Matt Cairone: Flash Fiction: May 2014

Tuesday, May 27, 2014

The Appointment

Printed in the USA

This story is fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or the author uses them fictitiously.

The Story

The waiting room was packed. Most looked at the television screens hanging from the ceiling. Others read magazines. No one talked. Peter sat off by himself, his hands folded on his lap. His mind wandered.

A plump nurse wearing a red bandana popped out from behind the cubicle and called out, “Mr. Maris.” Peter stood and waved his right hand. She held open the door and went in after him. “Third door on the right,” she said. Peter moved down the hallway and turned into the room.

“Just have a seat. Dr. Cho will be with you in a few minutes.” He nodded his head and sat down. He folded his hands on his lap.

The room was barren. Scopes and lights hung from hooks on the walls. The examination table looked like an electric chair. An out of date computer sat on a small table in the corner, with a screen saver darting back and forth. It said, “UPCC Medical Center: Authorized Access Only.” Peter watched it go back and forth, up and down, and across the screen on the diagonal. It helped to kill the time.

Peter could hear footsteps in the hallway and he could hear papers shuffled on clipboards. When the noises passed Peter relaxed, re-folded his hands on his lap, and fixed his eyes on the screen saver.

Then came a knock on the door and Dr. Cho stuck his head in “Hello, Peter.” The doctor walked in and sat down across from Peter, on the small stool with wheels.

“Hi, Doctor Cho, how’re you?”

The doctor smiled, wheeled closer to Peter and said, “Just fine, Peter, just fine.” Peter smiled and waited.

“I have the pathology, Peter.” He did not pause for Peter to say anything. “Peter, the pathology shows some irregularities.” He leaned closer. “You have a rare type of B-cell lymphoma.” Peter did not show any emotion. “The full name is ALK-positive large B-cell lymphoma. I wrote it down on this piece of paper.” Dr. Cho folded the paper and handed it to Peter. Peter took it and put it in his shirt pocket.

“It looks like the mass has well defined margins, which is good. We don’t know how far it has moved out of the lymphatic system.”

Peter looked at the doctor, expressionless.

“We have a meeting scheduled for Tuesday morning with the pathology team.”

“I’ll expect to talk to you Tuesday afternoon then.”

“Okay, Peter.”

Peter stood to leave.

“What’s the survival rate?”

“Come on, Peter, don’t ask me that.”

“Just tell me,” and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Just tell me.”

“Eleven months, Peter. Just an average.”

With that, Dr. Cho stood up and offered Peter his hand. Peter shook the doctor’s hand. Then he stood and opened the door.

Peter waved goodbye to the nurses sitting behind the desk in the cubicle. He walked to the elevator and pushed the down button. As he waited for the elevator car he looked back into the crowded waiting room, at the pale, thin patients waiting for their treatments.

The elevator door opened and Peter stepped inside. The door closed. Peter watched it shut.

Peter left the cancer center and walked out onto Craig St. What a beautiful day, he thought. He put on a baseball cap to shield his eyes from the sun.

He was hungry. He walked down two blocks to the Chipotle. He ordered a chicken burrito. He took a cup for water. He took his burrito and his water and he sat in the booth in the corner of the room, away from the windows. He took his time to eat. Every few bites he took a small sip of the water. He chewed and swallowed.

His appetite was good and he finished the burrito with no trouble. He drank the last of the water. He looked around to see if anyone was close by before he belched. Peter wiped his chin and put the napkin and the small plastic basket onto his tray and threw out the trash and returned the tray. He went to the rest room to wash his hands.

Back on the street, Peter decided it was too loud to call his ex-wife. But he knew he needed to tell her right away; he would have to decide with her how to tell his son.

He decided to make the call from the lobby in the hotel across the street from the hospital. It will be quiet there this time of day, he thought.

“Peter. What’s up? You haven’t called in forever.”

“I’m sick, Lynn.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Just found out.”

“What sick, Peter?”

“Sick like cancer.”

“Cancer?” Lynn sat down at her kitchen table. “What cancer?”

“Some kind of lymphoma.”

“Brian’s gonna be devastated.”

He took a hard swallow.

“How do ya wanna tell’im, Lynn?”

She fidgeted with the coffee cup. “I guess we should just tell’im. Together.”

He knew she would say that. And he knew she was right.

Friday, May 23, 2014

Larry's Eye

Larry’s Eye

I see Larry about once a week. Last week when I seen him he had this wicked ugly black guy. It was really fucking bad. So I says to him hey Larry what the fuck happened. He turns to me and he says hey it's none of your fucking business. So I let it go.

We go to the custard stand. We’re standing in line and I figure I'll try again. So I says to Larry hey really what the fuck happened to your eye, man.

I can’t even finish and he blasts back. He says it’s none of your fucking business. What the fuck don’t you get about it’s none of your fucking business. While he’s still in his rant a voice shoots back from behind the screen. Whoa, take it easy. There’re kids here, pal.

The guy’s barely done talking and Larry’s on his ass. Fuck you, motherfucker. Stay outta my shit. Who the fuck are you?

I left without a custard. Larry left with another black eye.

Thursday, May 22, 2014

Just Thought I'd Stop By

I drove into the cemetery. The sky was grey and the wind was cold. Flakes of snow swirled in the air. The wipers swept one after another off the windshield. It had been so long; I had trouble finding the sites. At last, I saw the two worn stones. One with my father’s name, the other with my mother’s. They had been under the ground, here, for many Christmases. Hard to believe how time flies.

I was alone. I thought about bringing flowers, but the idea never took hold.

I zipped my coat before opening the door and stepped out of the car. I walked toward the graves, crunching snow beneath my feet. I stood in front of the stones.

“I’m not sure why I’m here.”

The wind carried my words away.

“I miss you both.”

I pressed a hand on each stone and felt the cold.

I wiped my eyes as I eased the car onto the drive. I looked in the rearview mirror, before leaving them for good.

Pie

She had a distinctive way of eating pie. Really, she did.

The Immigrants

The Unhealed Cut

He was born Anthony Mario Cappelletti. But they called him Tony, from the very beginning.

Tony’s mother and father were Italian-Americans.

Tony’s maternal grandparents were from Northern Italy, the Trentino region in the foothills of the Dolomites. They spoke Ladin, a rare dialect interweaving Italian and French. Louis Rossetta, his grandfather, came to the United States when he was seventeen; he came to escape hard times, to get a job building the railroads. Louis settled in a small town in northwestern Pennsylvania, smack in the middle of the Snow Belt. He must have felt right at home. Tony’s grandmother, Antoinette, came to the United States via Ellis Island. Antoinette came alone when she was sixteen. She came after Louis was established with a job and reliable income. They were married in a small Catholic church in Port Allegany, Pennsylvania, with no family or friends at the ceremony. The witnesses were railroad workers Louis met driving steel nails into wooden rails. The Italians in Port Allegany didn’t speak Ladin. Louis and Antoinette learned to talk to each other.

Tony’s paternal grandparents were from Southern Italy, the small village of Positano on the Amalfi coast. They were accustomed to warm summers and mild winters with an abundance of lemons, tomatoes, olives, pasta and wine – la dolce vita. Tony’s grandfather, Andrew, came to the United States when he was nineteen to build the railroads. Andrew ended up in a small town near the coast in southern New Jersey. Tony’s grandmother, Maria, came with him; they were already married. They set off right away to grow vegetables, grapes, and adapt as best as they could to the new land.

Italy is a big country, culturally distinct from north to south. Tony’s grandparents were Italian, but very different: stoic figures who could survive the cold, harsh life in the mountainous region, on the one hand, and free spirits content with the sweet, soft life by the seaside, on the other. They adapted to life in a new country, taking and using their respective, disparate backgrounds to meet the challenge.

From these new Americans came Tony’s parents, Joe and Angie.

Angie was born and raised in Port Allegany. Angie had two sisters and one brother. She grew up in hardscrabble Northwestern Pennsylvania. Winters were long and cold and hard. Summers were short and hot and humid and filled with bugs.

Joe was born in Malaga, New Jersey, and he grew up near the shore, one of eighteen children. He grew up in a square, white clapboard house with a large garden. There was a chicken coop for eggs and meat, grapes for the wine, and vegetables to help feed the huge family. Joe was somewhere in the middle according to age.

He was one of three in the family who went to college, graduating from LaSalle in Philadelphia during the height of the great depression. He majored in finance and accounting, but there were no jobs when he got his degree. He got work where and when he could. Frustrated, he joined the Army in 1940. The Army shipped him to a paradise in the South Pacific called Hawaii. The army trained him on a base there, at Pearl Harbor. He was there on December 7, 1941, the day paradise was lost.

The army moved Joe to North Carolina. He enrolled in officer training. When he completed the training, he shipped off to northern Africa to fight in an anti-aircraft unit supporting Patton’s army against the desert rat, Rommel. He stayed in the war until it was over. His youth spent, he returned to South Jersey and took a job with the government as a special agent in the Treasury Department.

Angie moved to the small town in New Jersey where Joe lived because her older sister found work and a husband there. She found work too, and then she found Joe.

Because of time lost to the depression and the war, Joe was thirty-five and Angie was thirty-two when they married.

Life was good. The post-war years were prosperous. Life was easy for most Americans.

But, there was an ugly undercurrent. Tony grew up with the deep, unhealed sore weeping pus all around him.

Monday, May 19, 2014

Six Months Later

It seemed a long time coming, a long time suffering, until the active phase of dying.

Lisa sat by the bed, holding his hand. The breathing was getting worse. The muscles in his chest were too weak to move the phlegm and the mucous. Each breath rattled and gurgled.

There was a foul odor.

Lisa heard a knock on the door. She let go of his hand and placed it on the bed.

“Hello, Lisa,” Lynn said.

“Lynn. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know. If it’s weird I’ll go. But I wanted to see him one more time.”

“Come on in. He's in there.”

Lynn walked into the dark room. She strained to see Peter. He was skinny and grey. Lynn thought she might be sick.

Peter sat up with a brief, final surge of energy.

His voice crackled. His dry lips pulled apart with each syllable.

“Where is he, Lynn? Where is he?”

“He’s not here, Peter. I came alone.”

A piercing moan; and he was dead.

The Exchange Student (circa 1977)

The Exchange Student

The chill belies spring. Cattle are scattered in the fields, penned in by electric fencing. A bull mounts a cow and heaves on her, his breath pouring out of his flared nostrils with each thrust. From out of nowhere, a voice behind me, “C’est un facon de garder au chaud.” I turn, startled, and there is a girl, 19 or so, with a backpack. I reply, “Oui, il est.” She bends her head to the left and smiles. She turns on her heels and continues down the road, leaving me standing on the side of the road. I watch her go, until she vanishes over the horizon. “A bientot.”

The cow is grazing now, picking at the grass and the weeds, chewing between bites at the ground. The bull is lying on his side under a tree, looking the other way.

There are no cars. There are birds, chirping and yapping, there are cows mooing and grunting and chewing, and there are leaves and branches creaking and flapping in the breeze. The wind comes and goes, as the young girl had come and gone.

All of a sudden the fields are filled with soldiers, and the noise is deafening. There are guns and tanks and screams of horrible pain. Cows lay dead in the fields, gaping holes in their sides, heads, and bellies. The smell of rotten flesh, human and animal, fills the air.

The line of young men seems endless. As they pass it is obvious they cannot see me. I am a ghost to them, and they to me. After so long in France, it is funny to hear the American accents. That guy sounds like he’s from Michigan, and that one from South Carolina. Wow, listen to that New York accent, no doubt that guy’s from Boston. They are kids.

Cigarettes are passed out, and canteens handed from one to the next down the line. They look like they’ve gotten the worst of it from the devil himself. I could see the end of the line approaching, and then the last few pass me by.

The fog lifts, the sun shines, and the specters are gone.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

The Gift

The wind blew cold and damp with the bite of the onshore wind.

Mario had been up since dawn, but he knew better than to get out of bed up until light came through the venetian blinds. He never started Christmas morning on the wrong foot.

Once he was sure it was safe, Mario bounced out of bed and ran down the hall to his parents’ bedroom. He peeked in. They were awake.

“Merry Christmas,” his mother said.

“Merry Christmas. Is Mary Beth up yet?”

Mary Beth, being eight years older than Mario, was apt to sleep to an undesirable hour on Christmas morning.

“Go and check,” his dad said, which Mario took to be license to wake her.

He ran into her room and turned on the light. He stomped around like a wooden soldier on steroids.

“Get out of here,” she screamed, holding the “out” for an extra-long count.

She pulled the covers over her head.

“Come on,” he said. In his best vaudeville impersonation he sang, “Presents!” He took a bow and tipped an imaginary top hat.

“Give me a minute you little turd,” she said.

“You’re the turd,” he yelled.

“All right you two,” his mother said, pulling the covers off of his sister with a smile. “Let’s get our slippers on and go see what’s under the tree.”

Mario shot into his room, emerged with slippers on, and ran to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He waited for everyone to brush. At last, it was time.

Mario went right for it, right to the square package with round bulges. He knew what it was. The same shape had been under the tree for every Christmas he could remember. It was the one thing he knew he could count on. The square package with the round bulges, once a year, without fail, on Christmas morning.

This was his new basketball. It was his favorite present. Nothing else mattered.

Last year’s ball was on its last legs, as usual. It was balding and slippery. The grip was worn down and the dimples were played off. Mario opened the present, pulled apart the cardboard, and he read the magic words: “Spalding - Official Size.” He picked the ball up to smell the new rubber and to feel the suction-like grip of the new dimples. He put his fingers in each deep seam and made a full circle around the ball. He spun the ball on his right index finger until his mom was compelled to tell him to stop before he broke a light. She had to coax him to put it down and open his other presents, which he did in haste to return his affections to the new ball.

Mario hated snow on Christmas. He put the ball on the floor next to the rocking chair. After breakfast, he said, “Can I go out for a little while?”

“Where are you going?” his mother asked.

Mario’s father, a man of few words, said, “You know where he’s going.”

Mario ran to the schoolyard, the ball under one arm and the snow shovel in the other hand. The frigid wind blew and the snow swirled around him. He cleared a patch under the basket.

Tony's Birthday

Tony’s Birthday

August 8, 1963

Tony’s Aunt Angie was born in the house on Philadelphia Avenue, and lived there all her life. She took the bus to work every day save for one, Thursday, her day off. Tony and his buddies went to the big house for lunch, 11:30 sharp, every Thursday in the summer.

Today was special. It was Thursday after Tony’s 5^th birthday.

Tony and Paul and Kenny and Bonnie gathered on Third Street. The four linked hands. Paul’s mother and Tony’s mother watched them to the end of Third Street, until they disappeared around the corner.

Aunt Angie waited at the end of the drive. She greeted them with hugs and kisses and herded them inside.

They got cowboy hats. The boys got holsters with plastic six shooters; Bonnie got a hoop skirt to tie around her shorts. And they all got plastic guitars, with plastic strings to strum.

Aunt Angie got her camera. She went inside and got Tony’s grandfather, now nearly 90, and sat him on the front porch. All the kids gathered around him with their hats, guns and guitars. He patted each one on the top of the head before he went back inside.

“Grandpa looks tired Aunt Angie.”

“Well, he’s getting old Tony. We all get tired when we get old.”

“I don’t wanna get old then.”

She smiled and patted him on the head.

Tony and his friends were hungry. Because it was his birthday, Tony picked what was for lunch. He chose his favorite thing that Aunt Angie cooked, veal with peppers and onions. He loved it. He swore no on could make it like Aunt Angie. His mother tried, his Aunt Theresa tried, and his Aunt Mary tried. But always, Tony announced their failure to live up to Aunt Angie.

After lunch, they played cowboys and Indians, using the chicken coop and the rows of grapes to hide from each other. They climbed trees to set up ambushes. They imagined hospitals to care for the wounded. All the while, Aunt Angie snapped picture after picture.

A little before 2:00, Tony’s mother and Paul’s mother walked to the big house to fetch the kids home. Today, they stayed for a piece of the birthday cake. While they ate cake, Tony and his friends laid under the red mulberry tree in front of the big house, gazing up through the branches at the bright, blue sky. They were exhausted.

“They all had such a good time.”

“They always do,” Tony’s mom said, flicking ashes on the grass.

“Thanks for having them again, Angelina,” Paul’s mom added.

“Oh, heavens. I love it. I think I enjoy it more than they do.”

“Bye, Aunt Angie.”

They yelled and hollered as they walked home, with cowboy hats, guns, and guitars.

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

The Window

A man awoke with a chill. He rose and went to the window. He could not close it. He sat up until morning, shivering.

When businesses opened, he called the window repairman. The repairman arrived in due course. After a brief inspection, he announced that the window could not be repaired and would have to be replaced.

The man who owned the window could not afford the cost of the replacement. This he conveyed to the repairman who, unable to provide services for free, left, waving as he went through the door.

Now the man never left his apartment without closing all the windows and locking the door. Unable to close the window, he was unable to go to work. Unable to go to work, he was unable to replace the window.

Nor could the man sleep with the window open for fear of intruders. This went on for days. The man was so tired he could not see straight. With time his poor eyesight was joined by slurred speech. On the eleventh day, he started to hallucinate. While hallucinating, he saw the window close. But for this he may have died.

The Therapist

“My father never told me he loved me.”

Dr. Casey stopped writing.

“What’s that, Peter?”

“My father never told me he loved me.”

The doctor put his pen down and sat forward.

“You’ve never told me that.”

“I never really thought about it ‘til last night. I was lying in bed. I was thinking about dying. I was thinking about my son. Then I realized it. My father never once told me he loved me.”

“Did your father love you?”

“Yeah, I know he did.”

“Why do you think he never said it?”

“I don’t know. He was quiet.”

Peter looked out the window and crossed his feet. He closed his eyes and leaned back. A light swirled behind his eyelids and he couldn't make it stop. He closed his eyes hard, and then he relaxed them. It was still there. He rubbed at his eyes. It was no use. The light was there.

Peter got up. “I need to use the restroom,” he said.

“Okay.” Dr. Casey stood and walked to his desk. He picked up a fresh notepad.

Peter walked past the restroom. He stepped onto the elevator and watched the door close. He stepped out of the elevator and waved to the receptionist in the beauty salon on the first floor. She smiled and waved back. He walked straight to his car. Dr. Casey saw him from the window, turning left onto Route 19.

“Oh, Peter,” he said. “Don’t do that.”

He got up and went to his desk. He threw the notepad down and scratched above his left eye.

Dad's Cancer

Dad's Cancer

I’m starting the Dodge Charger. My dad is coming out the front door. He’s wearing khaki pants and a raincoat, even though the sun is shining and it’s warm. He’s so skinny and weak. His eyes are sunken and his cheeks are hollow. I can’t believe how frail he is, and how helpless. He takes the first step and stumbles. He regains his balance. I can see my mother through the doorway, getting ready to follow him to the car so we can go to Atlantic City for the chemo. He starts to walk toward me. He misses the first step and falls on his face, too weak to extend his arms. The thud is sickening, and I shiver remembering the sound. Face on pavement. Blood on pavement. Fear in my father’s eyes as he wipes blood from his nose and mouth. My mother cries. I try to remain calm. I try to soothe him, telling him it isn’t as bad as it seems.

I help him sit up and he spits out blood, some of it onto my jeans. My mother hands me some tissues and I start to dab away at the bloodstains. He is cut above the eyes, on the bridge of his nose, and on his lips. He made a three-point landing, and he is stunned from the fall. He looks at me for comfort and reassurance. I say what I can.

I lift him up like a baby and carry him into the house and place him on the couch in the small living room. I finish cleaning his face and put a pillow under his head. He closes his eyes.

I call the hospital to cancel the appointment. My mother smokes a cigarette, sobbing at the kitchen table. I put my hand on her shoulder as I walk by to check on my dad. He is asleep, scabs forming on his face. He looks peaceful.

On A Kayak

I am floating in a kayak. Small swells rock me, and the soft breeze massages my face. The sun is reaching its peak. I am in a lagoon. I can see people on the beach and the resort buildings and the flags and the water fountains and the beach craft and the toys.

I head out, away from the lagoon. I round the bend of rocks that forms the breakwater; I am alone.

I look to the shore and see strong trees waving in the wind, black rocks from lava that melted and froze there I don’t know how many years ago, and far off a cloud blanketed, dead volcanic mountain. My arms feel strong and my core pumps power into each stroke, with which I am accelerating in peace. I stop paddling and drift with the tide and the swells and the breeze. The water is quiet, and the breeze is just a whisper.

I lean back and close my eyes, drinking in the moment.

A barracuda, chasing lunch, leaps out of the water and over the bow of the kayak. Life is going on here, thank you very much. There is no escape, no matter where you go or how hard you imagine.

I see a large, dark mass hovering near the surface. I paddle toward it and it takes shape: a beautiful, graceful, gigantic sea turtle. In the water, this animal is fluid, adroit, formidable. Out of water, it is lumbering, slow and clumsy.

A large eye, just above the surface, spies me, and all of a sudden, he (or she) is gone.

Shorty's Birthday

Shorty’s Birthday

This is fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

August 8, 1963

Shorty’s older brother, John, picked berries at old Mrs. Hamilton’s farm. Mrs. Hamilton took a distinct interest in John, a quiet boy with good manners and a stoic work ethic.

That boy’s going places, she would say at night to old Mr. Hamilton.

Mrs. Hamilton asked John about his family, his life at home, and so it was that she came to know about Shorty’s birthday. She wasn’t able to do anything for Shorty on the 5th, because she was in New York. But she returned to the Harbor on the 7th, and asked John to bring his little brother to the farm for cake and ice cream.

John worked from daybreak until noon every day except Sunday, picking blueberries into an old Maxwell House coffee can that hung on a shoestring around his neck. When the can was full, he poured the berries into twelve, pint containers that were arranged in a wooden box they called a flat. When a flat was full, John took it to the pay station and exchanged it for a coupon worth 10 cents and another empty flat. It was hard, hot work, especially for a young boy. But John came every day when there was picking at the farm, and he brought money home every Friday and turned it over to his mom.

John didn’t tell Shorty why he wanted him to come to Mrs. Hamilton’s farm. He just brought him. Shorty was too young to work, so he sat in the row between the bushes, in the shade when he could find it, and watched his brother pick. Every now and again John would reach down and give Shorty a handful of the plump, bluish purple berries. Shorty wolfed down the sweet berries almost before John could stand up from offering them to him.

The sun arced higher, and the noon whistle blew. Pickers were allowed to finish the flat they were working on when the whistle blew, and John did. When it was full, he retrieved his coupon and hung his Maxwell House can on the nail in the little wooden hut they called the can shed.

John walked to the well next to the stone walkway that led to the house. He pumped the old iron handle until cool, clear water poured hard from the spout. He craned down to drink. When he was sated, he washed his hands, rubbing away the stains from the berries, and he patted some cool water on his hot cheeks. Shorty watched.

“Come on now, Shorty.”

“Where we goin', John?”

“Up to the big house. Mrs. Hamilton has a surprise for ya.”

Shorty beamed.

“A surprise for me?”

“Sure does, Shorty.”

Shorty skipped the rest of the way up the path.

John knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

John recognized Mrs. Hamilton’s voice right away.

As John and Shorty walked in, Mrs. Hamilton came around the corner to greet them.

“Hello, boys. Come right on in.”

Shorty walked behind John, in his shadow, under his protection.

The house was twenty times as big as their house. Shorty had never seen anything like it.

Mrs. Hamilton motioned them into a small sitting room. When they entered, Shorty’s eyes popped open wide. On a wooden table, covered with a crocheted doily, sat a sheet cake with five blazing candles. “Happy 5th Birthday Eloy” was written on top in blue icing.

Next to the cake was a ceramic bowl heaped up high with vanilla ice cream.

Shorty was speechless.

“Say something, Shorty.”

John was embarrassed.

“Is this for me, ma’am?”

“Why, of course it is Shorty. Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Thank you.”

Shorty felt like he’d died and gone to heaven.

The Island Studio

The ceiling fan whirled, shaping violent ellipses. It turned hard, as if to unscrew itself.

Candide pulled the chain to slow it down. The air was heavy. The faint breeze made little difference.

The housekeeper climbed the wooden steps, up to the small room on the second floor of the guest house; the room Candide made into a studio for her writing. There was a laptop on the desk, and behind it was the old Royal typewriter her father used before he died.

"How can I write when sweat is dripping on my keyboard?"

"You're the one with the romantic notion that air conditioning is uncivilized," Emily said, without making eye contact. "I brought you some lemonade."

"Just lemonade?" Candide asked, leaning back and stretching her arms above her head to dry her underarms in the draft of the fan.

"I put a little something extra."

Emily knew she was enabling.

"I know how you like it. And I had no intention of going back downstairs."

"Judging me today, Emily?"

"Not at all, ma'am," Emily said, without a hint of respect.

Emily picked up a small pillow and put it on the chair that Candide used for naps. She peeked at the computer screen and frowned at the empty page.

"How's it coming, ma'am. The story, I mean."

Candide was standing in front of the French doors, opened to a spacious patio above the garden. She took a drink and turned to face Emily.

"I'm making great progress in my head."

Emily straightened the painting of a man catching a great fish.

"And on paper?"

"Not so much."

Emily moved toward the stairs. She rubbed at the low of her back, to soothe the ache that wouldn't go away.

"Wait, Emily."

"What is it, ma'am?"

"It's so damn hot."

Emily waited, sure of what was next.

"Bring me another lemonade?"

Emily was surprised at the embarrassment.

She started down the stairs and answered back, "Sure thing, ma'am. Give me just a minute to fix it.” She shook her head with every step.

Candide took the last sip and let the ice cubes rest on her lips. She put the glass down on a side table and sat down at her desk. She laid her chin in her cupped hands and stared over the top of her screen, fixing her eyes on the cat lying on the window sill, seeking relief from the heat in the torpid breeze.

"My, you look content," she said to the cat. "Hot, but content."

Candide pecked on the keyboard and two or three lines appeared on the screen. She stopped, sat back, and read. She leaned in and tapped until everything was erased.

The screen door slammed. Emily was coming back with the drink. Candide listened to every heavy footstep.

"You are a sweetheart."

Emily replaced the empty glass with the full one, turned and left.

Candide picked up the cool glass and placed it on one cheek and then the other. She stirred it with the skinny straw and took a long drink. She closed her eyes.

"I miss you, daddy," she whispered.

She opened her eyes. Memories of him were everywhere in the studio. The Dolphin fish mounted on the wall. The picture of him with her on the beach when she was a little girl. The writing awards and congratulatory letters. The old fishing pole, with rod and reel well worn. The picture with him helping her hold the first big fish she ever caught, a beautiful tarpon. The worn photo of him, with her mother, in happier times.

So many stories, and I can't write a one.

Death of an Atheist

Max put the book down. He had lost track of time; he was going to miss his bus. Max shoved the book into his backpack, pulled out his bus pass, and darted across the street, glancing down at his watch.

That’s when it him. He never saw it coming. The driver of the truck stood over him. Max was bleeding in the street. The Coors Light truck was big, it was going too fast, and the driver couldn’t stop: Max was dead.

Funny, Max thought, it doesn’t hurt. It’s just cold.

Max felt silence. He saw a bright light, blinding. The light warmed him; the cold was gone; he was comfortable.

“Am I really dead?”

Max floated through a fog, a mist. He was suspended, light as a feather. A voice from behind gave him a start.

“Hey,” the voice said.

Max turned. On a small chair sat an Asian man with a Blackberry in his right hand.

“Hey,” Max said back. “Who are you? Where am I?”

The man laughed.

“You’re in the doorway to heaven,” he said.

“Heaven?” Max asked.

“Yes, heaven.”

A chair appeared.

“Have a seat, Max,” the man said.

“How’d you know my name?”

“Give me a little credit,” the man said, laughing.

“If this is heaven, who are you?”

The man laughed again. “People call me god. You can call me Frank.”

Max was confused.

“Wow, okay. This is the doorway to heaven and people call you god.” Max laughed. “This is one helluva dream. I don’t believe in god or in heaven. I’m an atheist.”

“I know,” Frank said.

“Okay, I’ll go along. So, Frank… may I call you Frank?”

Max regretted the sarcasm.

“Please.”

“Well, Frank, do you decide who gets in?”

“Yep.”

“Then this should be an easy one, right?”

Frank smiled. “Not necessarily, Max.”

Frank typed something on the Blackberry. He hit the send button and Max heard the swoosh sound.

“Who said believing in me was the key to heaven?”

“Well, it seems pretty clear.”

“Pretty clear from what?”

“From what they say.”

Frank shook his head. “Pity.”

“What’s a pity?” Max asked.

“What they say.”

Frank stood to stretch.

“You know religious people who are total assholes, Max?”

“Jesus, you’re blunt.”

“Answer my question,” Frank said.

“Sure, I do. Plenty.”

“You know any holy rollers who treat people like crap?”

“Sure. Lots.”

“Then why do you think believing the nonsense and spouting off about it matter to me?”

“Don’t know. I figured that’s the way it was.”

“Why, Max? Why?”

“Because I never imagined it any other way. I couldn’t see it any other way.”

“It’s not that way, Max. I never said so.”

Max scratched behind his ear.

“Well, how do you get in?”

“By being good.”

“By being good?” Max asked. “That’s it?”

“My rules are pretty simple, Max. Men hungry for power embellished them. So yeah, that’s it, Max. No assholes allowed in, Max, especially not the assholes who pretend piety. There’s a special place for them.” Frank half smiled.

“But I got hit by a bus. I didn’t have time to make things right. I didn’t have time to confess.”

Frank half fell out of his chair.

“What?” Max looked at Frank.

“What did I say? What’s so funny?”

“Confess,” Frank said, still laughing. “That’s one of my all-time favorites. Just say a few Our Fathers and a few Hail Marys and it’s all washed away. How convenient, Max. How convenient. That’s not from me, Max. That’s some man-made craziness.”

“You mean…?”

“Craziness, Max. What kind of a god would sit still for it?”

Max leaned in.

“There’s no easy way out at the end. Ya think I’m unfair? How’s that right? You got hit by a bus. Some other guy who’s screwed over everybody his whole life gets in because he confesses? Not on my watch.”

Frank leaned in.
“You didn’t believe in me, Max. You didn’t go to church. You criticized the religion men made, not its fundamental precepts. You protested the abuse in the Catholic Church. You spoke out against religious intolerance, about racial intolerance, about intolerance. You spit out the pabulum. You recognized the false word of god for what it is, the word of money hungry, controlling men. You didn’t think anyone cared.” Frank paused. “You were only wrong about the last thing, Max, only the last thing.”

Frank put a hand on Max’s shoulder.

“You were a good man, Max. You weren’t an asshole.”

Frank stood.

“You relied on yourself and you took care of people. You had empathy. Make a long story short, Max, you gave a shit about people.”

Max listened, his mouth open.

“You helped feed people. You helped keep people warm. You stood up for the weak. You embraced differences. You walked in another man’s shoes before you drew conclusions. You did good stuff, Max. Not because you thought I wanted you to, but because it was right.”

Frank offered Max his hand.

“That’s the kind of guy I’m waiting for, Max. Come on in.”

Day 1

Today, I am starting a new blog (this one) dedicated exclusively to flash fiction. Flash fiction is loosely defined as a very brief complete story. As far as I can tell, there is no set limit on the number of words, although 1,000 seems to be a universal cap. Some purists contend that 300 words should be the limit. I'll commit to no more than 1,000, but many of my stories will be even shorter.

I hope you enjoy this blog. It certainly won't take long to read the submissions.

If you like it, I would love to know. If you hate it, well tell me that, too. And, either way, if you share it, that would be awesome.

Peace,

Matt