Category: Microfiction

Snow Drift

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It was the third day of the search when they stopped looking for us. Gail and I are wedged together chest to chest, underneath a wall of stone and caved-in ice. The force of our fall was stopped by jagged pieces of ice catching on our clothes and gear, pinning us tight to each other, unable to maneuver in any direction to release us from the crevice. We yell awhile at first, then take turns struggling or talking each other down from panic attacks that seem to come in waves. As hours creep by, it is clear that nobody is coming. Our sniffles echo off the dark as the cold circles its fingers around our limbs. I thought we were already frozen together, already gone. She cried for hours before letting her urine go. Then she apologized for at least another half hour. The warmth was welcome at first, but now we are fused together by yellow ice. If we could break apart, it would surely rip fabric and flesh alike. 

I didn’t want it to get worse. She has been a purple blue for some time now. I close my eyes and think about happy times. I try to visualize the warm sun on my skin. I try to translate that burning sensation to one of heat instead of cold. Visions of a cobalt sky after rain and the teal Bahamian waters gives me a moment of rest inside my thoughts. I can even see the brown flecks of coral beneath the waters.

She whimpers now and then, most likely the hallucinations have fully taken her away now. Sleep well, my beautiful queen. I will miss you and your sense of humor. Her blond hair that stuck out beyond her beanie hat broke off in ragged chunks where her sweat had frozen. When her mind started to go, her struggling broke the pieces of hair clean off in vertical chunks, still frozen upright to the shoulder of my jacket with the adhesive of her sweat and tears.

She hasn’t whimpered for awhile now. I push inside my mind. If I pay too close attention to the physical, I would panic, and that wouldn’t be good for either of us. Somewhere between dreams and dying, I imagine the sound of an electric guitar with just enough distortion wafting through the caves. I believe the sound’s originator calmly picks the notes wherever he is waiting…one-two, one-two-three-four…one-two, one-two-three-four…

But, who knows which pathway would lead me to the player if I could move? I relax into the sound of picked ringing strings, coming in succinct waves with its limp wrist like that Deftones song. I think of the line, “There’s still blood in your hair,” and think back to what happened to us and that bleeding would have been easier. 

It was inevitable that we would be abandoned. The storm had come upon us like a bullet train. If there were animals or trees in this desolate place, they would have been flattened by the force of the winds. Instead, I saw the ghosts of flurries coming in funnel-shaped waves across the flat lands where the snow never fully melts all year. Way up there. We had to go. Way up here. And then we fell. And now we stay, down here, nestled together, forever.

Van Cortlandt Bronx, NY, froze over, December 2019

Happy Halloween, All! It’s been a weird year. I’ve been under a rock, restructuring. Hope to rejoin the real world with some updates soon…

Deftones–Mascara; SuperDeftoner YouTube

Ruins

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Thank you aYia for beautiful inspiration.

The reeds cut our bare feet running for the boats. There had been no time for shoes as we followed mother in our bedclothes. I was only ten years old, and my little brother was five. His small legs shuffled to keep up with mom pulling his little hand behind her after she extracted us from our hiding spots into a full run towards the river. In the distance, there were shouts and gunfire, fires being started. Hopefully, that would be enough distraction to allow us to get to the boats. Mother plopped each of us into the small row boat with her wild eyes darting around for threats, covering us with a coarse blanket smelling of hay and horse sweat. 

Mother said, “I love you both, always. Never forget. Now, row. Row hard and fast and get as far away as you can. Stay down. You know where to go. They will meet you at the Ruins.” She kissed our foreheads and heaved the boat with all of her might from where it was wedged, docked in the mud. My brother and I looked back at her shrinking figure on the shore, her hand clasped over her mouth as she shifted her weight one leg to the other, wanting to dive in after us, skirt clinging to her calves from the mud, awaiting her fate. Neither of us cried. 

As we withdrew from the shoreline, my brother said, “It smells like they are cooking pork!” I stared ahead, alternately rowing left and right with as much force as my muscles could bear to get away from that smell and all of the pain we’ve endured in hiding these last weeks. I clenched my jaw, not turning my head. I said to him, “That is what people smell like when they burn.” His face went white and he clutched the tattered cloth rabbit that mother had sewn for him tighter to his chest.  I saw he was shaking, but there was no time for consolation if we wanted to escape. 

After days of travel, aching muscles and rumbling bellies, the port of the Ruins came into view. We were filthy with the berry juice we used to dye our hair and our skin was burnt or peeling in various patterns from exposure to the uneven Spring sun as we stepped onto land. Still in our nightclothes from our night of escape, we entered the path descending to the center of the Ruins, both huddled together in the horse blanket with leaves and sticks from the riverbank tied to protect our feet. 

An eldery woman stood in the center by the old altar with a fire nearby, cooking something that made my stomach grumble more. She had apparently been expecting us. The lines of her face–crow’s feet and welcoming dimples–deepened with each step we took closer. She leaned on a walking stick in front of her that was carved of a twisted dark and polished wood, with a wolf’s head carved on the top. She had two bowls of bone broth and a loaf of bread waiting by the fire with blankets lying nearby for us to gather for a meal. My heart relaxed for the first moment in days, and I felt a sting of guilt over where my mother must be now. Those thoughts were fleeting, as the old woman was insistent, beckoning to sit and partake, which we did without hesitation. 

I tried to focus on the meal, and to keep hold of that feeling of safety. We had gotten away this time, most likely at great cost to our mother. I wondered how much more we will need to give up considering that we still need to run. I lean over to give my brother another piece of bread. Our eyes meet only for a moment, but I don’t see their childhood glimmer gazing back at me anymore. I wonder if I ever will again.

Upward

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Casey looked upward as the drone of electricity grew louder and clouds moved toward themselves. Yellow-grey occluded fronts swirled together in front of her vision. This is the end. But, she smiled. She reached up and gently pressed the push-to-talk button on her transmitter, while her eyes remained locked on the skies seething in front of her. 

“Hey, guys. I’m gonna turn off my transmitter now in case I scream like a little bitch when I die. I love you all.” She then removed the earplugs so she couldn’t hear them protest that last statement. That would only make it harder to stand here and wait for the end. She focused on where the air currents met and was amazed at the destructive beauty unfolding around her, watercolor seams of doom and nothing but that strange peace in her heart. All that could be done had been done. 

She grasped the amulet in her hand, burning red ruby encased in bronze. Awaiting the impact coming any moment was surreal. She reviewed her life, deciding it was a good one. The earth vibrated at higher intensity beneath her feet, threatening to give way. She closed her eyes and grasped the amulet tighter, started to pray. To whom, it was unsure. But, to any that would listen for this plan to work. Shaking hands opposed her resolve. She inhaled the earthy smell that turned acrid on the wind preceding the blast.

The next few moments were confused hums in the ears. The violence of converging air jerked the body side-to-side while standing, momentarily lifting it off the ground before being thrashed and spun about in currents that pulled extremities in unnatural angles. She was excited that currents all converged toward her–that was clear from the way that she was blasted. The direction of upwards was a passing thought before she felt the weightlessness of the free fall. Last thing she saw was the approaching ground. She closed her eyes just before the impact. The air pressed out from her lungs in a hard thud against the ground and awareness went away. 

La Villette, 2018

Aspens

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He fell from the heavens to the Earth to the waiting snow. Puffs of diamond dust sparkle in cloudless sun with the impact. Pfffoooot. He lay there like a child, making an angel in the snow as the particles settle around him, sprawled and staring at the endless aqua sky beneath white, reaching branches of aspens thirsty for winter sun. There should be peace in a world connected to the heavens through nature. Humans rush around and miss all this. He stretched his arms and legs as far as they would go and considered the road ahead. 

He wondered if it was worth it to stand. Why depart from the feeling of the crisp air disappearing into his chest, becoming part of him before turning into tiny clouds dissipating with each exhalation? This moment should be savored. His eyes crossed to look at the condensation looming on his mustache. Then, a flash of white-hot guilt cuts to the guts, begging answers of why he decided to fall. He let the feeling wane, focusing again on the warm sun in contrast to the coolness seeping to his thigh backs resting on the snow. Life is long and full of complications. 

He lie back with another poof of the snow, looking toward the sky. Let one second be free to reach upwards just like the tendrils of the aspens. Hope is why he came here. One more second of enjoying the physical pleasures before starting the journey. 

Once the lie got out, everything got tainted. A futile attempt to erase watercolors. Everything already bled where it will settle. “It is out of our hands”, they said. But, whose hands is it in? That is the question. I am on  a quest, looking for the one in charge. It is strange to get used to waiting for something that won’t come. A shift in focus is warranted, but, that may take some time *palms your head down below the water*. They treat him like a dry erase board. Do this. Go here. Adapt. It’s a ghost of a joke the next day. No intent to assemble the bigger picture.

“Oooooh’s” to Heavens. Aspens, 2015

Molasses Swim

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It looks frozen, moving so slow it cannot be perceived within a human construct of time. Arm and leg muscles struggle against pounds per square inch through an amber prison. The sun is up there somewhere, shining down on it all. It could be around another world for all it matters now. Vomit threatens emergence through jerks of choking. The sweetness of the syrup presses air from the lungs. There is no longer a separation between air and fluid. This is forever. Don’t believe? Gag on attempts to intake breaths and see. There are none available. 

What a strange sensation that awareness goes on throughout the ordeal. It builds character. Some are meant to survive and some are not. Boil the skin to make it soft and peel back the truth. Set fire to the dead to scorch what is scary. Maintain cleanliness. Order the world so the trajectory of supplies can be determined when they are ejected in the blast to come. Follow the scent. Fingertips to walls to read the legacy in the dark; in absence of eyes, other abilities grow stronger. Put into the world of humans, the mouse is destined to figure out the path alone. Those kept behind the glass, floating in a tank of forever, point the way. Speed the signs and it will be clear among the riddled walks. 

One can sparkle as they sink.

Running Awake

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Lana thinks the frantic shuffling of footsteps around her is part of a bad dream. She was curled by the dwindling predawn fire this morning when she fell asleep, listening to the sniffles and restless whispers of her companions huddled on the forest floor around her. She pushed up from the ground to look around, head still foggy and bits of soil and pine needles clinging to her hair and face. Her eyes widen, alertness striking like lightning. Her people run scattered, arms scooping up children or few belongings. She leaps to action, herding the small crowd downhill to charge away from the oncoming shuffle in the distance. 

Looking uphill, their watchman is slumped against a tree as the horizon darkens with the enemy. Lana squints to see if he is dead or asleep. The crimson puddle around him answers as she turns to run. But, her people are not soldiers and the adversary is trained to seek and kill. She hears thuds and grunts as people fall beside her, mixed with the desperate sounds of suctioning air back into collapsed lungs. She feels a splash of warmth fling across her right side as a man arcs to the ground in a twitching heap in her peripheral vision with his leg muscles contracting with continued attempts to run to spite death. She doesn’t care that her lungs burn as she breaks away from the pack. Panic kicks her into a survival mode and she forgets the people she pledged to protect that fall around her. The only thought was escape now. When she only hears her footsteps, she sees a ridge off the road. She dives into a hollow created by tree roots, pressing herself flat against the earth between its tendrils. 

Lana hunches in the hollow listening for any movements. She tries to slow her breathing, now ragged with sobs. She clasps her hand over her mouth to try to stifle the noise. All of them are dead. I am alone. She couldn’t stop the waves of shame over running away from them all. She knew they had taken a chance by stopping where there was little brush to disguise their group, but it was necessary. She saw that the toughest of them tripping over his own feet with fatigue, his eyes sagging with the bags underneath. Days of running and fitful nights siphoned any energy left from breaking free in the first place. But that doesn’t matter anymore. At least they won’t need to run anymore. But she does.

Best wishes for a productive year and running toward new adventures.

Prisoners

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Walk to work, Bronx, NY

The last I saw of her was a glance back as I was leaving. Her sad and knowing round face looked drawn between the web of fingers that curled around the chain-link fence separating us. I know she was trying not to cry. It must be like tearing off the bandage every time I come to see her. But, I also want to make sure she knows that I am here for her. Twenty more years. Do any of us know how long we have in this life? Should we be allowed to know the desolate future of being stuck in a routine for that long? Just kill me, I think. But, then, I realize the pretext and what that would mean for her and I change my mind just as quickly as the thought had come. 

She took the fall for something that represents only a shard of the truth. The players are so ingrained that the only way would be calculated infiltration and a very long-game plan that relies on people playing roles for nearly all of their lives. Can that be done? On a sunny day, I would say, “You do you.” But, in these cases, there must be the birds eye view: the Camera in the Sky, the Satellite. Those that can program and navigate the worst of the worst situations as the rest get eaten up in the churn. And the Masses sleep, unaware of danger. But, a necessary evil, you say. At what cost and on which authority?

When people cry for change, they don’t think down to that level. It is not as simple as writing a sign, standing in the cold for nine hours and screaming until you are hoarse, then meeting at Starbucks for the debrief. What a mess a life can make.