Flash Fiction - Issue 2
Back to the Beginning
By not talking about it, we both believed it gave an exciting feeling to our
friendship with its unspokenness of what could have been. I never intended to
act on my feelings, yet I knew if there was ever a moment to tell her, it had to
be now, on this bench, overlooking the city’s lake.
Looking, but not really looking, we sat on the bench. Probably a 7-year-
old ran by in circles with a mother telling her daughter to keep near.
“Nature does nothing uselessly.” Aristotle said that, she said, glancing
over at me, smiling.
“Is that right,” I replied.
She thought I would go on to say more, but I didn’t.
I came close, once, to really saying it.
We met back in undergraduate. We kept in touch over the last 8 years.
When I would visit Michigan for a week or two in the summer months, we
always made a point to have dinner together, walk around the lake to talk and
laugh.
I wanted to go back to the beginning, when and where we first met. I
want to wander the old Michigan roads that lead into the woods. I want to
stand on the bridge that overlooks the river, where I jumped off in hopes of
trying to scare you; where we both sat under the bridge in the late afternoon to
watch the train overhead roll off further north. I wanted to tell you then.
friendship with its unspokenness of what could have been. I never intended to
act on my feelings, yet I knew if there was ever a moment to tell her, it had to
be now, on this bench, overlooking the city’s lake.
Looking, but not really looking, we sat on the bench. Probably a 7-year-
old ran by in circles with a mother telling her daughter to keep near.
“Nature does nothing uselessly.” Aristotle said that, she said, glancing
over at me, smiling.
“Is that right,” I replied.
She thought I would go on to say more, but I didn’t.
I came close, once, to really saying it.
We met back in undergraduate. We kept in touch over the last 8 years.
When I would visit Michigan for a week or two in the summer months, we
always made a point to have dinner together, walk around the lake to talk and
laugh.
I wanted to go back to the beginning, when and where we first met. I
want to wander the old Michigan roads that lead into the woods. I want to
stand on the bridge that overlooks the river, where I jumped off in hopes of
trying to scare you; where we both sat under the bridge in the late afternoon to
watch the train overhead roll off further north. I wanted to tell you then.
Jack C. Buck, originally from Michigan, lives in Denver, Colorado. He loves
Michigan and Colorado just the same, And baseball and reading just as much. Find him on Twitter @Jack_C_Buck
2016
“Twenty sixteen.”
“Sorry, what?”
Martin turned to the older man nestled in the corner of the bus shelter,
shrouded in darkness. He hadn’t noticed him until now.
“Twenty sixteen,” the man repeated. “Our bus was due at 20.16. Which
means it’s” - he stepped forward out of the shadow and checked his watch -
“twelve minutes late and counting.”
Christ, Martin thought, here we go: there’s always one, and they always
want to talk to me. He studied the bus stop on the other side of the road. A
group of teenagers were huddled round a mobile phone, laughing and
pushing and pointing at one another.
“What age are you, son?”
“Thirty-one.”
“Thirty one. And have you a family of your own?”
“No, no,” Martin laughed. “I’m not married. A couple of near misses, but
long runs the fox, wha’?”
“I have a son your age. Had a son your age. I mean, a son who would be
your age now.”
Uneasy, Martin turned away and stared up the wet road for the bus.
Cars’ tyres sizzled past on the slick surface.
“He died.”
“Oh. I’m – uh – very sorry to hear that.”
“Ach.” The old man shook his head. “Long time ago now.”
“Still.......” Martin replied. He had no idea how to finish the sentence.
“It was my fault. Or so Nuala - the wife - always believed. Never said
anything, but I know that’s what she thought.”
Martin was uncomfortable with this sudden unbidden confession. Where
was the bus?
“I was minding him. At the house while she was out shopping. I was
supposed to be watching him, but I was fixing the garden fence. He’d
wandered to the wee brook at the bottom of the garden. I didn’t hear a
thing.”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself.”
“Shouldn’t I?”
“Well....no. Accidents happen.”
There didn’t seem anything else to say. Martin winced at the platitudes.
Was that the best he could do? 'Accidents happen'? Jesus.
“What about your dad, son? Is he still living?”
“Yeah, he’s in a home now. Well, sheltered accommodation. Since my
Mum died – he couldn’t really look after himself. There’s just me and my sister,
and she’s abroad.”
Martin didn’t know why he was telling him this. He didn't want to talk
about his father. He knew he should visit him more often. Bring him things, the
things Mum used to get for him when they lived at home: plain chocolate, his
History magazine, a J.T Edson or Zane Grey book.
The arrival of the bus broke Martin’s reverie, and he stepped back to
allow the older man to get on first.
“No, you’re all right, son. I think I’ll have a wee smoke and get the next
one. Twenty thirty-nine.”
Martin got on the bus and sat down. The old man waved as the bus
pulled away. Martin fished in his pocket for his phone.
Unlock > Functions > Phone > Contacts > Dad.
“Hi, Dad? It’s Martin........Yes. No, no reason. Just thought I’d ring.”
“Sorry, what?”
Martin turned to the older man nestled in the corner of the bus shelter,
shrouded in darkness. He hadn’t noticed him until now.
“Twenty sixteen,” the man repeated. “Our bus was due at 20.16. Which
means it’s” - he stepped forward out of the shadow and checked his watch -
“twelve minutes late and counting.”
Christ, Martin thought, here we go: there’s always one, and they always
want to talk to me. He studied the bus stop on the other side of the road. A
group of teenagers were huddled round a mobile phone, laughing and
pushing and pointing at one another.
“What age are you, son?”
“Thirty-one.”
“Thirty one. And have you a family of your own?”
“No, no,” Martin laughed. “I’m not married. A couple of near misses, but
long runs the fox, wha’?”
“I have a son your age. Had a son your age. I mean, a son who would be
your age now.”
Uneasy, Martin turned away and stared up the wet road for the bus.
Cars’ tyres sizzled past on the slick surface.
“He died.”
“Oh. I’m – uh – very sorry to hear that.”
“Ach.” The old man shook his head. “Long time ago now.”
“Still.......” Martin replied. He had no idea how to finish the sentence.
“It was my fault. Or so Nuala - the wife - always believed. Never said
anything, but I know that’s what she thought.”
Martin was uncomfortable with this sudden unbidden confession. Where
was the bus?
“I was minding him. At the house while she was out shopping. I was
supposed to be watching him, but I was fixing the garden fence. He’d
wandered to the wee brook at the bottom of the garden. I didn’t hear a
thing.”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself.”
“Shouldn’t I?”
“Well....no. Accidents happen.”
There didn’t seem anything else to say. Martin winced at the platitudes.
Was that the best he could do? 'Accidents happen'? Jesus.
“What about your dad, son? Is he still living?”
“Yeah, he’s in a home now. Well, sheltered accommodation. Since my
Mum died – he couldn’t really look after himself. There’s just me and my sister,
and she’s abroad.”
Martin didn’t know why he was telling him this. He didn't want to talk
about his father. He knew he should visit him more often. Bring him things, the
things Mum used to get for him when they lived at home: plain chocolate, his
History magazine, a J.T Edson or Zane Grey book.
The arrival of the bus broke Martin’s reverie, and he stepped back to
allow the older man to get on first.
“No, you’re all right, son. I think I’ll have a wee smoke and get the next
one. Twenty thirty-nine.”
Martin got on the bus and sat down. The old man waved as the bus
pulled away. Martin fished in his pocket for his phone.
Unlock > Functions > Phone > Contacts > Dad.
“Hi, Dad? It’s Martin........Yes. No, no reason. Just thought I’d ring.”
I Thought that was Kind of a Beautiful Metaphor
She asked me today what it was about fire that I love so much. Eventually
they all ask this question, or a variant thereof. Some of them ask it straight out in
the first session, others leave it until they've 'got to know me better'. They try to
figure me out first, such that by the time they ask the question they’ll know (they
think) whether I'm answering truthfully or not. Imbeciles.
Self-evidently, there is no answer to the question "What is it about fire that
you love so much?" To borrow that most frustrating of logics: if you have to ask,
then there's no point telling you. In fact, I go further: if you think it's a valid
question at all, then you're never going to "get" me. Why does the earth turn?
Why is water wet? Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near?
And so I have a number of pat answers to that question, one of which I'll
trot out according to my mood, or the therapist who's asking, or the time of day.
"Fire purifies. It cleanses and purges. It allows us to start anew, unencumbered
by a lifetime's impedimenta."
That's the default. Sometimes my love of fire, and my evangelical
defence of my activities in that area, angers them. Most unprofessional, in my
opinion.
"What about the people who died, Mason? What about them?"
What about them? Pigs. Most of them died going back into their burning
sty to retrieve something pointless - wedding photos, a pet lizard, an iPad. One
lot perished because they'd taken the batteries out of the smoke alarm to use
for the TV remote. I thought that was kind of a beautiful metaphor, don't you?
Anyway, I can't thik about any of them. They were stupid and now they're
gone. Up in smoke.
The ones who survived are different. They interest me, the ones who have
prevailed in their own personal trial by fire and have emerged, blinking and
reborn, on the other side. They're the ones I'd like to talk to. I have some
questions for them.
"How does it feel - to lose everything? To have to start again, the slate not
just wiped clean, but smashed into a million pieces, and burned to ashes?"
I've set them free and I wish they could see that. Possessions possess. I
don't expect gratitude, but in the fullness of time I'd like to think they'll see what
I've done for what it truly is - their liberation.
Anyway, Ms Therapist didn't like the answer I trotted out today. It was one
of my best, reserved for those I know it will offend most. She tried to remain
calm, implacable, but I could see that she was already mentally drafting the
email requesting that I be transferred to another therapist. I wonder how long it
will be before they ask me...
they all ask this question, or a variant thereof. Some of them ask it straight out in
the first session, others leave it until they've 'got to know me better'. They try to
figure me out first, such that by the time they ask the question they’ll know (they
think) whether I'm answering truthfully or not. Imbeciles.
Self-evidently, there is no answer to the question "What is it about fire that
you love so much?" To borrow that most frustrating of logics: if you have to ask,
then there's no point telling you. In fact, I go further: if you think it's a valid
question at all, then you're never going to "get" me. Why does the earth turn?
Why is water wet? Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near?
And so I have a number of pat answers to that question, one of which I'll
trot out according to my mood, or the therapist who's asking, or the time of day.
"Fire purifies. It cleanses and purges. It allows us to start anew, unencumbered
by a lifetime's impedimenta."
That's the default. Sometimes my love of fire, and my evangelical
defence of my activities in that area, angers them. Most unprofessional, in my
opinion.
"What about the people who died, Mason? What about them?"
What about them? Pigs. Most of them died going back into their burning
sty to retrieve something pointless - wedding photos, a pet lizard, an iPad. One
lot perished because they'd taken the batteries out of the smoke alarm to use
for the TV remote. I thought that was kind of a beautiful metaphor, don't you?
Anyway, I can't thik about any of them. They were stupid and now they're
gone. Up in smoke.
The ones who survived are different. They interest me, the ones who have
prevailed in their own personal trial by fire and have emerged, blinking and
reborn, on the other side. They're the ones I'd like to talk to. I have some
questions for them.
"How does it feel - to lose everything? To have to start again, the slate not
just wiped clean, but smashed into a million pieces, and burned to ashes?"
I've set them free and I wish they could see that. Possessions possess. I
don't expect gratitude, but in the fullness of time I'd like to think they'll see what
I've done for what it truly is - their liberation.
Anyway, Ms Therapist didn't like the answer I trotted out today. It was one
of my best, reserved for those I know it will offend most. She tried to remain
calm, implacable, but I could see that she was already mentally drafting the
email requesting that I be transferred to another therapist. I wonder how long it
will be before they ask me...
A. Joseph Black's work can be found online at theincubatorjournal.com, spontaneity.org and many other places. His chapbook 'Nora' is available from inshortpublishing.com
The Eyes Have It
Everything’s blurry yet I notice her as she enters the room. She comes into
focus like a ghost. It’s the thick, black rimmed glasses that attract me.
Fluorescent light dances across the lenses so she’s lost behind the glass. She’s
staring straight ahead but I don’t think she sees me.
‘What seems to be the problem, Mr Smith?’ she asks, all business-like.
‘There’s something in my eyes,’ I explain.
I’m debating whether or not to ask for her number when the room goes
dark, scrambling my senses.
‘Let’s take a look,’ she whispers in my ear, flicking the beam into my eyes.
I fall into the light. Red shapes dance before me like bloody phantoms. I
want to close my eyes but they’re fixed wide, streaming tears like cobwebs. My
breath comes in bursts as fast as gunfire as she leans forward, my mouth desert
dry as I attempt to form words. This is the closest I’ve been to a woman in years;
I might not get another chance.
‘Look up.’
Her command steals the moment.
‘And down.’
The proximity makes my heart high jump in my chest. Her knees brush
mine; the touch scatters electric shocks through me. When she shifts, the gap
she leaves is a million miles.
‘Your eyes are just perfect, ‘she gushes.
She takes them with a swift, gentle motion. I peek through her fingers and
she’s smiling at me. Now I can see the whole world.
focus like a ghost. It’s the thick, black rimmed glasses that attract me.
Fluorescent light dances across the lenses so she’s lost behind the glass. She’s
staring straight ahead but I don’t think she sees me.
‘What seems to be the problem, Mr Smith?’ she asks, all business-like.
‘There’s something in my eyes,’ I explain.
I’m debating whether or not to ask for her number when the room goes
dark, scrambling my senses.
‘Let’s take a look,’ she whispers in my ear, flicking the beam into my eyes.
I fall into the light. Red shapes dance before me like bloody phantoms. I
want to close my eyes but they’re fixed wide, streaming tears like cobwebs. My
breath comes in bursts as fast as gunfire as she leans forward, my mouth desert
dry as I attempt to form words. This is the closest I’ve been to a woman in years;
I might not get another chance.
‘Look up.’
Her command steals the moment.
‘And down.’
The proximity makes my heart high jump in my chest. Her knees brush
mine; the touch scatters electric shocks through me. When she shifts, the gap
she leaves is a million miles.
‘Your eyes are just perfect, ‘she gushes.
She takes them with a swift, gentle motion. I peek through her fingers and
she’s smiling at me. Now I can see the whole world.