Three Stories & Winter Perseveres
Dear person reading this,
Thank you. I hope you’re well.
I just looked at the weather because everybody knows I can’t help myself and I see we’re supposed to get more than 18 inches of s*** (read shit) dumped on us from the heavens on Tuesday. Of course it will be on a Tuesday.
In better news, my three-year-old has learned to do heart hands and loves to say, “You’re the best, Mommy” while fixing my hair with a bottle opener.
My nine-year-old is working on a biography of Alexander Graham Bell and by that I mean I’m re-learning the art of gluing by glue stick.
My seven-year-old had two friends over on Friday and is still suffering from an emotional hangover.
I’m sure they’ll all help me shovel this week.
Now, some stories.
“Break It Down”
1. Free toothbrush from others jammed in holder. 2. Knock toothbrush on edge of sink. 3. Wash remainder of yesterday’s toothpaste off the head. 4. Note the time on the digital clock. 5. Feel your jaw clench. 6. Finish washing toothpaste off the head. 7. Search for toothpaste tube among detritus on the counter. 8. Do not panic when you don’t see it. 9. Turn off the faucet. Finding the toothpaste will take longer than it should. 10. Do not take the time to ask yourself why anybody would leave the toothpaste in a place other than its designated spot next to the toothbrushes. 11. Note the time on the digital clock. 12. Practice deep breathing. 13. Locate the toothpaste on the floor. 14. Curse the toddler, but be sure it’s only in your head. 15. Lefty loosie the toothpaste cap. 16. Squeeze the appropriate amount onto bristles. 17. Turn on the water. 18. Wet the toothbrush and toothpaste. 19. Note the time on the analog clock that hangs on the wall opposite the digital clock. 20. Take another deep breath. 21. Rest the toothbrush on the edge of the sink. 22. Hustle to your son’s bedroom. 23. Open the door. 24. Note the time on the digital clock in his room. 25. Scream at him, “Get out of bed right now! I’ve been telling you for 20 minutes!” 26. Curse yourself for screaming, but be sure it’s only in your head. 27. Hurry to your son’s windows. 28. Open all the blinds. 29. Curse the cloudy, rainy weather. 30. Take one (abbreviated) deep breath. 31. Move mindfully to your son’s bed. 32. Place your hand on his back. 33. Shake your son like you would an old man lying on the ground. Imagine yourself asking, “Are you dead? Are you dead, old man?” while shaking even harder. 34. Listen to your son’s protestations. 35. Completely ignore them and say, less forcefully, “You need to please get up, go to the bathroom, brush your teeth, put your clothes on, get your homework, pack your bag, put your snowpants on, put your coat on, put your boots on, put your gloves and hat on, and leave this house before the bus comes in 10 minutes.” 36. Watch as your son yawns. 37. Know he didn’t hear any of what you said. 38. Leave the room. 39. Go to your daughter’s room. 40. Repeat. 41. Go to your partner. 42. Repeat, with appropriate modifications, including age-appropriate language and stress-appropriate volume.
“With Conviction”
The motto painted in the locker room, “Be clear in your intentions,” confused us. Even Coach. A deep, dark blue over the gray-white base paint, we stared at the words before every game. “We intend to win?” we offered to each other as we stood, waiting for inspiration before gathering in a huddle. “We intend to lose nicer?” we said, remembering last week’s game when we very intentionally turned all the faucets and showers on before we left the visitors’ locker room. We looked to each other, to Coach. Coach wore his usual tweed jacket and jeans. He fiddled with the requisite whistle hanging from his neck. Coach said, mostly to his shiny leather Oxfords, “I intend to remember which sport we’re playing?” and when none of us responded in any way to this, he did what he isn’t supposed to do in a locker room and blew his whistle at the veritable confusion that wrapped our gangly, pre-teen bodies into each other. We flopped into a huddle and hoped that we didn’t grab our neighbor in the wrong way as we bent and stared at the cement below us. We sniffled and cleared our throats. We shifted side to side, but the movement didn’t inspire words like we thought it would. Finally, we stood again. “What do we say?” Coach, sweaty in his math teacher clothes, cracked his knuckles. This was the first home game of our middle school careers. Last week, we forgot the huddle altogether. This week, we had plenty of moms and dads and janitors to impress out there. Coach gathered us together again. “How about, ‘Be clear in our intentions?’” The motto filled us with relief. Guidance, but even more confusion. “Our huddle is ‘be clear in our intentions?’ Really?” “I guess?” Coach was also a sixth grade boy today. We gingerly grasped at each other’s shoulders. Coach wondered, “Okay, guys, we’ll say it three times on three?” “Wait, what?” “Three times on three?” he said, somehow with less conviction. And then we bumbled as a group, one side to the other, and Coach called, “One, two, three?” and we answered in asynchronous cacophony bouncing off the be-mottoed walls, “Be clear in our intentions?” anywhere from once to three times before we shuffled out of the locker room.
“Wind Storm”
The young couple embraces on the porch swing. Dusk is premature, dark collapsing over the farm before they were done with dinner. Wind slides through the wide yard like snakes that always scare the girl. She wraps her arms around the boy’s bony body and he trembles. “Are you scared?” He doesn’t answer. Lightning whips treetops in the distance. “Reminds me of Daddy,” she smarts. Overgrown grass whispers at the bushes that stand like guards around the porch. Thunder growls as if from the ground, slow and threatening, God clearing his throat. Rain shakes from the sky in waves, a tentative party guest, questioning whether to step fully into the space. The sky blackens with urgency, and now the rain drops in sheets like marbles from a broken vase. More lightning pokes the black night, and the rain is drunk and disorderly. The boy listens. The girl squeezes. Wind chimes clunk one note as the storm strangles them into a knot. Rain slaps at the couples’ feet, reaching above the protective bushes. The couple needs to move. The boy leaps up. The girl nearly falls. “We should go.” He leads her by the wrist toward the door. Once inside, the boy looks back through the window as the wind smacks at the porch swing where the two sat seconds before. “Show me the basement,” she commands. He shivers.
Thanks again for reading. Flash fiction in February is going strong. I’m starting to brainstorm what to do next month. Suggestions?