The Morning After

20. February 2013

            Today’s story

The Morning After

            The morning broke like a borrowed china plate – or at least that’s what Nick’s head felt like.  Cold pavement stretched and slithered in to his left; the sky throbbed to his right, but he couldn’t see any skittering pieces of his head.  Slowly, he righted the world.  The pavement fell away, the set itself under his bare feet.  Sirens wailed in the distance – his feet leapt forward to run, but he stumbled and crashed into a green garbage bin.  Glass chimed as the bin rolled forward.  Nick gripped it to steady himself, then blinked hard.  The wails passed by the end of the alley like black and white banshees.  The pavement twitched once more then died and lay flat. 

            Nick held a hand against his head.  His eyes traced down the sleeves – but… there were no sleeves.  In fact, his feet weren’t just bare, all of him was.  One thought crawled across his brain, which he was sure would leak out his ears at any moment, and the thought was this: “What the hell happened last night?” 

TURN AROUND. 

            Nick turned around, and he saw someone else lying in the alley, but they were fully clothed in a red hoodie – wait.  That was his hoodie!  He walked over and poked the guy with his toe.  “Hey!” Poke.  “Hey, chum, that’s my hoodie.” His next poke was arrested by a sudden realization:  those were his jeans, too, or at least his belt.  When he leaned forward to rummage through the pockets, his hand brushed against the man’s face.  The skin was cold, and come to think of it, the lips had a blue tinge to them. 

            Nick shouted, “Hey, hey somebody!   This guy’s dead back here!  He’s dead, and he’s wearing…”  Nick stopped.  He was going to say, “wearing my clothes,” but he considered that might be suspicious.  “I mean, here I am, naked as the day I was born –”

AND NAKED YOU SHALL RETURN.

“–and this… this stiff is wearing my clothes.  What will the police make of that?”  Nick was sure what the psychiatrist would make of it: something Freudian no doubt about that.  It was then he decided that he needed to get out of there – and fast.  Without pausing to consider the odds of a naked white boy getting across town without being noticed, Nick charged out of the alley – and spilled into a black horse drawn carriage.  The door closed behind him, and the carriage lumbered forward.  Nick pounded on the upholstered door, causing the lantern to swing wildly.  Each time his fist hit the door, a bell sounded in the distance, reverberating like a hammer hitting a nail. 

STOP HITTING THE DOOR, NICK.

            Nick planted his feet on the other door and slammed his shoulder against the upholstery.  The door flew open, leaving Nick half-hanging out of the carriage – by virtue of his flailing hand catching the door rail – Chicago falling away beneath him, further and further.  His arm groaned, his fingers ached.  Sweat slicked his grip on the brass rail.  The carriage turned, Nick spilled out the door.  He was going to fall! 

            Suddenly, something grabbed him by the back of the neck.  The fingers felt rough, like fine sand paper. 

YOU CANNOT GO BACK. 

            Nick turned to look at what grabbed him, but he just saw a flash of black cloak, then he was shoved back into the lantern-lit carriage and the door slammed shut.  On his back, panting, two words caught his attention.  There were etched into the dark wooden roof with some silvery metal.  “Death Express.”  

Immortal Roses

8. February 2013

I’ve been reading Four Quartets by T.S. Elliot, which I wholeheartedly recommend to anyone with an interest or knowledge in Quantum Theory, or temporal philosophy, or just straight out beautiful, compressed prose.   It was recommended to me by a Physics professor friend of mine.  If you haven’t read poetry before, then just remember to take it slow.  Just like a question on a test, you won’t get the whole answer without going back over the problem to verify your accuracy.  Unlike a test, the answer you get will change depending on where you are in your life when you read the poem. 

Anyway, here’s the story for today.  It’s the shortest one so far.  Hopefully it’s also the best. 

Immortal Roses

by Heydon Hensley

            In the rose garden, sun streaming between the knit blanket of clouds, T.S. Elliot came to him.  “That which is only living/ can only die. Words, after speech, reach/ into the silence.”  Somehow these words comforted him, as he cupped a scarlet rose in one hand and snipped the stem, just below the throat.  Like this rose, he was only living, could only die, but see how beautiful the rose was in death: head full of crimson, youthful, green arms still frolicking, still reaching for the sun.  Surely this was better than growing – blooming too much – into a flatness, only to drop beauty petal by petal until, naked, freezing in the winter and dying, withered, ugly, detested.  But see how, chopped from the rest, it stands out – vibrant always in the mind.  No one would remember it drooping, being thrown out.  The vigor, the vibrance – these would be remembered and in the remembrance, achieve immortality. 

            If a rose could achieve immortality in death, then how much more so himself?  Yes, certainly.  If that which lives, dies, then that which dies while life still burns brightly… These wrist – his stem… what a trifle to pay for immortal youth, vigor. 

            He reached down and snipped another rose.  

The Diary

6. Feb 2013

So this piece of flash fiction was inspired by a fabulous piece by Elizabeth Talent called, “No One’s a Mystery.”  If you haven’t read it, then do yourself a favor and fix that.  The whole piece is around 300 words long (maybe less).  The compression and tight prose really blur the lines between fiction and poetry. 

The rest of this month, I'll be working with Flash Fiction for a few reasons, 1) it will eat up less of your time, 2) it will eat up less of my time, and 3) flash fiction teaches a great deal about the economy of words, and the importance of subtext which allows the story to unfold off the page.  

Perhaps the most concise piece of flash fiction comes from Hemingway (allegedly, anyway).  

"For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn."  

Enough history.  Here's the story.  I hope you enjoy it. 

The Diary

by Heydon Hensley

            The diary he had given her felt heavy as a dime in her palm.  She turned it over, remembering the truck, his hand forcing her down while his wife’s Cadillac sped by. 

            How does one address a diary?  It had no feelings, not empty as it was. 

            “Dear Self,” she wrote, but she mumbled, “I guess.” 

            I have to do it today.  For three weeks, I’ve told myself that I would do it, but today – today I’m so in love that I’m sick.  Kirk won’t leave his wife for me.  Who was I ever to hope that such a great man would want me?  Over our three years together, I’d hoped, but – I still feel all tingly every time I remember our first time together.  Every sixteen year old deserves such a great man her first time.  Kirk makes me so happy, I just want to burst.  That’s the hardest thing.  I can’t tell anybody about how happy I am.  I suggested it to Kirk once, and he cuffed me.  Not hard, you know, not mean, just stern. 

            But that’s why I have to do it – to end things with him.  I just love him too much to risk hurting him.  He says people wouldn’t understand if they knew.  What’s not to understand?  Love doesn’t discriminate over ages, and my love for him would make me ten times the wife he’s currently got.  I can cook and clean as good as anybody!  That’s just me hoping, reaching for what can’t be mine, what I don’t deserve.  I’ll sneak out tonight to be with him one last time.  His truck’s always so warm at night.  Maybe I’ll show him what I wrote.  He’ll be glad I’m using his present.

            Love Always.