He cannot be talking to me, this adolescent rube, Vesuvius on his forehead and bloody spots on his chin, more eruptions he carelessly or witlessly razed, he cannot want this rack, this ass, which themselves are old enough to be his mother—even if I shaved his age off my own I would still be twice as old, too old to have babysat him even, to have put him to bed early so that I could make out with my guy. Maybe by some trick of time or mind that’s what he sees: my teen self, stripped bare of wrinkles and wear, undaunted, unjaded, eager and willing, my face before it caved in to boys like him who assumed what they wanted was all I had to give.
Kindly reader, you may know that I have other fictional experiments brewing. Namely, the ongoing investigation into how short a story can be without feeling like just a taste of something more. Here are the very short stories I attempted this year; some worked, some not quite. There are typos and false starts; that happens in a lab (and when typing on a phone). To find more such pieces by other writers, follow the #vss tag, and check the links at the bottom of this post.
Visit @jbonze for everything I have ever tweeted, but before you go, please leave your own inspirations and impressions in the comments below.
3-8-12 Lou packed them in but his act fell flat for all but Lyn.
Love is a wrapt audience of one.
3-17-12 You think he will be there when you stumble home late at
night. And he is. Until he isn't.
7-5-12 You begin to see that he will not call. Will not bring
dinner, drape his clothes over the chair. Because you told him not to.
7-5-12 Where one hand slips, another is quick; one face sad, another
glad, when a red ballon lost is caught, then carried away.
7-5-12 Nose sniffs, leg lifts, odor drifts. And on and on and on the
tree. .
7-6-12 I was going to call. I had phone in hand. I needed air. I
opened the window. And my line to you slipped, fell two stories--crashed.
7-25-12 Rae can't toss Gil yet, she can get a little more from him.
She works him like a flattened toothpaste tube, untold brushes left.
7-29-12 The bird lady drops bread, collects a flock around her. Her
laugh is as squawky as the pigeons' and her hunger just as acute.
7-29-12 In a hot field, after hours of hard labor for low pay, the
worker wonders: Is it wrong to savor one berry--or not to?
7-30-12 One lick, Jo knows. Mine's better, she crows. Lou looks up.
Wants to trade. Jo hesitates, then: OK! Smiles. Bites the rocky road.
8-28-12 He doesn't know where to go: left, right, center, legs. Which
pair to call to? He lies back on the dolly and slides under the car.
9-7-12 I told him the stroller was crap. He called me bourgeois.
Until a wheel fell off, his son tumbled out. In front of the neighbors.
9-7-12 Her mouth is a puckered hole, her hair a habitat. In the
morning she collects old bread. Later in the park she tosses it to pigeons.
9-8-12 He drifts into the 4-way stop--screw pedestrians--then
halts. The short skirt gets the right of way, so he can watch.
9-11-12 They sit on the sidewalk. She is closer to the dog, which
lunges at the baby, who is reaching for a turd. What does she do?
9-15-12 I know you! You're my every fantasy rolled into one. Aren't
you? Call me? Please?
9-18-12 First and last day on the job site: Jak revs the crane. Zigs;
shoulda zagged. Knocks a full john from the 12th floor to the ground.
10-9-12 The tune hits him hard. He circles back, drops a dollar in
the cello case. Buying coffee, he realizes it was a 20. And is glad.
10-27-12 Was the kale unwashed? The carrot too old? Oh, alien
invaders! What did you ride to my insides, now a roiling tide churning all I
imbibe?
12-20-12 The phone rings itself to death. You don't know if I hear it.
I don't know if you meant to call. We may never know.
12-20-12 Funny how night brightens a room. A dash outside to escape
argument allows a secret view: you holding your chin, mulling my move.
12-27-12 A dream to hear your nickname on the PA, then that thing you
texted me--oh no but then: "You left your phone in the spice aisle."
High noon, we are indistinguishable. Then you're off to make your rounds. I plod to the next mark and still it takes you 65 minutes to meet me. A brief kiss, then you sweep past.
There is only one place I would stop the hands of time but how long really could that last?