SnohoStories

The possum skittled away from the fog lamp horizon and into the path of the truck in the other lane. Trent crumpled his brow in a grimace, grateful for the pulsing bass and mindless lyrics inside his leather cocoon. He did not look in the rear view mirror, hyper-focused on his internal dialogue. Four hours until the presentation.

He had an idea on Monday, the key to his future at the firm. Trent pulled strings and reserved presentation time at the annual meeting. For two days, he stayed locked in his office, sign on door, tie on hook, shoes kicked off and away. Each night, he returned home in silence, drenched in sweat and smeared in dry erase dust. He drank three meals a day.

The big idea had crept and slithered and grown to saturate his cells, until he became the idea, and the idea was Trent. And now, the morning of the presentation, he had no idea and he was nothing. He tried now to remember, to feel, to breathe Monday. But there were no links. It was a day spent inside his mind, with no external touchstone to reality.

Somewhere between the fogs, he missed his exit and left the highway onto an unfamiliar street. The pavement conveyed the car on and into clarity, where tar met gravel trailing into water and sunrise. They stopped at the edge, both car and mind, and he stepped outside, clutching Monday’s newspaper.

Trent removed his shoes and mismatched socks, but resisted the urge to dip toes in icy murk. He sat in the gravel and unfolded the paper, staring at a day that never happened. Revelation broke above the line of trees, turning the paper and world to white and he began to fold, edges to edges, corners to corners.

He rose with the paper boat and stepped up to swampy reeds, raising his creation high above the trees. Deliberate shade exercised pupils into tools for letters and words, folded context and misread meaning. Trent flexed his fingers, dropping paper and spinning back to the car before the boat launched into the wet.

His socks and shoes now passengers, he rubbed the ball of his foot up and down the accelerator, appreciating the grooves, once deep, now worn with miles of friction and pressure. The highway found his car again, a nameless looping pain thumping his skull and vibrating his seat.

Toes gripped the knobby brake pedal as the road brought him to a pair of crows pulling sinews free from steaming flesh. Siphoned into air, gaming life itself, they vanished. A new blindness stole their shadows as he tried to capture them again in the rear view mirror. Eyes returned to the road, and he wondered if they had been crows or ravens.

Anna plucked bare a circle in the grass, depositing the sprouted blades on a tiny mound beside her crossed legs. Strewn about her were remnants of a day she now doubted had ever occurred. She lifted the cloth from her pail and sniffed at the cold crumbled biscuits and bottle of souring milk. Someone had eaten her lunch, possibly one of the twins.

She clapped her feet together and rubbed at the trampled mosaic of blood, grass, and mud. Papa said she was sweet all the way to her feet, but her toes were tough from pebbled paths and river rushes. He called her his little moon shadow. Leather sandals, good as new, lay next to her homemade fishing pole and an empty fish basket.

Anna stretched out onto her back and listened. The clack clack clack of the mill set the rhythm as she hummed a few notes of a familiar tune. A bald eagle pair were joined by a massive golden, taunting then soaring away. Anna began to improvise a bolder melody, notes diving with the powerful birds.

Perhaps she was only invisible to humans. She sat up and added more grass to the pile, a nest for the eagles. They seemed so small from her river’s edge view, but she had been close to one once when she was following Papa near the barn. It had stood atop the lightning tree and Papa brought her closer, softly closer, until she was directly below and could hear it tearing at the bird who had become its lunch.

She would have to make a much larger nest, of course, if there was any hope the eagles would join her. Maybe they would bring her a fish. She patted at the knife in her pocket, proud to be six and an expert fish-gutter. Papa told her to be proud, and so she was. Rinsing her toes in the marshy bank, she cut some reeds to add to the nest. A determined fisherman kept steady pace as she crossed his path, her wiry arms laden with stray twigs and leaves.

Anna tried to form a circle with the debris as the sun dotted a distant silo in a lowercase “i.” Margaret had taught her the alphabet. Anna tried to read, but found her mouth made the wrong sounds when she copied Margaret’s pursed lips and wrinkled brow. Now she wished she’d learned to braid a straightened plait like the one that divided Margaret’s left from right. If she could braid the reeds, maybe she could make a more attractive nest for the eagles.

Late to the river this morning, their secret fishing hole had already been taken. They had searched for a new spot where a father and six rowdy children could catch some fish without upsetting anyone. Nathan had brought his friend, Bill, and when they found the perfect place under tangled willow branches, Anna sat in silence, admiring the newness of this extra person.

Now most of the fisherman had packed and walked up the trail, or raised their boats out of the sucking water onto rickety trailers behind rusted trucks. They fished to survive. Anna watched the eagles against the pulled taffy clouds. The evening breeze blew a wispy lock from her matted curls, tickling her ear into spine shivers.

Today Bill told her about the Invisible Man, scooting closer, eyes entranced when he discovered she could pronounce, “invisible.” He breathed hot secrets into her attentive eyes, “The man could be right here in the boat with us!” She glanced at Papa and his wink told her to act scared, and so she did. Bill laughed and dove into the water with the twins.

Margaret counted the lunches again, then licked the corner of her shirt and tried to wipe a smudge of dirt from Anna’s nose, “Really!” Anna ducked away and Margaret spun back around on her bench, the pendulum braid swinging her frustration. Silt-seeking fingers found a puddle and a pile of sand and mixed a paste in which Anna intended to dip the offending braid. Above the boat, a lost circling cormorant caught her attention. Anna lay back on the bench and hummed along with the sound of playful splashing.

The nest now resembled the rubbish heap at home and she wondered if she should keep building, or tidy up the area that seemed to be her new home. If she was invisible to humans, it now seemed likely she was also invisible to birds. She sat on the nest, nibbling stale biscuit crumbs and thinking of night.

To Anna, nights were full of warmth and adventure. When the others had gone to sleep, she sat with Papa by the fire as he read his stories until she drifted off. Sometimes she would awake in the night, the wedding quilt tucked tightly around her, and see his silhouette at the window, waiting for something or someone.

On this night, there was no warmth. The eagles had gone and the mill whistle had last blown while sunlight paths still teased the river swells. The quiet was lonely, but not yet frightening. She thought of Bill’s story and wondered what kinds of things she could do now that she was invisible. Margaret was an easy first target. She lay on her side and curled tightly into the nest as she drifted into dreams.

Sleep was broken by crunching gravel and searing lamplight. The warmth was immediate and complete as he collapsed onto the nest and enfolded her in patience and pride. There were no apologies in the circle of arms and reeds and light. He tugged one of her errant tangles and sighed, “That’s my girl.”

Dustin’s crayon never left the menu as his gaze followed Kate skimming through the dining room. He knew the routine. Soon the breathless couple would pass through the doorframe, in search of their efficient hostess. They arrived, as expected, and Dustin lowered his head to the art work. The dieters again.

He didn’t understand why they came here every night, assigning numbers to menu items, debating whether Yukon Gold potatoes should really count as pasta. The man in the blue shirt looked toward him, a guilty expression on his face. Dustin knew he would soon admit to eating a donut for breakfast. Then the woman with the long o’s and a’s would talk about her favorite donut, the one with chocolate frosting and cream inside. He wanted to shout, “Boston cream,” but he knew they wouldn’t hear.

He tipped over the glass of crayons just to see if they would notice. They were already discussing the texture of the perfect mushroom. Dustin tuned them out and sat up straight. The pretty blonde girl and her mother had just stepped into the room. The girl kept her nose in a book until Kate came to take their order.

That was when the mother asked about the ghost. The pretty girl loved the paranormal and Kate humored her with stories of misplaced items and unexplained events. The girl asked her mom if she could go look at the stairs, where a young girl her age had fallen to her death. It was said she haunted the restaurant, but Dustin had never seen her. He watched the little girl and her mom, and waited for his favorite part of the evening. Kate returned at the end of the meal, and the girl’s mother asked if she wanted dessert. Her face lit up as she ordered a slice of chocolate peanut butter pie.

He watched as she ate it, smiling at her mom, and he recognized the moment the smile changed from pleasure to discomfort. She couldn’t eat another bite. He didn’t blame her, of course. The slice was huge. He’d never made it through either, when his mom let him order it, and it was his favorite. When they grabbed their coats, he trailed after them.

The pair held hands and walked up the path between a mother and her angry son, who held a doll and refused to go home. The mothers shared a knowing glance as they crossed paths. He hoped, this time, he would make it to the car with girl and her mom. The angry little boy stomped his feet and his mom scolded, “Fine. But don’t blame me if you get hit by a car!”

Dustin’s crayon never left the menu as his gaze followed Kate skimming through the dining room. He knew the routine. Soon the breathless couple would pass through the doorframe, in search of their efficient hostess. They arrived, as expected, and Dustin lowered his head to the art work. The dieters again.

This story is loosely based on actual events that occurred while visiting the Cabbage Patch Restaurant in Snohomish. I wrote this for (and about) my beautiful daughter, the paranormal fan. I took the photo on the stairs at the Blackman House Museum.

A chair gouged the stone floor and a man dashed after the fisherman. Someone silenced the music and the barista stood frozen, stirring. A tide of voices floated to the back of the cafe as gossip turned to speculation. The man in dripping waders had gulped a single word and disappeared. Now a woman in running gear rushed after them through the parking lot and down the wooden steps.

The man in the corner glanced up from the notebook in his lap, seeking the source of distraction. He found headphones and drowned cafe chaos in waves of cello and French horn. Meted in three, the piece led him back to the numbers and he scratched paper with precision strokes, ignoring the peripheral human churn. By threes and fives, customers abandoned drinks and schooled outside or to the windows for an elevated view of the spilling drama.

He counted thirteen inside and the crowd outside quickly multiplied. He factored in the shop across the parking lot, with an equally advantageous view. As the number of spectators increased, he knew the victim’s chances of survival statistically decreased. Sirens permeated the shallow membrane and he raised the volume. A three-minute response was average. Assuming the man had obtained the requested rope, the rescue may have begun in time.

He watched as the first emergency vehicle backed into the parking lot at the top of the steps. A wake of hats and umbrellas surged the walls of the two shops, flowing around parked cars. Predictably, phones and cameras emerged. He hummed the waltz. A woman turned from the window and stared at him, as if he were the tragedy. She looked like she might speak. A man pulled her arm and brought his phone to her face. She squinted, trying to make sense of the tiny image, shaking her head in confusion.

He returned to the numbers. There was nothing he could do, anyway. It was too late. He wondered the difference between those who rushed blindly after the fisherman, and those who chose the view. He added a few strokes to the equation, and paused with eyes closed as the music climaxed. They would each take ownership of this, personalize it, hijack it and spread it through friends, family and strangers. By the time the story garnished the local news, hundreds, maybe thousands would call it their own. Behind eyelids, he imagined an ocean of vibrating lips, faces without ears.

He had no compulsion to be counted in this tragedy of infinite proportion. He remained immersed in the music. Occasional glances toward the window revealed an event for which all senses were not required. Spectators turned away as lights flashed again. Perhaps it had been a child. The sea of umbrellas ebbed as the vehicle moved slowly out of the lot. It was over, then. Oblivious now to the thinning school of onlookers, he concentrated on the equation that sustained him. He worked through the late afternoon until the final shift whistle sounded at the mill across the river. His mind surfaced and he rolled out the door and into the waiting van.

This was my fourth flash fiction story. I wrote a series about a coffee shop I imagined in the building that now houses Troy Beck Antiques. It was originally published on my Jentropy.com blog. At the time I wrote it, I wasn’t aware there was a whistle at the mill. When I moved to Snohomish, I was delighted to find that part of my story was accurate. I wrote this story as a personal exercise. I was trying to include as much nautical and mathematical terminology as possible, to see if readers would notice. I love the story, but if I had to rewrite it, I would probably change a lot of the descriptive words.

She clutched the paper-wrapped package and splashed across the street. Others viewed her life as disorganized, chaotic. But beneath the frayed surface there was rhythm and structure. This meeting was not planned. He left a message while she was at the gym. The coffee shop was across from the printer and she was able to work it into the day without displacing anything important. How well he knew her routine.

She spied him at a table near the window. He knew she would be punctual and had ordered her favorite. She sat and tucked stray wisps back into her ponytail. Thanking him for the drink, she placed her package on the table and flashed that smile that made him hers. He had never before asked to meet her in the middle of the day. She opened the package from the printer and pulled out the new brochure, passing it to him. “Nice work! Didn’t realize you were such a geek.”

“Nerd. And I had help. I just hope it’s enough to bring in more donors.” She was proud of her work at the research foundation, and he was happy she had a cause to engage her while the kids were in school. She started telling him about her day. They were both so busy lately with their own projects. She didn’t know how he even found time to meet her. He looked older. Tired.

She told him about the trouble with their daughter’s recital and the latest struggle with the contractor designing their new deck. He nodded. She talked. He had always been the silent one. When they were out socially, she did the talking for him. She was almost embarrassed at his silence. It was not that he wasn’t intelligent. He was a brilliant man, well respected in his field, widely published and a popular speaker. She decided long ago that he just didn’t ‘get’ this social thing. He preferred to connect online. She didn’t think he had any ‘real’ friends.

She talked until she ran out of things to say. He reached across the table for her hand and she gave it a squeeze, before pulling away, straightening the brochures. Her phone buzzed and she glanced at the screen. “Soccer!” She hopped up and gave him a peck on the cheek. He stood, lips parted with intention. She was gone, breezing across the wet street, lights flashing as she unlocked the car. He followed. The car pulled away as he pulled the cold handle on the heavy pub door.

This was my third flash fiction story. I wrote a series about a coffee shop I imagined in the building that now houses Troy Beck Antiques. It was originally published on my Jentropy.com blog.

The report was due in three hours. It was the same each time. For six years he had neglected it until the final hours, possibly with hope he would be gone before it was due again. He crammed his gear into a bag and left the office, driving in search of an anonymous coffee shop with a view of the future. Wandering consumed another hour and he exited the highway into Smalltown Anyplace, resigned to get it over with, or just copy the report from last year. It was not like anything had changed. Cruising the main street, he spied a neon wi-fi sign and pulled in.

The café was dim, despite the bank of windows overlooking the river. He ordered something tall and black and absently searched for a table. Getting comfortable was not an option, so he committed to getting caffeinated. He slid the cup aside and littered the table with the trappings of modern convenience.

Reading the report from last year, he confirmed nothing had changed. He considered options while checking email and scrolling through text messages on his phone. He opened a browser, seeking distraction, and noticed the waning battery life. Eyes sought a power outlet. The only one visible was on the far side of the room, near the fireplace and a seat that was already taken. There were no other chairs within range.

He strayed from the distractions and stared at the document again, performing a global search and replace on some of his frequently used adjectives. Maybe they wouldn’t notice it was the same file he submitted last year. He looked toward the seat by the fireplace. The girl in the chair was reading a book, not even using the outlet. His phone vibrated. The ex. More money. Ignore. Back to email. A customer needed a quote by the end of the day. There were a few messages from the dating service he had unsuccessfully enrolled in last year, yet was too ashamed to cancel.

He saw the battery indicator again and looked toward the outlet. She was still there, fingers twirling curls, sandal dangling from bouncing toes. He returned to the annual review. He tried to think of a significant project that defined his year. Nothing. Justifying his existence to his employer always made him question his existence on this planet. He looked away from the screen and gulped cooling coffee. Her mouth tilted as if she had just discovered a secret. Sandals dropped on the stone floor and bare legs tucked under her draping skirt.

The report was due in less than an hour. He estimated twenty minutes of battery life. He cut out a paragraph and pasted it higher in the report. Pleased with the result, he did the same with a few more. Sunlight reflecting off the river crawled across the café. The young woman pulled her hair away from her face and light danced through curls and across her exposed neck. Lashes fluttered. She lifted the book and opened her eyes.

His phone buzzed. A client. Ignore. He rubbed at his temples and took another mouthful of his cold coffee. He hadn’t seen her take a single sip of hers. Why was she in a coffee shop, not drinking coffee and sitting in the only seat near a power outlet? He glared at the document and changed the dates and the name of his supervisor, the only two things that were different each year. He sent email replies as his battery indicator dipped into the red zone. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried the breathing exercises he had learned in group therapy.

When he opened them, he was surprised to see the woman walking directly toward him. She brushed by, skirts swirling around tattooed ankles. Honey. He expected she would smell more like citrus. Her eyes were light, and she was not as young as she had seemed, curled up in the armchair. He seized the opportunity.

Sweeping gear back into the bag, he leaped up and dashed for the chair near the outlet. He rifled for the power cord, plugging in the computer and spreading chaos on the coffee table. Her mug was still there, seemingly untouched, but with a clear outline of pink lipstick along the rim. Tea. He was wrong again. He opened the laptop and stared at the screen. The sun shone on the monitor, his work obscured. He sighed and flopped back in the chair, rubbing his neck. Eyes searched the room again, and he noticed another outlet on the wall, directly under the table he had just vacated.

This was my second flash fiction story. I wrote a series about a coffee shop I imagined in the building that now houses Troy Beck Antiques. It was originally published on my Jentropy.com blog.

Metal scraped stone, sweeping back rays of autumn afternoon. Customers posed on chairs and couches, faces bathed in blue light and restrained emotion. He shuffled forward in the line, squinting at the neon hieroglyphics on the menu board. The young woman in front of him recited her order, and though he recognized the words, they held no meaning. He was about to order his first cup of coffee.

He reached the counter and pocketed the key, fingering the impression on his palm as he asked simply for a medium. He pulled virgin plastic from his back pocket and traded the barista for a steaming ceramic mug. A mug. He had hoped for a paper cup and a final moment alone by the river. He glanced down at the creeping beams of light.

Another patron was deftly juggling condiments on a counter. He followed and observed the well-rehearsed ritual, making mental notes as he passed the hot mug back and forth between his hands. He copied the dance and watched as the liquid swirled from black through shades of brown, finally settling on the familiar beige of his memories.

He surveyed the shop, suddenly intent on finding the ideal seat for starting a new life. Remains of sunlight stroked a table with high-back wooden chairs and in one corner a booth sat empty next to a cluttered bookshelf. A couple tangled on an overstuffed loveseat. He chose an armchair near the fireplace on the shadowy side of the café and set the drink on a table. The key gouged his thigh as he sat down, and he fished it out and dropped it into a coat pocket.

He admitted to himself that there was no such thing as starting over. There was no scratch, no zero. He was starting from thirty. For fourteen months he had ignored the outside world and denied the existence of possibility. He never intended to disconnect so completely, but once he had, he found it easy to withdraw from everything. In the end, the events that led to his seclusion were repeated, forcing him to resurface.

He was starting from thirty and then some. Each fiber held secrets of generations, pleasure and pain. He leaned into the steam and closed his eyes, willing the newness into every cell. He briefly wondered if this breath would become part of another being, if he would ever have that chance again. His hand dipped into his coat pocket, pushing aside the key and carefully removing the small leather notebook. He opened his eyes, trembling as he turned to the page with the frayed ribbon. His left thumb brushed the smeared blue ink of final words, and his right, the stark white of zero.

This was my first flash fiction story. I wrote a series about a coffee shop I imagined in the building that now houses Troy Beck Antiques. It was originally published on my Jentropy.com blog.