Buddy – Illustration
There’s a Crack in the Sky
There’s a Crack in the Sky
There’s a crack in the sky
Where blue butterflies land
A dome of wings and wind
Churning boulders to sand
There’s a crack in the earth
Where mammoth millipedes surge
Each giant foot forms
A fresh mountain or gorge
There’s a crack in my mind
Because though I know that rain comes from dolphins
Caught in a viscous net of rainbows inked with jellyfish wishes
And pebbles are leftover teeth from the bees
That pollinate sharks that pollinate trees
I cannot remember the purpose of these
Hands
Stuck to arms and a torso
The head that falls limp
The eyes even more so
Genie – Illustration
The Oblivion of Charlotte DuMont
This story won Honorable Mention at WOW! Women on Writing Flash Fiction Contest.
The Oblivion of Charlotte DuMont
April 14
The grief counsellor at St. Mary’s gave me this journal. She said writing helps, but I think she’s an idiot. Writing won’t bring Dad back.
April 20
Mom’s not handling things well. She’s locked herself in her room again. She keeps forgetting he died. Every morning she wakes me up and says, “Charlotte, did you hear your dad leave this morning? I can’t find him anywhere, but his car is here.” Then I have to watch her fresh grief over and over again when I remind her.
I keep thinking about that day. It was just the two of us on the lake, Dad with his fishing pole and me with my book. I stuck my bare feet in the cool water, and he said, “Careful, sweetheart. Those catfish might think your toes are worms.”
I leaned my head on his shoulder, and he pretended to forget who I was. He scooted away, and I laughed so hard and trapped him in a hug while he tried to escape. That’s when he touched his forehead and slumped over. I thought he was joking, and I kept poking him and tickling him. He didn’t move. I didn’t know how fast an aneurysm kills. Maybe it’s not such a bad way to go.
April 21
The funeral was awful. Dad’s coworkers from the law firm came. I’m not sure how well they knew him. They were nice, I guess. One sweaty, fat lawyer in a too-tight suit shook my hand, and then he acted all weird, like he’d just woken up from a coma and didn’t know what year it was. Jerk. The woman who was with him practically yanked his arm off trying to get him to leave.
He wasn’t the only one, either. Even Aunt Vi asked me what I was doing there—like I wasn’t supposed to be at my own dad’s funeral! Seriously? I hate them all.
April 24
It’s been ten days, and Mom is still forgetting Dad died. Sometimes she even forgets where she is or why she came into my room. If I leave her alone, she does better. I know it sounds stupid, but I wonder if I’m the one making her forget.
I can’t believe I just wrote that. That sounds really stupid.
April 26
I went back to school today. Cherise gave me a hug and then stared at the board with her mouth hanging open the rest of third period. Mike Brewster bumped into me in the hallway and then asked me if it was recess time. I told him there is no recess in high school, and he started to cry. Like, literally cried. Then my physics teacher told me I hadn’t turned in the last three assignments. It made me so mad that I just went for it—I touched his hand, and he totally forgot we were even talking and started humming the national anthem.
I’m freaking out. What’s happening to me?
April 27
It’s my fault. I must have killed my dad.
May 17
Mom thought I was crazy when I told her, but when I showed her how the mailman crashed into the neighbor’s garage after I shook his hand, she stopped ignoring me. Later, when I touched our waitress’s arm and she immediately had a seizure, Mom finally believed me. My touch is cursed. I don’t know why this is happening. I don’t know anything.
May 18
Actually, there are three things I know for sure:
- I can never touch anyone ever again.
- Mom is scared of me.
- She should be. I’m scared of myself.
October 14
It’s been six months since Dad died. I miss him so much my body aches. I can’t do this anymore. A life where you can’t touch anyone is no life at all. Mom, if you find this journal, I’m so sorry. I love you. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. You’ve been a good mom, and this is not your fault. Please forget about me.
* * *
November 6
My name is Charlotte DuMont. There’s snow outside my window, and my room is just as white. I’m alone. It’s just me and this journal that some lady slipped through the feeding hole in my door. She talked to me for a minute, said she was a grief counsellor or something like that. She said writing helps. I think she’s an idiot. But maybe I am, too. I can’t remember.
A Slightly Murdery Story
I stepped ankle deep into the frigid water in the upper pool of the waterfall. Jolts of pain shot up through my knees and hips.
“What’s wrong, Enna? Scared?”
I shot a warning glance at Jake. Ever since Mom had left me with my aunt, he’d been a constant nuisance. For three years, I’d listened to his accusations that it was my fault she’d left. “Stupid, skin-and-bones, stubborn Enna,” he’d call me.
He was right about one thing; I was stubborn — stubborn enough to break his one minute and twenty-one second record of sitting under Merriman Falls. Loser.
“Give it up,” he warned. “You’ll freeze to death.”
I stepped farther into the water, vivid pain racing up over my knees.
“I don’t start timing until you’re all the way under the falls.” He tapped his wristwatch.
I wobbled over mossy stones to the waterfall. Then, holding my breath, I pushed under and let the iciness pound down my back. My mouth opened in a silent scream, and my muscles stiffened.
“Feels good, don’t it?” He laughed.
It felt like the stupidest thing I’d ever done.
He looked at his watch. “Ten seconds.”
I tried to tell my subconscious the water was warm. I’d read about Buddhist monks who raised their body temperature with nothing but thought. It’s a hot bath, I told myself. I’m warm. I’m warm. Ah! I’m freezing!
My breathing calmed, but I whimpered. The pummeling water beat my skin numb. I scrunched into a snug ball.
“Forty seconds!” He grinned at the pain on my face. “Give up, Ugly!”
Couldn’t he see I’d been through enough? Nobody loved me. As much as I hated to admit it, I wished he’d try.
“Fifty! You’re turning blue.”
I can beat him. I smiled. But then what? He’d just hate me more.
I knew a full minute had passed, but he hadn’t called it. His minute twenty-one was his claim to fame. Could I take that away from him? Could I be as cruel to him as he was to me?
My mom once said, “You’re too compassionate, Enna. You’d invite your own murderer for tea.” Two things bothered me about that. First, you can never be too compassionate. Right? Second, I hate tea.
No. I wouldn’t act like him. I slapped the surface of the water and crawled out.
Jake whooped in victory. “Not even close!”
I shook uncontrollably. My arms wouldn’t hold my weight. I fell into the pool face first. I grasped blindly, reaching for the hand he never offered. I pushed up, coughing. “Towel?”
“Get it yourself,” he muttered.
When I finally got to my feet, the look on his face froze me where I stood.
“Accidents happen up here all the time, you know? And let’s face it. Who’d miss you?” I watched his gaze slide down the twenty-foot drop steps away from me.
“Jake? Don’t — ”
He lunged, shoving my chest so hard I fell backward. I gasped and slammed under the water. He dug his knees into my legs and held my shoulders down.
I thought about the strangest things when I looked at his wavy image hovering above the water: Mom’s chocolate chip cookies, the near kiss I had with Tommy Brewer, the algebra test I’d miss the next day. Mostly, I thought about how I might be unloved, but I didn’t deserve to die. Not like this.
I released a bubble of air from my mouth and forced my body to go limp.
Jake let go and jumped back.
I sat up, gulping for air. Surprised, he backed up toward the ledge, nearly tripping. One good shove, and he’d plummet to the jagged boulders below. But then… his chin quivered.
“Enna, I’m… I’m so sorry. I…” He turned, and I knew he’d jump if I didn’t stop him.
“Rematch?” I said in desperation.
He looked over his shoulder with a puzzled expression. “But I — ”
“Not today, obviously.” I squeezed water from my hair. “Help me up.”
Slowly, Jake approached me and reached his hand out. “I don’t know why I–”
“Don’t.” I couldn’t stand his apologies. “I mean, don’t let me die from hypothermia.”
He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around me.
“I’ll turn myself in,” he said. “I deserve it.”
I didn’t mean to laugh. “You’re just trying to ditch the rematch.”
He smiled, barely glancing up at my eyes.
“Let’s go,” I said. “We could both use some hot tea.”
Like slightly murdery stories? Read “Caught” next.
The Silenced One
I awake in complete darkness. My mouth tastes like bile. I try to sit up, but the nausea and throbbing headache shove me back down. I blink, trying to remember where I am, and why I am lying on a… what am I lying on? I knock on the cold metal surface and the sound echoes around me.
A memory flickers of Councilman Blaznek’s fist slamming into the side of my head. My pulse races and I sit up despite the pain. Where has he taken me?
I try to yell for help, but only a rattle of air escapes my swollen throat. I reach up and feel waxy stitches on my neck. The skin is stretched and numb. My hands fly to my mouth.
Of course. I am one of them, now. The silenced ones. I know too much and they have their way of dealing with those who know too much. I am somewhere deep in the black tunnels; that much is clear, now. That is where the silencing always happens.
I feel my neck again and my eyes sting with tears. I flip my legs over the edge of the table and my bare feet hit the cold, rock ground. My elbow bumps a metal tray and it crashes to the stone floor, followed by clinks of what I can only assume are operating tools. I cringe and wait for the last of the echoes to stop. I hold my breath, waiting. I can hear water dripping in the distance… and footsteps hurrying toward me.
I frantically feel my way through the void until my fingers meet a rock wall. Hand over hand, I move in the opposite direction, hoping to find an escape or at least a cranny to conceal myself. Instead, I’ve backed myself into a corner.
A flicker of light creeps through an opening in the wall beyond the operating table. It’s enough that I can see the size of the room. It’s not big enough, and there’s nowhere to hide. Shadows from the splayed tools dance on the ground before me as the light comes closer. I see the lantern before I see the man behind it.
Zane.
He looks at the empty table, and then up at me. Slowly, he approaches the table and sets the lantern on it. The light casts strange shadows on the scar on his neck. I hope my scar isn’t as ugly.
I want to scream, but no — he’s taken that away from me forever. I’m like him. Silent. Miserable. Trapped. I’ll never escape him in the tunnels. If I take a wrong turn, I could get stuck for hours, maybe even days. Or worse, I could get stuck under a rock fall or get burned alive by an acid vent. Stars, I hate this place.
I eye a scalpel on the ground behind Zane. He holds both hands up and shakes his head, warning me to keep my distance.
I lunge, knocking him to the ground. I throw my right fist toward his face and wince at the crack of bone on bone. He blocks my second blow with his forearm. I dive for the scalpel, but he yanks my legs back and pins me under his knees. He twists my arm with one hand, and uses the other to push the side of my face against the vinegar-mopped floor.
My sobs erupt as strange wheezes. He’s ruined me. Seventeen years old and I will never speak again. I will never sing, scream, groan, or laugh ever again.
He releases my arm and rolls me onto my back, looking down at me with pity. I hate him for it. I hate the council for sentencing me, and Zane for carrying out the punishment. I especially hate when he brushes back the hair that is stuck to the tears on my cheek, as if he is entitled to this moment of tenderness.
I shove his hand away, catching my breath. And then, everything changes.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asks.
Did I imagine it, or had he really spoken? His scars are still there — I am looking straight at them.
He tilts his head and waits, a hint of amusement tugging on the corner of his mouth. “I gave you an herb that relaxes the vocal chords for a few days. And,” he gestures to his neck, “a nice scar to appease the council.”
I let that sink in.
He watches me for a minute. “The herb makes you sick for a while, but you’ll be glad it works so well once the testing starts.” He squeezes his eyes shut when I give him a questioning look. “The council will send someone to begin the torture. The herb ensures you don’t scream and give away our secret.”
I shake my head, tears welling in my eyes.
He embraces me. “Shh, I’m here. You’re going to be okay. Live through this and I promise you the council will get what’s coming to them.” He pauses. “Because truth cannot be silenced.”
I have an ally. Despite the threat ahead, I smile.
Backfire at Build-a-Bear
Today is the long-awaited “pay your age” promotion at Build-a-Bear. I’ve been standing in the line for three hours with my 5-year old self-proclaimed princess. Three hours. I am capable of simple math, and I am aware the savings is not worth my time. But, it’s the princess’ birthday and this was her one royal wish — to torture her mother.
Well done, little one.
The line is full of suckers like me. Haggard moms just trying to stay upright and grandparents wrestling super-spoiled toddlers. A couple forward-thinking families have brought camping stools. One might think they look stupid perched in front of Victoria’s Secret, but I’m convinced they are geniuses as I shift from one sore foot to another. I consider how many free samples of teriyaki chicken I would need to pilfer from the food court to barter five minutes of sit time on one of those bad boys.
Princess tugs on my elbow. “Momma, that guy keeps opening his coat and showing people things!”
“What?” I whirl around, ready to punch a face with my coupon-clad fist. But, when I find the man she’s pointing to, I see he is trying to sell stuffed animals to frustrated line waiters.
As he nears, I smell sour alcohol and cigarette smoke. His face is akin to beef jerky, wrinkled and baked. His hair is long and feathery, and it floats backward when he opens his jacket to me.
“Don’t get caught in this racket, Shape-a-Snake from my jacket,” he says in a raspy voice.
I can’t help the snort that escapes. “Excuse me?”
He winks, but I’m not sure it’s on purpose. “I’ve got more selection at a fraction of their collection. Make-a-Manatee, Organize-an-Orangutan, Form-a-Frog…” He pulls three lifeless furs out of his pockets and juggles them. “Puff-a-Panda, Manufacture-a-Marsupial, Construct-a-Koala, collect them all!” He catches them and stuffs them back in his coat. A flourish of stuffing flies everywhere.
“Whoa,” the princess whispers.
I push her behind me and shake my head. “Good luck, buddy, but we’re not interested in your knockoffs today.
He ducks as a booming voice sounds ahead of us from a man I suppose is the Build-a-Bear manager. “We are sorry to inform you all that we are closing down the promotion due to overwhelming crowds and safety concerns.”
The people in line boo at him. One rather swarthy lady throws a half-eaten cheeseburger at the man’s head.
He apologizes again, wiping ketchup off his face.
The man in the trench coat giggles and turns back to me, wriggling his eyebrows.
I sigh and reach for my cash.
Flash Fiction Contest Winner “Caught”
This piece placed in the top 10 of the WOW! Women on Writing Flash Fiction contest.
I love writing flash fiction. I love flash fiction contests even more. This particular piece made my mother worry about my sanity. Decide for yourself.
Caught
“You’re not my Mommy!”
My gaze flicked to the rear-view mirror. A few blonde hairs stuck to her wet cheeks as she glared at me with all the defiance she could muster. I looked back to the road, biting the inside of my cheek. She’s only three, I reminded myself, and that parenting book said it’s normal to test boundaries. Healthy, even.
“You’re not my Mommy!” she screamed, louder this time.
I snorted, mumbling about stretch marks and overdue hospital bills proving otherwise. “Everything is fine, sweetie. Please stop screaming so we don’t wreck.”
She slammed her head back against the car seat. “I want home.”
Sand and cacti stretched on forever. I wanted home, too, but we’d never go back. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. “You’ll love Mexico. We can learn Spanish, live by the ocean…” But secretly, I worried she’d be doomed to sell candy to tourists. What was I doing? I had no money, no connections, no plan. “We can make sand castles. Have you ever done that?”
She shook her head, and I grinned. I missed her first word and first step, but the first sandcastle? That milestone was mine.
“Will Mommy come?”
“Uh… yes, I’ll be there. Just you and me.”
Her eyebrows furrowed.
I groaned inwardly. “Lindsey, foster mom is not your Mommy.”
She looked out the window, her eyes following each cactus we passed.
“She stole you from me. Do you understand what that means?”
Her frown deepened. “It’s naughty.”
“Very naughty.” I sighed. “But now everything is right again.” I turned to smile at her, but she wouldn’t face me. She rubbed her nose and I noticed her fingernails for the second time today.
The nail polish, of all the stupid things, was the final insult. It’s my job to paint her fingernails, not some judgmental divorcee from Scottsdale. So I took her. Why orange? It’s the color of my old prison uniform. Was it meant as a jab—like mother like daughter?
“I need to potty,” she said.
I hesitated. “Can you hold it? We’re almost—”
“No!”
“Fine. I see a gas station, but you have to be quick.” Foster mom probably hadn’t realized Lindsey never returned to daycare from our scheduled visit. Would she even care? CPS would give her a new charity case within the week.
Still, the blinker ticked like a clock as I pulled into Gus’ Gas.
I carried Lindsey inside. The clerk behind the counter stared at me through thick glasses. “Ten dollars on pump three.”
He ignored the cash I offered.
“Mommy!” Lindsey squealed, bouncing up and down. She pointed to the television. My heart stopped when her foster mom stared back at me from the local news. My picture flashed on the screen next to Lindsey’s. We had the same eyes and hair color, the same dimpled chin and too-big ears.
“It’s Mommy!”
“I thought that was you,” the man said.
Desperation gripped my throat. “Please don’t call the cops.”
“Called them as soon as you pulled in. They’ll be here any minute.”
I slammed my fist on the counter. “I can’t go back to jail! You don’t understand. Please…”
He nodded, looking at Lindsey. “I’ll make you a deal. If you’ll leave the girl with me, safe, I’ll tell them you headed toward Tucson.”
I shook my head. “I can’t leave her.”
He glanced at the television. “You can’t take her to jail, can you?”
He was right, and time was ticking. I set Lindsey on the counter and kissed her forehead. “I’m so sorry, but going back to jail doesn’t do either of us any good. Please forgive me.”
I peeled out of the parking lot, blurry-eyed and frantic to escape. A quarter mile later, I flipped a U-turn, and headed back toward the gas station.
I left the car running and ran inside. “Hello?” I spun around. No clerk, no Lindsey. “Lindsey?” I ran through the aisles. Gone.
I grabbed my head, trying to calm the rising panic, but it was no use. Sirens rang in the distance. I stumbled back toward the counter and tripped, falling backward over an arm.
A scream escaped my lips. A woman, eyes glazed over with a bullet hole in her head, stared back. Blood splattered her Gus’ Gas uniform.
“He didn’t wear a uniform,” I repeated over and over until a policeman yanked me up by my elbow.
I would never be free from my crimes… or from his.
The Things we Bury
Miriam slapped my hand, leaving a smear of mud across my knuckles. “I told you I don’t need any help. Keep those hands young.”
I rolled back to a sitting position, and watched her dirt-encrusted fingernails rip a weed from the ground. Soil drizzled from between the roots. Her fingers looked like she could push them into the warm soil and roots would sprout out of her gnarled knuckles. Her back hunched like the trunk of a Live Oak, and the wisps of white hair dangled like Spanish Moss.
“How old are you, Miriam?” I smiled when she snorted. “You’ve had some rough challenges in life, haven’t you?”
She stopped and looked toward the angel statue near the mound of Forget-Me-Nots. “I suppose I’ve had my fair share of heartbreak.”
I followed her wistful gaze to the inscription on the base. “Angela. Who is Angela?”
She wiped her palms on the faded green apron, then held them up to show me, trembling. “These hands used to be soft and beautiful. I held my soul-mate’s hands with mine on our wedding day. I wore a braided wood ring that he made just for me. Even when my hands swelled like giant pickles I kept that ring on. These hands stroked my sweet Angela’s cheeks.” She stopped to press on her chest. “We lost her.”
“Oh Miriam…”
She waved my sympathy away. “After that, I got sick. Bob just couldn’t handle losing Angela. I’d changed, mentally and physically. I got so thin, one day the ring just fell off. That was what did it. He thought I was making astatement.” She rolled her eyes. “After he left, I buried the ring under the statue.” Miriam smiled. “I still miss that little pig.”
“Wait. Your ex-husband or your daughter?”
“Daughter?” Miriam chuckled. “No. I never had kids. But Angela was the sweetest pot belly.”
Life Lessons from a Junk Drawer
I have two junk drawers. These evil chasms full of misfits staked their claim in my kitchen. I am ashamed and slightly afraid of what lurks inside. Broken pink headphones strangle the never-used addition flash cards. Rogue keys laugh, “You’ll never remember what I unlock!” Dehydrated pens skulk in the dust bunnies, waiting to dupe an unsuspecting visitor.
Good Golly, my eye twitches at the thought of it.
My husband’s sage advice? “Close your eyes, and dump it in the garbage bin. You’ll never know what you’re missing.”
I knew he was right, and it would have worked… had I not peeked. There it was, all covered in crayon peels. I gasped, snatching the lone grey child’s glove out of the trash can and pressing it to my chest. “Oh my gosh, I almost threw this away.”
Mark gave me the you-frighten-me look when I dangled the glove by the thumb.
“Does this remind you of anything?” I asked.
“Winter?”
“Come on,” I groaned. “You can do better than that.”
His left eyebrow slanted. He knows I hate when he slants his eyebrow. “Uh… sledding in winter?”
I rolled my eyes and waited until the grin of understanding blossomed across his face.
Our son spent most of age four wearing this glove. It was his power. It transformed him from an everyday kid into a defender of justice and protector of Earth. There were days when I had to wipe spit off the wall because he would jump from couch to couch making swishy sound effects while blasting me with the power of the glove. Some days I had to apologize to strangers at the grocery store when he’d sling invisible webs from it, which incidentally, resembles a vulgar gesture.
It got out of control. He took on this superhero identity and wouldn’t answer to his real name. This might not have bothered me so much if he’d chosen something cool like Tiger Claw or Mini Ninja. But no, he chose Fred. In order to get his attention, I’d have to say, “Fred, stop eating what just came out of your nose,” or “Fred, don’t pick that up – it’s not chocolate.” I’m sure every passerby wondered why I named my kid after a Flintstone.
His utter refusal to live in reality scared me. I racked my brain on what I might have done to psychologically damage this child. I researched and diagnosed him with various mental diseases before a good friend told me I was being an idiot. In time, I calmed my inner hypochondriac and accepted him for who he was: a four-year-old boy with a highly-developed creative mind.
Wait a second. Isn’t that what I wanted?
It wasn’t until that glove was in my hand that I realized there was more to this childhood phase than mere fantasy. My little superhero was living the very character traits that I was trying, and failing, to teach him in my own not-so-super, adult-ish way.
Think about it.
Superheroes care about people. They spend all their time serving others. They know that when they are in “want” mode, they feel sorry for themselves and cannot be happy. Sure, Spiderman is jealous of Thor’s God-like physique, but does that stop him from webbing evil villains in uncomfortable positions high up off the ground for all to mock? Of course not. He’s all about protecting the innocents. And embarrassing the evil.
Superheroes believe the unbelievable. They have faith in themselves, in their capabilities, and in other people. They doubt the bad they hear about others and assume anyone can change for the better, even when it is painfully obvious to everyone else that they can’t.
Superheroes are never afraid to look ridiculous. I’m not saying green tights and capes aren’t a total turn-on, but wearing them in public takes a certain amount of courage. The point is, they take risks and fly way out of bounds of most people’s comfort zones. And they do it in a way that doesn’t get them thrown in jail. That’s key, people.
Superheroes understand the importance of power stances. Have you ever stood like you are the most powerful being on the planet? Do you tell yourself you are one sexy, sexy beast on a regular basis? Do you smile like your most desired wish just came true? I’m sure superheroes do that all the time. It’s why they are so confident.
Superheroes do their own stunts. Their bodies are just as active as their brains. On top of that, they have their own theme songs. How cool is that? Music has the power to create or destroy a good mood. I’m pretty sure my theme song is the Muppets’ version of “Mahna Mahna”.
I smiled, shook the crayon shavings off and placed the glove in the emptied drawer.
“Why are you keeping that? It doesn’t even fit him anymore.”
“Sure it does. It’s stretchy,” I said, sliding the drawer shut.
Mark clucked his tongue. “You know that’s how it starts, right? You stick one thing in there, it invites friends over, then pretty soon you have a full junk drawer again.”
I looked across the kitchen, setting my eye on the drawer next to the oven. “You know what? My red apron would make an excellent cape.” Cue theme song. “Mahna Mahna.”