Meg Sefton's Blog, page 18

Day 29: Write a story where a human character has a physical characteristic of an animal.

I already had something from this fall that I used for this prompt. I tried to reblog the earlier post (September 29) but am having difficulty with that function. And somehow in cutting and pasting from an earlier post, a paragraph was dropped though I copied and pasted from elsewhere. I am not getting along with the newer editor version. Day 28 of Flashnano will be out of sync. I am catching up a bit.

Ray Hennesey, unsplash

They had arranged to meet at the kitschy sandwich shop next to the used vinyl records store. He thought it might appeal to her with its eclectic confusion of chandeliers and stained glass panels suspended from the ceiling. He preferred simple and clean spaces with vaulted ceilings, no ornamentation. But for sure, she would like it. They would both wear masks, as agreed, what with the pandemic. They were new to each other though they had chatted on Zoom for months.

He waited for her in a church pew, another affectation of the place. For the first time, he worried about whether his antlers would become entangled with low-hanging crystals, whether they would smash into a stained glass window and bring it crashing to the floor. People were generally accepting of him, of his difference, but he found it inconvenient nonetheless to carry this weight around on his head, though of course, his rack gained him respect. Who could argue with a 15-point man-buck? She knew about him though he didn’t have the space in his apartment to get the full-screen picture of his singular crown. He didn’t care anymore, didn’t have the luxury of self-consciousness. Now, the second year into the pandemic, loneliness was beginning to gnaw away at him. She had said she felt the same way.

She was all freshness and sweetness and light, just as he had expected from their screen-time, and she laughed at the marvel of his Royal set of points. She gave him a hug and said how much she loved it. The first bit of trouble was, as he had anticipated, with a chandelier, though their waiter seated them in the most accommodating location. The height of his body had added to the difficulty so that he had inadvertently unhooked a chandelier with a point, but he shrugged and wore it while they drank their wine. This tickled her. The staff scurried around them for the tall ladder while they ordered.

The bigger trouble came with the meal. She had made him so comfortable that he forgot himself when he ate his salad. He had long practiced eating in the way civilized people ate but with the pandemic and the social isolation, he had apparently slipped back into some old habits and chewed with his elongated face in an exaggerated circular motion, much in the fashion of beloved deer.

He saw her staring at him, watching his mouth. She was no longer laughing and delighted. She had nothing to say to him to help him save face. She made an excuse to make a phone call outside and she didn’t return.

Out by the railroad tracks which led to the woods where his brother had died, where his mother had given birth to him, and his father had taught him to forage and fight, he wondered if it had been an overreach for him to be in this other world. He gave in to this likelihood and let his hands become hooves. He bolted through the empty city and out through pastures and orange groves, and up into lands farther north, familiar breezes, forests of berries and trees and acorns.

Day 27: A story that occurs within a single minute. “Jerusalema”

“Dawn” by Rant 73 – Digital Art, flickr

A squirrel scampers upside down across a screen of a garden apartment where a woman pours a measuring cup of water onto her potted golden pathos. A chihuahua on a tiny pink leash lunges and barks at the man who hates dogs. “Jerusalema” pours into the parking lot from an open sunroof, a car stereo with a heavy base and the woman with the measuring cup taps her foot and grapevines across her apartment. The morning sun streams in through her vertical blinds and she raises her hand in time to the beat.

Day 26: Open email. Look at the first email from October 4 (any year). Use the subject line as the first line or title of your story. “Starlight”

Metropolitan Transportation Authority, flickr

“‘Immersive Van Gogh Exhibit’ cleared up two mysteries Monday — where its highly anticipated Orlando show will take place and why the organizers have kept mum for so long” Ms. Myska read in the newspaper email. She hadn’t known there had been a show planned in the first place. She sometimes let her emails stack up in her inbox and in fact had so many, she wondered if she should not dump them all at once. There was some comfort in hoarding them, like the online version of Aunt Lydia’s apartment where stacks of paper newspapers piled up so that one had to thread oneself around them.

She wanted to walk the rooms of the immersive Van Gogh exhibit, to stand among the irises, be embraced by the warmth of sunflowers, be taken in by a whorl of starlight, meet potato eaters, feel the lightness of almond blossoms, observe closely the artist’s face, inquire of his portrait: Were there moments of happiness? Of a sense of being transported? Did you know what would happen with your work?

She wondered if Tony Lasko, the ice cream man, would like to join her. She forwarded the email and attached some photos along with the note:

“Dear Tony, doesn’t this look wonderful? Would you like to go during a school hour when your ice cream truck is enjoying respite?”—Katarina

Two tickets were in her email inbox the next day. No note was attached. And that was what Ms. Myska loved about her new friend Tony, something her grandmother used to say: All that depth beneath a still surface.

Post-holiday blues with Willie Nelson

When I have to say goodbye to family these days, I get a little emotional. This takes various forms. After family departed from my little place on Thanksgiving Day, I did some live streaming binging. I have now moved on to movies and music. To help salve the wound, I am going back to my birth state, Texas, the early ’80s, kicked off with the stripped-down noir masterpiece Blood Simple starring Frances McDormand. I had seen it before several years ago but was not attending to its quiet power. Especially now, so many movies rely on non-diegetic sound and special effects to move and inform the viewer. This one lets the viewer fill in all the blanks, much like excellent minimalistic fiction. I think this film captures the essence of the state. And nothing else says a type of sound and aesthetic from the region and time period like Willie Nelson’s “Blue Eyes Cryin’ in the Rain.”

Day 25: Why I am grateful

Dining room mirror by James Petts, flickr

On Thanksgiving, I sit in my room after my guests have gone, a room darkened by the dying day. I sit in my room which is cream-colored. From my bed, I can see my grandmother’s Audubon Society print of blue hummingbirds. It is cream-colored and blends with my walls except for the mat and gold beaded frame. If you were here, I could show you the shadow created by the white lights in a wreath on my secretary desk, a wreath placed around a tall cream vase. I like the way the shadows create a frame around the frame of my grandmother’s Audubon society print.

When I open my bedroom door and step into the family room, I am grateful I can still smell the huge feast my son and I made in the adjoining kitchen and hear echoes of the laughter of my company over prosecco and my sister’s dessert. I am grateful for the items I have managed to bring with me to furnish this place, items that create meaning, items everyone can enjoy such as furniture to sit upon and tables for plates and wine, items that are pleasing to the eyes and spirit.

But for now, in the silence and the dark illuminated by tiny lights, I am grateful to write about things as tiny as shadows, for the gift of tiny things, for the things we need to live and fight, for small instances of beauty, for signs of life—joy, and even pain.

Day 24: Earliest Memory “Barbie”

Barbie__08 by Marina Côrte-Real, flickr

Barbie—lady boobies, blond hair, pointy toes. I held her by the waist in the room with the spindle bed, the room in the dark church manse in Texas, the home my new mother and father had prepared for us. Barbies were our first gift. That early memory began my years-long obsession of hoarding my dollar-a-week allowance in order to purchase my tiny blond god raiment. Her richer patrons—my parents—provided a bicycle, a convertible, Ken, a working shower, a pool, a dream townhome. When I dressed as a Kilgore Rangerette with my younger sister, complete with white boots and a broad brim hat, it was Barbie I hoped would approve. Barbie. Barbie. Barbie. My preacher father did not grasp the extent of my idolatry, but he was not the kind of father to deprive his children of their obsessions.

Over the Rhine, songs of hope

I’ve seen Over the Rhine in concert a few times at smaller venues. This is one of the songs that especially means so much. It makes me feel nostalgic and hopeful. Many of their songs do. They are an amazing talent and gorgeous, kind people.

Day 23: A naked man walks into a bank “Brother”

photoshop experiment, Aziza K., flickr

On Thanksgiving, a picture of a young man’s face popped up on the news. My breath caught. It was the same young man who had stood out in the freezing cold last year on an Orlando Christmas Eve, trying to flag down a ride. The buses had stopped running for the holiday. When I see his face on the news, I remembered how much he resembled my late brother, in height, stance, and mannerisms. My brother had died Christmas Eve twenty-five years before on a late night, careening around one of the lakes where many had died. It had nearly killed my mother.

That night we were driving home, I begged my husband to give him a ride. We had our baby in the car as well as my elderly mother-in-law. It was a huge risk, but I couldn’t take leaving this guy outside in these conditions.

The young man was on the news for walking into a bank, naked. When I saw his face, I thought: Some mother’s heart is breaking.

My husband took me aside as I served our guests. What is wrong? he said. I could tell he didn’t see what I saw, didn’t remember this young man who had appeared on the news we always watched while we drank our morning coffee. I hadn’t said anything. He had barely tolerated the risk I took with our family and I didn’t want to dredge it up again.

The young man’s face, that fragile face, penetrating blue eyes, so much like my brother.

For years, my mother had been unable to enjoy holidays. She now convalesces in a memory care home.

I made it through Thanksgiving meal but let my guests help themselves to dessert and the way to the door.

I rocked my child to sleep, savoring his warm cheek on my chest.

I closed the door to my bedroom and wrote a story for my brother.

Day 22: A character finds something wholly unexpected at the farmer’s market “Palm fronds” (I had an odd dream last night and I put all of it to use.)

Palm by a. dombroski, flickr

He told me he would leave it at the citrus stall. When I arrived and explained that Manuel had left a gift for me here, a woman pulled out a metal locker from under her table. She set it on a crate of pineapples and opened the lock with a key from her apron.

What confronted me seemed to be a mass of moving palm fronds, some mysterious animal. She pulled it out unceremoniously and put it in my hands. A large beak clamped down hard on my finger. I yelled out and she pinched its jaws until it let go.

“So, did you like it?” said Manuel as I sat in my steaming car. He was too eager for me to approve of anything he did or gave to me.

“Why did you give me something that would bite me?” I said, offended. Only the night before, I had dreamed I had been sitting next to my ex and his new wife and he spoke words to her I had never heard, never knew were possible.

Something about that mass of aged palm fronds was a portent or was it only a joke.

Day 21: The Beach was Shrouded in Fog “Numbskulls”

thick mist on a december morning; anastasia island by amy32080, flicker

The beach was shrouded in fog the Thanksgiving morning I met Big Todd and Pony. I was escaping my mother’s expectations I clean the house for guests. Pony had texted, saying there was something happening. They would meet me by the lifeguard stand at the pier.

I was jogging down the sand when I saw their sorry asses, Big Todd holding a large black sack like some big evil Krampus. Pony was doing a kind of sidestep dance, not his usual, what with the paint huffing and comatose shuffle. When he saw me, he took off running, something I hadn’t seen him do since we were in grade school.

“Dane, we can get the real shit now! Time for real shit, bro!”

I couldn’t think what he meant, but likely some higher-quality drugs, which was usually what was on his mind.

We came up on Big Todd with his big black laundry bag. I realized I would have been much better off pushing Mom’s vacuum. This couldn’t be good. Times like these made me remember I had escaped something when I went away to college.

We got us a fucking baby, dude! A fucking baby! Me n’ Big Todd, we stole it.”

“Damn, dude, what the fuck?” Sure enough, some live thing was wiggling and I could hear it utter little puffy breaths and grunts.

“We saw old man Wittaker and his wife with this fucking baby. You know Wittaker: That mansion on the beach. We stole his little precious.”

“Fuckin’ a, Frodo,” said Big Todd, laughing, animated suddenly by his own dim wit.

We used to party on the dock the Wittaker’s kept on the river. One of their grandkids was usually able to get the key for the boathouse. They were one of the wealthiest families in Daytona.

“We’ve set up a ransom note,” said Big Todd. “Day’s end, they’ll be handing over cash in fistfuls.”

I snatched the sack away from Big Todd’s beefy hand. When I widened the opening, sure enough, a baby. It was pumping its arms and wailing now. I removed it from the sack and held it on my chest. I turned to walk back home.

I felt a solid fist between my shoulder blades, knocking the wind out of me. Big Todd. But I was much bigger and stronger than I was in high school. I didn’t even falter, not even a little. Too much paint huffing. Idiot.

Mom knew what to do and got it straightened out. She didn’t even give me a lecture. I turned on the vacuum cleaner. Time to dust up the world.