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I LOVE these kind of stories. However, I usually start by working out what story to tell and then finding the kind of facts that fit with it. Today I have been stuck in with my youngest who has chickenpox and had a lot of time to Google! I tried lots of different facts and tried to find a story within the facts rather than vice versa. Here's my draft:
I Love you
Moths and butterflies are part of the order Lepidoptera, but moths are generally nocturnal, while butterflies are diurnal (active during the day).
We were moths. The unkempt sisters with holey-hand me downs from cousins on someone’s side. Our house, brown and dusty as moth wings. I was the one to stay awake every night to ensure her key opened the door, heard her stumble to the kitchen, open the porch and let the moonlight in. I let you sleep on because I knew little children needed more sleep than big children. I imagined her down there, cigarette lit, spooling smoke into the yard, leaning her head against the doorframe. In my mind, she looked like a still from a black and white movie, her hollow face lit by the moon’s spotlight. Her short crop hair bleached white as her smoke. I would listen to her shut the door and climb the stairs to bed. I would tell you in the morning, how beautiful the moon was.
Many moths have evolved intricate patterns on their wings that allow them to blend seamlessly into their surroundings as a defence mechanism against predators.
I told the class at show-and tell that we went to the cinema to see The Little Mermaid and how you and I sang along to all the songs as mum got us the CD for Christmas. I told Mrs Hodgson that we had roast dinner on Sunday with all the trimmings, even Yorkshire puddings and I explained that the bruise on your temple was from you jumping off the sofa and hitting your head on the coffee table. I told her, of course mum took you to A&E but they said there was nothing to worry about. I locked us in the bathroom when mum brought some of her friends home. Sometimes I ran a bath for us and we pretended we were mermaids.
Hawk moths are capable of hovering in place while they feed on nectar from flowers, much like hummingbirds. They are also known for their rapid and agile flight.
Once, I made you toast and watched your tubby little fingers become smeared with butter and you lick them clean. I got a whole pack from the corner shop when Mr. Jackson was busy with a customer. I hovered at the fridge section pretending to look at the different types of cheese, even though there was only cream, cheddar and an orange one. Then I tucked the butter down my tights and ran back home and told you we were going to have a proper tea party. Your greasy smile was worth it.
Some moths have developed highly sensitive hearing to evade their primary predators. They can detect the ultrasonic emissions of bats, allowing them to take evasive action.
I learnt early on to tell by her tone of voice what kind of day we were in for. When it was tight and strung like a violin, I took us out to watch the trains going under the bridge. I learnt the different knock her friends made. When certain ones came, that’s when we became mermaids.
Moths are famous for their attraction to light, including artificial lights. One theory suggests that moths use natural light sources, such as the moon, for navigation by flying at a constant angle relative to the light, which inadvertently leads them to circle artificial lights.
When I heard mum smoking downstairs, I sometimes crept downs and watched her. Once she turned round and saw me there and she called me over, put her arm around me and told me the moon was full that night. I think she almost said what I wanted her to say. I said it to you every single day, so at least you’d know what it’s like to be told.
One of the reasons for moth mortality is their attraction to artificial lights. This behaviour can lead to their death. Circling lights for extended periods can exhaust them, making them more vulnerable to predators.
Even though I tried, I was exhausted and I fell asleep. That one time. It was only one time. I only woke up when the policeman knocked. Mum must have left the kitchen door open. I think you just wanted to see the moon, to see if it was really as beautiful as I had told you.
On another planet in another galaxy, my former husband is still my husband, and he hasn’t yet said the words that will end things forever.
Galaxies come in all shapes and sizes, some are spiral and some elliptical. In some galaxies, people fall in love and stay in love forever.
On a planet in a galaxy farther away from that other galaxy where my former husband is still not saying the words he will say that will end things forever, I’m not yet married to him. In fact, I’m in the upstairs bathroom asking my maid of honor to tell everyone to go home and she is telling me, oh come on, every bride is nervous on her wedding day.
Some galaxies have massive black holes in their centers. When something falls into a black hole it falls into a black hole.
On a planet in the galaxy an entire galaxy away from that galaxy where I am in the upstairs bathroom in my lacy bra and underwear telling my maid of honor to tell everyone to go away, I’ve just now met my former husband, and he is cute, but at the last moment I go home with the guy from San Francisco who works in a used bookstore instead. We buy our own bookstore and have four children and they grow up and have children and every year we are all together for the holidays.
Sometimes, we look up at the stars and say, isn’t that amazing?
UPDATE: so I changed the title because I made a big migraine mistake. I really wasn't trying to be funny when I wrote ASTROLOGIST instead of ASTRONOMER.
The Astronomer Mourns
The remnants of their lives have been left to me and the weight of the responsibility feels like a still-hot meteorite entrusted to my pried-open palms. The house interior is dense, dark, no light can penetrate the blinds. A black hole, perhaps, and if you think that means whoever comes into the house is lost, you might not be wrong. But the scientific explanation is that black holes have such strong gravity that light cannot move through the matter. Anything close to it is stretched long and thin, like taffy.
On the front porch, I finger the wedding portrait I snagged from its usual position on the piano in this house Kale has lived in for two years without Erin, an image that captures their relationship if only one of them had taken the time to read it. Kale stands on the beach, handsome and sturdy as a banker, in his tuxedo and patent leathers. Erin has him by one hand, but she has stretched out their linked arms so that her bare toes and the crocheted hem of her ivory sundress can reach water’s edge. She is a gravitational force powering him into the black hole.
Six months after the wedding she ran away to India. What I mean is that the rest of the family thought of her move that way, whereas Erin was discovering a new world, which is how I imagine she thought of her adventures, never giving thought to the Indian viewpoint. Or her husband’s. My sister was described by many as a shooting star, a brilliant, fast-moving flame, but I thought of her as Willothewisp, an elusive night light over the swamp, luring men to their deaths.
Ooh this is quite timely because I’m just working on a draft that speaks to this prompt. I wonder what people think? (There seem to be no formatting options on here so I couldn’t replicate my italics for the factual quotes and inner thoughts).
The Voice of a Fish
‘Fish and children have no voice,' her parents said.
These words from childhood sealed her lips then, and now—Imogen’s earliest memory of becoming nobody. Then, when her breasts were slow to develop, the boys reinforced this by their dismissal of her. And with no voice of her own, she explored other ways to speak; tried dying her hair black and arranging it in spikes. She wore Doc Martens and pierced her nose.
‘Who will have you now?’, her mother said. Ah, now you see me, Imogen thought.
*Many of the concerns surrounding fish farming arise from the crowding together of thousands of fish in their artificial environment. - Britannica.com
It was on this canvas of eighties Manchester that she sketched a portrait of her future. With rain-soaked, lamplit city streets posing as her muses, eighteen-year-old Imogen painted a fantasy of a woman in full Armani armour, filofax in hand, striding into her penthouse office suite, surrounded by glass. She would be voice. She would be conductor. She would be heels, bright red lipstick, a queen on a marble chessboard. An executive toy would sit on a large onyx desk—click clack, click clack.
This portrait was a spectacular work of art that outshone the duller pigments of reality–admin job, evening bar job, dodgy landlord, living for the next paycheck. At work, she imagined herself strapping on a large fishtail. But she didn’t know how to make waves and her ideas, like water bubbles, floated to the surface with barely a ripple. The glue still clung hard to her lips. Yet for much of her youth, Imogen believed her future could glow bright, even when her father said,
‘You have no business chasing a career—one day someone will marry you and give you children. What use is a wife who is never at home?’
*Viral, fungal, and bacterial diseases that arise in fish farms have spread to native fish populations. - Britannica.com
Even though her voice became quieter, and her words more guarded, she continued to dream of the accomplished woman she wanted to become. And when her father choked to death on a pollock bone, she didn’t mourn him. Her mother, rushing to assist, tripped on a rug and suffered a fatal blow to her head from the stone hearth. Imogen didn’t mourn her either. She only grieved for what had not yet come to pass, for a voice she'd never had. When the time came, Imogen stuffed their ashes in a rinsed-out catering-size, marinated-herring tub.
*It takes a lot of input, in the form of other, lesser fish-also known as ‘reduction’ or ‘trash’ fish, to produce the kind of fish we prefer to eat. - Time Magazine
She returned to her small apartment after work one night to find flowers waiting for her at the door—vibrant blooms, arranged in perfect colour and size-distribution, encased in tissue paper and cellophane, with ribbons wound around the stems. I’m sorry, was all the card said. She plunged them without remorse, face-down in the trash. I must have been insignificant when you had your tongue down her throat. Tears now choked Imogen’s eyes and a familiar voice swam in her head, ‘Who will have you now?’
Inside, she fell to her knees and laughed. Her voice rang loud, bouncing off the walls, the reverberation making her dizzy.
‘Goodfuckingbye!’
*Waste products, including faeces, create food, and dead fish are flushed (often untreated) into the surrounding waters where they add to the contamination of the water supply. - Britannica.com
Imogen seized the herring tub from the windowsill. With celebratory flamboyance, like when she mixed cocktails at Harry’s Bar, her hands lifted the ashes high above the cat’s litter tray. She sprinkled them in and shook to mix. Opening a fresh tin of tuna, she filled kitty’s bowl and watched him gobble every last scrap, soft growls of pleasure accompanying each delicious mouthful.
(NOTE: includes mentions of homicide and suicide.)
ALL VIOLENCE IS LOCAL
It was a Mom with a handgun and her two children. One was eight and one was five. They lived three blocks from us. We first heard it on the news, however, with sketchy details: Shelter in place. Drones overhead. Stay away from windows.
I ran downstairs to find you and you had headphones on, listening to Brewer & Shipley. We’ll be fine, you said.
Police shared little throughout the week but knew much. A neighborhood vigil drew hundreds of mourners.
##
The FBI reports murders in U.S. cities fell by more than 12% last year, the biggest national decline on record, but in one Wisconsin small town, it jumped by 50%.
##
It was a long drive, already nearly 150 miles traveled under gray skies. A few flurries but the roads were clear. Passing exit 15 and heading due north finally, the emergency lights took my breath away—so many, so bright. One semi-truck on its side, eight police cars, three ambulances plus the Crime Scene Unit. Is a CSU typical for car accidents, I wondered?
But already drivers heading south were being sent on a detour. Thankfully, our lane could continue without interruption. I arrived for my lunch on time.
##
Firearms account for more than 50% of suicides in the U.S. but no one knows how frequently men walk in front of semis on busy interstates and die.
##
It was Friday night and my sister was stuck in her cul de sac. She texted us and said to leave without her because wasn’t sure how long this delay would take. Maybe she wouldn’t make the weekly fish fry, but might be able to join us at the movie.
When she turned out of her development, she met police barricades. They were set up at 1pm and stayed up until after 9pm. She could see the incident further down the road, a heavy police presence. She definitely couldn’t get out and wouldn’t make the movie, so she put her car away, baked a frozen pizza, and finished watching the British mystery series she had started earlier in the day.
Later that night, one officer was placed on administrative leave after an exchange of gunfire with the suspect hiding in his car. The suspect later died at the hospital.
##
More than 600 individuals are killed by law enforcement each year, but experts add area cul de sacs typically remain open.
I love this so much Kathy. I have done this in my longer form writing. Why not in flash? Had a play with this piece from years ago. Makes it so much more interesting.
LAST ORDERS
Did you know it’s normal to crack a smile when someone dies? It’s a thing. You feel something deeply and the wrong emotion pops out. I always hate myself for doing it and cough, hide my mouth, hope no one’s seen. Not laughing now.
Marg sobs. “She was my best friend, even if she argued our beach walks to a standstill. Such a know-it-all. No, she’d say, they’re not bluebottles, poking an azure pile with her sneakered toe. "Velella, common name by the wind sailor, a free-floating hydrozoan that lives on the surface of the ocean. Who knows this stuff?" She chokes, snivels, and blows her nose so loudly people in the front row jump. Then she blurts, almost shouts. “I’m going to miss her so much,” and scurries back to her seat, bent over as if in pain or prayer.
Good on you, girl. Here’s hoping the rest of them keep it simple and real. Fat chance. Barry’s making a meal of his moment up front. Why didn’t John manage things better? Draw up an order of play, no hangers-on? Too wrecked, poor darling. The last three months were brutal.
The service limps on. Why do intelligent people spout bloody platitudes just because someone’s died? Such a sweetie. Soul of kindness. Give you the shirt off her back, blah blah blah. No one’s just one thing. Go on, dare someone to get up and tell the whole story. She could be a real bitch. You know, all holier than thou one minute, giving you your pedigree in four letters the next. Bloody brilliant with a few wines in her, though.
Who’s being dramatic now, wailing like a baby? Oh, right, Jules’ latest. “Poor thing, such an awful way to go. So glad it’s over and she’s at peace. Wish I could have done more, though.” I’m livid. More than one measly five-minute pop-in to the hospice with a past-its-best bunch of flowers from the corner dairy? Friggin’ easy to top that, Geoffrey.
And still they come, creaking up the stairs to spill their guts. Enough! I’m over this shit. As if I’d shrieked it in their faces, the mourners shuffle to their feet and begin to drone. Give me a break. Amazing Grace? A two hundred and fifty-year-old dirge penned by a slave trader to see off this Kiwi agnostic? Don’t make me laugh. Oops. Should have been Sympathy for the Devil, now there’s a song. Inspired by Baudelaire, controversial as hell, cemented the Stones’ satanic reputation.
They’re blowing the roof off now, pumped it’s not their loved one in the pine box. Good luck to them. Not my idea of fun, but who am I to judge? Burial at sea costs twelve thousand and offends Māori. Church send-offs at least ten. A no-frills funeral chapel the least of evils. No flowers please, donation to the Cancer Society. No boring slide show. Just John, at the end, reading Dylan Thomas. Do not go gentle into that good night…
Queen lets rip with Who Wants to Live Forever. The celebrant whispers to family. The six strongest take their places and carry me out to the long, black car.
In the evening we ate Vietnamese salmon over black rice topped with thinly sliced scallion and red chili peppers with Mari who was visiting from London.
Mari is British, single minded and has only ever wanted one thing and the fact that she is doing it feels contagious to me.
Over dinner someone shared, I can tell blessing has weight by the way people look when they are receiving a blessing—there must be force there.
The intensity and singleness of Mari’s eye and her radiating center cause us both to rush at each other in conversation when we are in the same room
—there must be force there.
The plates are cleared and I pick up a ringing phone, a man’s voice through the receiver says, “even your clothes will not smell of smoke.” Standing at the window, I swing the French doors open craning my neck to look at the roof to see if there were visible flames. Not yet.
***
On Saturday morning I poked an egg with the tine of a fork and watch it drip orange into a pool next to some crisped potatoes. A text from Mari telling me she is back in London. And then she sent me the part of Isaiah that says, "you will walk through the fire and not be burned, you will pass through the waters and they will not sweep you away.”
Last night, the fire alarm went off several times but there was no fire—through the night it was quiet—but
it went off several more times this morning until I pulled it out of the ceiling, first by it’s hanging battery and then disengaging the whole cream disk leaving it dissected on the counter.
I stood in the mirror smoothing my hair with a hot iron and made a joke about feeling vain that I was worried to look unsightly while I announced what I had decided to burn down.
However by now, there wasn’t much to burn, perhaps this ending would carry no ash.
—there must not have been force there anymore.
We gather in a room, and there is a few stalling silent minutes until I light a fire between us that burns down all that’s been built, and even though I knew it was coming, I felt the flames heat the tears that ran down our collected cheeks, all of us holding there until we were sure it had burnt to the ground.
After the fire, I stopped for a coffee and saw brown pastry bags and espresso cups stamped with doves and olive branches in their beaks signaling for peace.
—and I found peace in knowing I could only stay where there was force.
And I had been warned that in some ways this had been a false alarm, that even my clothes wouldn’t smell of smoke, and that even Mari said, I would walk through the center of the fire and not be burned.
I think this is the right thread?!
I LOVE these kind of stories. However, I usually start by working out what story to tell and then finding the kind of facts that fit with it. Today I have been stuck in with my youngest who has chickenpox and had a lot of time to Google! I tried lots of different facts and tried to find a story within the facts rather than vice versa. Here's my draft:
I Love you
Moths and butterflies are part of the order Lepidoptera, but moths are generally nocturnal, while butterflies are diurnal (active during the day).
We were moths. The unkempt sisters with holey-hand me downs from cousins on someone’s side. Our house, brown and dusty as moth wings. I was the one to stay awake every night to ensure her key opened the door, heard her stumble to the kitchen, open the porch and let the moonlight in. I let you sleep on because I knew little children needed more sleep than big children. I imagined her down there, cigarette lit, spooling smoke into the yard, leaning her head against the doorframe. In my mind, she looked like a still from a black and white movie, her hollow face lit by the moon’s spotlight. Her short crop hair bleached white as her smoke. I would listen to her shut the door and climb the stairs to bed. I would tell you in the morning, how beautiful the moon was.
Many moths have evolved intricate patterns on their wings that allow them to blend seamlessly into their surroundings as a defence mechanism against predators.
I told the class at show-and tell that we went to the cinema to see The Little Mermaid and how you and I sang along to all the songs as mum got us the CD for Christmas. I told Mrs Hodgson that we had roast dinner on Sunday with all the trimmings, even Yorkshire puddings and I explained that the bruise on your temple was from you jumping off the sofa and hitting your head on the coffee table. I told her, of course mum took you to A&E but they said there was nothing to worry about. I locked us in the bathroom when mum brought some of her friends home. Sometimes I ran a bath for us and we pretended we were mermaids.
Hawk moths are capable of hovering in place while they feed on nectar from flowers, much like hummingbirds. They are also known for their rapid and agile flight.
Once, I made you toast and watched your tubby little fingers become smeared with butter and you lick them clean. I got a whole pack from the corner shop when Mr. Jackson was busy with a customer. I hovered at the fridge section pretending to look at the different types of cheese, even though there was only cream, cheddar and an orange one. Then I tucked the butter down my tights and ran back home and told you we were going to have a proper tea party. Your greasy smile was worth it.
Some moths have developed highly sensitive hearing to evade their primary predators. They can detect the ultrasonic emissions of bats, allowing them to take evasive action.
I learnt early on to tell by her tone of voice what kind of day we were in for. When it was tight and strung like a violin, I took us out to watch the trains going under the bridge. I learnt the different knock her friends made. When certain ones came, that’s when we became mermaids.
Moths are famous for their attraction to light, including artificial lights. One theory suggests that moths use natural light sources, such as the moon, for navigation by flying at a constant angle relative to the light, which inadvertently leads them to circle artificial lights.
When I heard mum smoking downstairs, I sometimes crept downs and watched her. Once she turned round and saw me there and she called me over, put her arm around me and told me the moon was full that night. I think she almost said what I wanted her to say. I said it to you every single day, so at least you’d know what it’s like to be told.
One of the reasons for moth mortality is their attraction to artificial lights. This behaviour can lead to their death. Circling lights for extended periods can exhaust them, making them more vulnerable to predators.
Even though I tried, I was exhausted and I fell asleep. That one time. It was only one time. I only woke up when the policeman knocked. Mum must have left the kitchen door open. I think you just wanted to see the moon, to see if it was really as beautiful as I had told you.
Cosmic Webs
On another planet in another galaxy, my former husband is still my husband, and he hasn’t yet said the words that will end things forever.
Galaxies come in all shapes and sizes, some are spiral and some elliptical. In some galaxies, people fall in love and stay in love forever.
On a planet in a galaxy farther away from that other galaxy where my former husband is still not saying the words he will say that will end things forever, I’m not yet married to him. In fact, I’m in the upstairs bathroom asking my maid of honor to tell everyone to go home and she is telling me, oh come on, every bride is nervous on her wedding day.
Some galaxies have massive black holes in their centers. When something falls into a black hole it falls into a black hole.
On a planet in the galaxy an entire galaxy away from that galaxy where I am in the upstairs bathroom in my lacy bra and underwear telling my maid of honor to tell everyone to go away, I’ve just now met my former husband, and he is cute, but at the last moment I go home with the guy from San Francisco who works in a used bookstore instead. We buy our own bookstore and have four children and they grow up and have children and every year we are all together for the holidays.
Sometimes, we look up at the stars and say, isn’t that amazing?
UPDATE: so I changed the title because I made a big migraine mistake. I really wasn't trying to be funny when I wrote ASTROLOGIST instead of ASTRONOMER.
The Astronomer Mourns
The remnants of their lives have been left to me and the weight of the responsibility feels like a still-hot meteorite entrusted to my pried-open palms. The house interior is dense, dark, no light can penetrate the blinds. A black hole, perhaps, and if you think that means whoever comes into the house is lost, you might not be wrong. But the scientific explanation is that black holes have such strong gravity that light cannot move through the matter. Anything close to it is stretched long and thin, like taffy.
On the front porch, I finger the wedding portrait I snagged from its usual position on the piano in this house Kale has lived in for two years without Erin, an image that captures their relationship if only one of them had taken the time to read it. Kale stands on the beach, handsome and sturdy as a banker, in his tuxedo and patent leathers. Erin has him by one hand, but she has stretched out their linked arms so that her bare toes and the crocheted hem of her ivory sundress can reach water’s edge. She is a gravitational force powering him into the black hole.
Six months after the wedding she ran away to India. What I mean is that the rest of the family thought of her move that way, whereas Erin was discovering a new world, which is how I imagine she thought of her adventures, never giving thought to the Indian viewpoint. Or her husband’s. My sister was described by many as a shooting star, a brilliant, fast-moving flame, but I thought of her as Willothewisp, an elusive night light over the swamp, luring men to their deaths.
Ooh this is quite timely because I’m just working on a draft that speaks to this prompt. I wonder what people think? (There seem to be no formatting options on here so I couldn’t replicate my italics for the factual quotes and inner thoughts).
The Voice of a Fish
‘Fish and children have no voice,' her parents said.
These words from childhood sealed her lips then, and now—Imogen’s earliest memory of becoming nobody. Then, when her breasts were slow to develop, the boys reinforced this by their dismissal of her. And with no voice of her own, she explored other ways to speak; tried dying her hair black and arranging it in spikes. She wore Doc Martens and pierced her nose.
‘Who will have you now?’, her mother said. Ah, now you see me, Imogen thought.
*Many of the concerns surrounding fish farming arise from the crowding together of thousands of fish in their artificial environment. - Britannica.com
It was on this canvas of eighties Manchester that she sketched a portrait of her future. With rain-soaked, lamplit city streets posing as her muses, eighteen-year-old Imogen painted a fantasy of a woman in full Armani armour, filofax in hand, striding into her penthouse office suite, surrounded by glass. She would be voice. She would be conductor. She would be heels, bright red lipstick, a queen on a marble chessboard. An executive toy would sit on a large onyx desk—click clack, click clack.
This portrait was a spectacular work of art that outshone the duller pigments of reality–admin job, evening bar job, dodgy landlord, living for the next paycheck. At work, she imagined herself strapping on a large fishtail. But she didn’t know how to make waves and her ideas, like water bubbles, floated to the surface with barely a ripple. The glue still clung hard to her lips. Yet for much of her youth, Imogen believed her future could glow bright, even when her father said,
‘You have no business chasing a career—one day someone will marry you and give you children. What use is a wife who is never at home?’
*Viral, fungal, and bacterial diseases that arise in fish farms have spread to native fish populations. - Britannica.com
Even though her voice became quieter, and her words more guarded, she continued to dream of the accomplished woman she wanted to become. And when her father choked to death on a pollock bone, she didn’t mourn him. Her mother, rushing to assist, tripped on a rug and suffered a fatal blow to her head from the stone hearth. Imogen didn’t mourn her either. She only grieved for what had not yet come to pass, for a voice she'd never had. When the time came, Imogen stuffed their ashes in a rinsed-out catering-size, marinated-herring tub.
*It takes a lot of input, in the form of other, lesser fish-also known as ‘reduction’ or ‘trash’ fish, to produce the kind of fish we prefer to eat. - Time Magazine
She returned to her small apartment after work one night to find flowers waiting for her at the door—vibrant blooms, arranged in perfect colour and size-distribution, encased in tissue paper and cellophane, with ribbons wound around the stems. I’m sorry, was all the card said. She plunged them without remorse, face-down in the trash. I must have been insignificant when you had your tongue down her throat. Tears now choked Imogen’s eyes and a familiar voice swam in her head, ‘Who will have you now?’
Inside, she fell to her knees and laughed. Her voice rang loud, bouncing off the walls, the reverberation making her dizzy.
‘Goodfuckingbye!’
*Waste products, including faeces, create food, and dead fish are flushed (often untreated) into the surrounding waters where they add to the contamination of the water supply. - Britannica.com
Imogen seized the herring tub from the windowsill. With celebratory flamboyance, like when she mixed cocktails at Harry’s Bar, her hands lifted the ashes high above the cat’s litter tray. She sprinkled them in and shook to mix. Opening a fresh tin of tuna, she filled kitty’s bowl and watched him gobble every last scrap, soft growls of pleasure accompanying each delicious mouthful.
(NOTE: includes mentions of homicide and suicide.)
ALL VIOLENCE IS LOCAL
It was a Mom with a handgun and her two children. One was eight and one was five. They lived three blocks from us. We first heard it on the news, however, with sketchy details: Shelter in place. Drones overhead. Stay away from windows.
I ran downstairs to find you and you had headphones on, listening to Brewer & Shipley. We’ll be fine, you said.
Police shared little throughout the week but knew much. A neighborhood vigil drew hundreds of mourners.
##
The FBI reports murders in U.S. cities fell by more than 12% last year, the biggest national decline on record, but in one Wisconsin small town, it jumped by 50%.
##
It was a long drive, already nearly 150 miles traveled under gray skies. A few flurries but the roads were clear. Passing exit 15 and heading due north finally, the emergency lights took my breath away—so many, so bright. One semi-truck on its side, eight police cars, three ambulances plus the Crime Scene Unit. Is a CSU typical for car accidents, I wondered?
But already drivers heading south were being sent on a detour. Thankfully, our lane could continue without interruption. I arrived for my lunch on time.
##
Firearms account for more than 50% of suicides in the U.S. but no one knows how frequently men walk in front of semis on busy interstates and die.
##
It was Friday night and my sister was stuck in her cul de sac. She texted us and said to leave without her because wasn’t sure how long this delay would take. Maybe she wouldn’t make the weekly fish fry, but might be able to join us at the movie.
When she turned out of her development, she met police barricades. They were set up at 1pm and stayed up until after 9pm. She could see the incident further down the road, a heavy police presence. She definitely couldn’t get out and wouldn’t make the movie, so she put her car away, baked a frozen pizza, and finished watching the British mystery series she had started earlier in the day.
Later that night, one officer was placed on administrative leave after an exchange of gunfire with the suspect hiding in his car. The suspect later died at the hospital.
##
More than 600 individuals are killed by law enforcement each year, but experts add area cul de sacs typically remain open.
I love this so much Kathy. I have done this in my longer form writing. Why not in flash? Had a play with this piece from years ago. Makes it so much more interesting.
LAST ORDERS
Did you know it’s normal to crack a smile when someone dies? It’s a thing. You feel something deeply and the wrong emotion pops out. I always hate myself for doing it and cough, hide my mouth, hope no one’s seen. Not laughing now.
Marg sobs. “She was my best friend, even if she argued our beach walks to a standstill. Such a know-it-all. No, she’d say, they’re not bluebottles, poking an azure pile with her sneakered toe. "Velella, common name by the wind sailor, a free-floating hydrozoan that lives on the surface of the ocean. Who knows this stuff?" She chokes, snivels, and blows her nose so loudly people in the front row jump. Then she blurts, almost shouts. “I’m going to miss her so much,” and scurries back to her seat, bent over as if in pain or prayer.
Good on you, girl. Here’s hoping the rest of them keep it simple and real. Fat chance. Barry’s making a meal of his moment up front. Why didn’t John manage things better? Draw up an order of play, no hangers-on? Too wrecked, poor darling. The last three months were brutal.
The service limps on. Why do intelligent people spout bloody platitudes just because someone’s died? Such a sweetie. Soul of kindness. Give you the shirt off her back, blah blah blah. No one’s just one thing. Go on, dare someone to get up and tell the whole story. She could be a real bitch. You know, all holier than thou one minute, giving you your pedigree in four letters the next. Bloody brilliant with a few wines in her, though.
Who’s being dramatic now, wailing like a baby? Oh, right, Jules’ latest. “Poor thing, such an awful way to go. So glad it’s over and she’s at peace. Wish I could have done more, though.” I’m livid. More than one measly five-minute pop-in to the hospice with a past-its-best bunch of flowers from the corner dairy? Friggin’ easy to top that, Geoffrey.
And still they come, creaking up the stairs to spill their guts. Enough! I’m over this shit. As if I’d shrieked it in their faces, the mourners shuffle to their feet and begin to drone. Give me a break. Amazing Grace? A two hundred and fifty-year-old dirge penned by a slave trader to see off this Kiwi agnostic? Don’t make me laugh. Oops. Should have been Sympathy for the Devil, now there’s a song. Inspired by Baudelaire, controversial as hell, cemented the Stones’ satanic reputation.
They’re blowing the roof off now, pumped it’s not their loved one in the pine box. Good luck to them. Not my idea of fun, but who am I to judge? Burial at sea costs twelve thousand and offends Māori. Church send-offs at least ten. A no-frills funeral chapel the least of evils. No flowers please, donation to the Cancer Society. No boring slide show. Just John, at the end, reading Dylan Thomas. Do not go gentle into that good night…
Queen lets rip with Who Wants to Live Forever. The celebrant whispers to family. The six strongest take their places and carry me out to the long, black car.
BEFORE THE FIRE
In the evening we ate Vietnamese salmon over black rice topped with thinly sliced scallion and red chili peppers with Mari who was visiting from London.
Mari is British, single minded and has only ever wanted one thing and the fact that she is doing it feels contagious to me.
Over dinner someone shared, I can tell blessing has weight by the way people look when they are receiving a blessing—there must be force there.
The intensity and singleness of Mari’s eye and her radiating center cause us both to rush at each other in conversation when we are in the same room
—there must be force there.
The plates are cleared and I pick up a ringing phone, a man’s voice through the receiver says, “even your clothes will not smell of smoke.” Standing at the window, I swing the French doors open craning my neck to look at the roof to see if there were visible flames. Not yet.
***
On Saturday morning I poked an egg with the tine of a fork and watch it drip orange into a pool next to some crisped potatoes. A text from Mari telling me she is back in London. And then she sent me the part of Isaiah that says, "you will walk through the fire and not be burned, you will pass through the waters and they will not sweep you away.”
Last night, the fire alarm went off several times but there was no fire—through the night it was quiet—but
it went off several more times this morning until I pulled it out of the ceiling, first by it’s hanging battery and then disengaging the whole cream disk leaving it dissected on the counter.
I stood in the mirror smoothing my hair with a hot iron and made a joke about feeling vain that I was worried to look unsightly while I announced what I had decided to burn down.
However by now, there wasn’t much to burn, perhaps this ending would carry no ash.
—there must not have been force there anymore.
We gather in a room, and there is a few stalling silent minutes until I light a fire between us that burns down all that’s been built, and even though I knew it was coming, I felt the flames heat the tears that ran down our collected cheeks, all of us holding there until we were sure it had burnt to the ground.
After the fire, I stopped for a coffee and saw brown pastry bags and espresso cups stamped with doves and olive branches in their beaks signaling for peace.
—and I found peace in knowing I could only stay where there was force.
And I had been warned that in some ways this had been a false alarm, that even my clothes wouldn’t smell of smoke, and that even Mari said, I would walk through the center of the fire and not be burned.
A wonderful prompt.