Oren Shafir's Blog, page 10

Dan's Just Fine 200-word flash fiction by Oren Shafir

I have to tell you about something with Mom that freaked me out. Remember I went with her to the North mall last weekend. Well anyway, she met her old friend, Esther Rose. And Esther asked how Dan was. Well Mom just smiled and said, “He’s fine.”  So, I kept glancing over at her on the way home, trying to see if she looked okay or what was going on. I couldn’t see anything. She looked like Mom. So finally, when we got to a red light, I just asked her.

  “Are you okay, Mom?”

“Yes. Why what’s the matter, don’t I look okay?” she said, and she pulled down the mirror and started checking her makeup.   “It’s just that, your friend, Esther, asked you how Dan was, and you said he was fine.”

  “Oh,” she said laughing. “That’s right,” and for a minute I started laughing too. But then then the light changed, and as I started driving again, she said, “Yes, yes, he is.”

“Mom…” I said trying to control the alarm in my voice and figure out a tactful way to put it. But finally, I couldn’t think of any subtleties, so I just came out with it.   “You know Dan is dead right?”

“Of course, I know,” she said. “But he’s fine. Dan is just fine.”

More of Oren's flash fiction

The Veteran (153 word flash fiction by Oren Shafir)

Jack McGlynn/Ghostarmy.org"Hey bud, spare a dime for a vet?"

"One dime, that's it?" I said digging into my pockets and glancing at Bobby with a mischievous grin. This dude was an original. Looked like he crawled out of some black and white World War II flick.

He held out a grimy black hand. I hesitated, then placed the coin in it, feeling his gritty, blistered skin, but surprised at its cool touch.

"Thanks Mister," the bum said.

"Ha, he called you Mister," Bobby chortled.

"Trying to get back home to Chicago," the bum continued. "Haven't seen my folks since I got out."

"Chicago? How many dimes do you have?" I laughed and started to turn to Bobby, but something in the veteran’s eyes held my gaze.

Then, he reached into his pockets and slowly pulled them inside out. The dimes fell, raining over the sidewalk, and flowing into the street like a silver deluge.

(originally published in the, unfortunately, now defunct phonebook.com)

More freaky flash fiction

Half a dozen poems in 20 odd years

Poetry is a tough genre for me. I've only produced a handful of what I consider to be decent work over the last 20 or so years. Here's a few of them.

Here are links to some of my other poetry:
http://www.connotationpress.com/poetry/1257-oren-shafir-poetry
http://www.eclectica.org/v2n1/shafir_poems.html


Postmodern Proof
Let's not pretend we're going
Anywhere.
Every place looks the same.
Empty streets lead us
To empty boxes
Where we park cars
Next to neon-colored numbers
That remind us where we are:
On shiny floors amid electronic goods
Gone is the touch and smell of wood.

And every day is the same.
The cold wind that howls over and over us
The cold wind that howls at my door
Huffed and puffed and blew away a cloud,
And the moon glared in my window
Daring me
To come out.

And every day is a little bit colder.
We know exactly how much time we have
We have proof.
We have the scientific means,
It is written on the wall,
It's written on our video, television and computer screens.
We have some time to save time
To think about how much time
Is left
We have no time
To pursue things yet unattempted
In prose and rime.

And every day is one day less.

At night, I awake to pee
And I can't see
Any face
Of a clock
And I don't know in the half-light
Whether it's morning or whether it's night
And you stare back at me, unlovingly
Through the looking glass
Asking what's the matter
Have you murdered time like the Mad-hatter?
And I panic. And my stomach sinks
Like a nuclear submarine,
And  it's number two now, not number one,
Do you think I'm having fun?

Every day's a Cuban missile crisis.

I don't give a shit about Michelangelo,
If I had any desire left
To see naked thighs and arms and breasts
I'd run a search on the Internet.
I'm not misunderstood.
I have no questions.
I am not Hamlet or even a fool,
Unless the fool is Yorick.

Oh where are the mermaids
Who will tangle and entice me with Circean song
Then drag me down
Never again to feel bereft
How much time is left?

Here are links to some of my other poetry:
http://www.connotationpress.com/poetry/1257-oren-shafir-poetry

http://www.eclectica.org/v2n1/shafir_poems.html