The Curb – 5 Minute Fiction

He sits on the curb. His shoes scrape the black-top underneath them. In his hand he holds a worn and bent ace of spades. The design on the back is flaking off from constantly being handled.

Several cars drive by, nearly in slow motion, the drivers glancing at him sitting on the curb.

Foot steps approach, painted toes and a flowing dress.

He notices her and squeezes the card harder into its familiar bended shape.

She reaches her hand down, he reaches his up with his empty hand, and grabs tightly.

Photographs

She slid a satin glove on her right hand, then one onto her left hand. She placed a sheet over her lap and pulled the photo album on top.

The photographs were lined with a white border and decorative edges.

She gently glided her hand over the faces in the photographs, one by one, then turned the page.

This ritual was done every Friday at 2:30 exactly, and for seven years now, she never missed.

Today however, was particularly difficult, as the white tulips were blossoming in the backyard, as they had done for years and years, they too, never missing their deemed time slot.

So today, because it had all fit together like intricate needle work, she couldn’t control the tears welling up in her eyes. She held her head up from the photo album, keeping the tears gliding down her cheek and then her neck, as having a drop land on the photos would ruin them for sure.

She closed the album, placed it back on the shelf, removed the gloves, folded the sheet up, and sealed it in the ziplock bag. Then, scissors in hand, she stepped into the backyard.

Strawberries and Blood

He plucked the strawberries, one at a time, some two at a time. He had become rather efficient, while eating many along the way.

His boots cover in dirt had juicy strawberry drippings on them. Although today there were other red drippings on them.

Picking up his basket, and heading back to the truck, he waved at Mrs. Larsen across the way. She was on her porch, the owner of the strawberry field. Never charging him, as he would take the berries home and make pies, and jelly and return later to her porch, dropping off what he had made.

He placed the basket on the passenger seat, and started the car up. Driving to the end of the property and out of Mrs. Larsen’s view, he slowed at the fork in the road. Pulling aside the blanket in the back seat, uncovering the bloody face, he ran his hands over her cheek, covered her back up, and turned left.

To Chase Something, Which Can’t Be Caught

She sits, he watches. She doesn’t notice, yet they are only feet away from each other.

He’s taking her in. Remembering every part of her for later, later when he’s alone. It’s not bad intentions, they are normal. He can’t stop them, not with her anyway.

She moves, he watches. She breezes past, he can smell her scent…honeysuckle. He’ll save that memory for later too.

She returns, he watches. Wishing she would sit a little closer than before, she does, but doesn’t notice his heart beats a slight bit faster.

He wishes, just for a second he could freeze it all, with no one watching, judging, or throwing a punch. He could place his lips on her neck, his arms around her and just melt.

Red Balloon and the Lollipop

The hooves hit the dirt, clouds of dust blossomed.

The little boy in overalls, with the red balloon watched, sucking on his lollipop.

The horse kicked and bucked again, clouds rose higher. The little boy squinted as the dust made its way over to him.

The horse came at him quick and the little boy let go of his balloon, took off, dropping his lollipop. Suddenly the horse stopped, his hoof on the lollipop.

The horse lower his head, sniffed, then began licking the lollipop. The little boy safe inside his home, looked out the window, seeing his red balloon drift further away.

The boy looked up at the red balloon then back at the horse licking his lollipop, wondering what he missed more.

View from the Floor

It’s rather comfortable down here, with my head resting gently against the carpet. I thought it would be painful, but it is more peaceful than anything I’ve ever felt before.

I can hear the dogs walking around me, the cats, closing in, although I can’t move a hand to pet them. In fact, I think the Polly got out of her cage and is flapping around.

The blood begins to puddle something fierce as I feel more and more of it flowing from the hole in my head and the one in my arm. Yes, even at this, I messed up and missed.

I didn’t think to do this in the kitchen on the linoleum like a smart person. Or put towels down at least. I hope that this doesn’t piss him off more, having to clean up the mess I made.

My view is different down here. It gives a new perspective to life, as well as the fact that I, apparently, failed doing a good job at vacuuming.

The view from the floor is a big paw, then several more; someone is licking at my head. Then I notice the legs of the couch, the floorboards, beaten and banged up, full of nicks. The blood, running slowly down over my eyes.

Stars

The brand new 1952 Riviera had blown a tire. At my age, and being a woman and all, I didn’t have a clue as to what I might do to change it.

My shoes were not meant to be walked for long distances in, but I had no choice.

Looking only up at the stars, I walked. I figured if my eyes met the road I would be sure to realize I had too far to go.

The stars didn’t twinkle like they did when Daddy would sing the song. He was always so loving, rocking me back and forth on the porch swing for all those years.

The stars didn’t shine bright like they seemed to when I wished on them about Mama.

Tonight they were just stars. Probably already burnt out, we just didn’t know it yet.

I continued walking, my shoes gently slapping the pavement, the moon and stars above, and the noise of a car coming in the distance.