When school lets out she always comes over. My house is hers. We snack and watch reality television, then go out to the backyard to relax.

            “Let’s go in the pool,” Cynthia tells me.

            “You know I can’t swim,” I remind her.

            “Don’t be such a wimp,” she teases, “What’s the point of having this nice pool if we never swim? We’ll just stay in the shallow end. It’ll be fine.”

The pool had no stairs, no ladder.

            “I guess we’ll just jump in then,” I tell her.

            “You first,” she pressures.

            I take several steps back so that I can get a good jump. I run towards the pool and get some good height. I curl into a ball and splash into the water. I sink until I finally realize that there is no way I’m on the shallow end. I open my eyes under water in a panic. Sure enough, I see the drop-off point beyond my reach. Flailing my arms and legs, I manage to get to the surface. I yell at Cynthia to throw me a noodle.

            Cynthia watches me.

“You know I can’t do that,” she hollers back, “Just try and grab the side!”

            The sides of the pool are also beyond reach.

            “Go get somebody, help,” I struggle to scream out to her.

            She stands there still, and answers, “You know I can’t do that either.”

            I’m having trouble keeping my head above water. I’ve swallowed enough chlorine to clean a toilet bowl. This is it, I tell myself, I’m going to die and there’s nothing Cynthia or I can do about it. My lungs are full of water now. I’m floating, facedown. My struggle resolved. My parents find my body when they get home from work, both traumatized. Cynthia is nowhere to be found.

                                                                                                                                               

Flash Fiction - The Accident

The Accident

It was a utopia.

Crisp winds rippled across vast prairies of emerald green grass, a deer barely escaping a dangerous pack of determined wolves. Herds of giant bison roamed the plains freely, migrating from one area to the next. An antelope bent over for a drink by the river, until the mighty jaws of a crocodile closed with a crunch around the prey’s exposed neck. A small family of cheetahs relaxed in a fig tree, avoiding the brutal sun above. Dolphins, whales, and seals coasted through waters as blue as sapphires, as waves crashed into the towering walls of grey stone. Lobsters, crabs, and crustaceans of all kinds scampered away and buried themselves in the sand while the great white shark stalked along the warm, murky ocean floor. In the deepest trenches, a particular immortal jellyfish reached a mature age, and then reverted back to its polyp form, thus restarting its lifecycle.

Above sea level, snowcapped mountains rose above the world, dwarfing everything in sight. From miles above, a falcon scanned the ground, and effortlessly curled into a spiraling descent, darting in and out of the clouds, with black eyes locked on an innocent baby rabbit in the fields below. Monstrous aspen, oak, and elm trees reached across the skies, their branches home to birds and critters from all walks of life. Massive grizzly bears marched from river to river, as salmon unknowingly fought their way up waterfalls, simply to be caught and eaten as they emerged from the stream. Scorpions and iguanas darted from each spot of shade as they made their way through the barren wasteland of brown dunes and orange canyons. Snakes the size of cars and spiders the size of birds crept through the dense rainforests, ignoring the cacophony of the overly horny family of baboons swinging through the vines and branches above. Polar bears and penguins slid down crystal glaciers into the frigid arctic waters and clambered onto drifting blocks of ice. The world was in pure harmony. The circle of life was hard at work to maintain this beautiful, living, breathing planet. No discord. No disruptions, disturbances, or disasters. No disease, no death, no depression, or despicably downward spiraling economy. Every living creature, whether it was predator or prey was living together, in unison.

            A booming sound thundered across every sea, mountain, field, and desert. It burrowed its ways to the depths of the ocean and the floor of the jungle. Into the deepest caves and across the most expansive forests. Along rivers, over hills, under trees, everywhere. This sound, for an instant, made the hearts of every living soul stop.

“SHIT!” god bellowed, his robed arm stretching out from the clouds.

           

A shiny glass jar whooshed past a bald eagle – the ONLY bald eagle. The elegant raptor tucked into a nose dive, plummeting after the jar, but as soon as he began to catch up, the jar would speed up and fall further out of reach. Every animal, the bears, birds, fishes, cows, horses, moose, deer, monkeys, lions, and kangaroos stopped and watched as the only bald eagle in existence desperately chased this jar. Hawks, falcons, owls, crows, hummingbirds, and pigeons all raced after the eagle, trying to catch this fragile object. Even the mosquitoes, gnats, and flies were chasing after it, but the bats just couldn’t pass up the opportunity for an early dinner. So the insects didn’t last very long.

            As the ground grew closer and closer, rivers began to flood, forests started burning, glaciers melted, and avalanches devoured mountainsides. The sky darkened, the ground split open beneath them as entire families of animals were separated. In a final instant, the eagle caught up to the jar, and wrapped its wings around its shiny, black exterior as they both crunched into the ground. The last eagle in existence – majestic and magnificent – lay there, with shattered bones and crippled limbs. Before it died, its eye gazed upon the shattered jar.

The label read “HUMANS,” and as the last living eagle took its final breath, the utopia was undone. 

Flash Fiction

The Black Cat and the Back Door

Walter Grey had never before seen a black cat slink through the neighborhood, but on the hazy Saturday afternoon of July tenth, the slight flutter of its tail caught his eye. He had always found a cat’s presences to be ominous to the point of creepy. Their silently cunning demeanor hid them until they had already rubbed their flea soaked fur all over your kaki pant leg.  Once they got what they wanted from you they disappear, leaving only itchy bug bites and lost hairs.            

This particular cat was no exception. Walter first caught a glimpse of the cunning creature while it darted across the road, never looking both ways, its self centered mindset left the mailman climbing from a ditch.

Soon after that the rain came. Walter figured the protection of his warm dry home, would prevent any other unplanned meeting with the black cat. But the world proved him wrong and the cat sat in the tree branch at the end of his yard. The phone rang and shook Walter. He had grown used the phones habitual silence, and now its call sounded more of a siren.  He spoke briefly, and when he was done returned his handkerchief to his pocket, crumpled in a ball.

The next morning Walter awoke, much to his displeasure, to find the black cat sitting on his stoop. He dared not step out the door and risk an unplanned encounter. So he made a cunning plan, and snuck out the back.

When he returned Walter saw the black cat had left his stoop and so happily Walter trotted into he house. But when inside Walter realized that his whits had failed him and that he had left the back door open, just a crack. The black cat sat atop Walters Fridge and watched him as he entered. Walter felt the cats presence as soon as he entered the room and naively ran upstairs, locking his bedroom door behind him. He cowered in the corner of the room with the shades all drawn. Hoping the cat would cross another mans path.

Eventually Walters nerves calmed and he walked to the door and undid the lock. Walter knew the cat would be sitting at the top of the stairs, its unblinking eyes peering into the depths of his soul. Walter opened the door just a crack, and returned to his bed. The can crept silently into the room. The sight now comforted Walter, as he rested his head on the pillow. As Walter drifted off the cat began to rub its head, slowly, on Walters kaki pant.

~Emerson Doty