Flash Me Archives
First, he was aware of his body; but besides volume, darkness and time, Jonathan did not feel anything in particular. He sensed his chest rising and falling at intervals. Later, reddish light seeped through his closed eyelids. A pleasant sensation. As his awareness sharpened sluggish senses, a faint pattering sounded from the window.
A faraway tap dancer launched into a Double Buffalo, paused, and burst with a Cramproll. Jonathan lay savoring the new day, as a miser would his treasure, absorbing the perception of his surroundings, opening his eyes, a little at the time: first, a slit to let in a trickle of light filtered by thick lashes, then fully to shapes, colors and shadows. Then he saw the bird....more
Pat stepped barefooted to the patio doors, slid them aside, and leaned on the frame. All my joys to this are folly, naught so sweet as melancholy. She savored Burton’s words and wrapped an arm around her bulging belly.
The grass was verdant, lush and long, swaying in ripples, its crests reflecting a lighter shade of green. I’m lush, Lord I’m lush!
She hummed “Ring on her finger, Time in her hands.” No conscious reason for the choice of tune, but she rubbed her thumb against the inside of the finger where the gold band should have been. The melody fit her mood....more
By Isabella Erlenmeyer
There was a sea of rye with a dimple to a side, a shallow depression—like the dent a smile would leave on a happy baby’s cheek—filled with brackish water, its margins a blur or cottonwoods. Lionel Davies relaxed his gaze into a horizon of wheat fields punctuated by shadows and peered at the brush strokes. In the brownish haze surrounding the water edges, the paint seemed to ripple.
It had become a raw, blustery day, down Walton Bay. Heavy clouds, smudged like thumbprints, moved in after an almost perfect dawn. There was a taste of cooler weather working its way up from the valley and grimy skies pressing down, as if to bow the reeds into submission. A field of tall flowers tosses everywhere in a gale, but the stronger rushes lean with the wind to recover and stand erect at every renewal of the storm...more
“Reckon weather’ll hold?”
Reverend Bray reamed his ear. Once finished, he peered at his fingertip before answering. “I suppose so. I’m not an oracle, you know?”
Maynard Dunbar, squire of Drefelin, chuckled, not without malice. “That’s not what I hear. They say you forecasted the contest winner.”
“It was an easy one. Young Matthias may not have the strongest build, but his arm is steady as a rock; anyone could see that.” Reverend Bray rubbed the finger under his arm.
“Archery needs strength, besides a balanced arm.” He must be digging at his ear all day, Maynard thought, checking a large yellowish stain under the Reverend’s arm. He’d never noticed such a habit before. Most unusual....more
Because there were so many of us (five total: three girls and two boys), it was rare that my mother would take us shopping with her, especially to a place as titillating to kid hands as the mall. During those once-in-a-blue-moon shopping excursions, our names were temporarily replaced with monikers like, “Don't Touch That,” “Oh My God, Don't Put That In Your Mouth,” and “Have You Lost Your Mind?” My brother, Buddy, – aka “Keep Your Hands Out Of Your Pants” - lived in shaking terror of the day my mother would announce that we were to get in the car, sit down and shut up because she needed a new bra. Buddy feared the lingerie section of Sears like inmates fear a midnight shank....more
Amelia leaned forward and rested her fevered brow on the desk’s edge as Eartha Kitt’s tortured voice echoed in the background.
...everywhere, rough concrete walls, damp, as if weeping with insufferable sadness. Irregular pillars—crowned with rusted and gnarled steel bars—jutted from the ruins like avid fingers. Weeds forced their way out among the rubble in a bid to lick the scant sunlight seeping through low clouds. The bleak landscape seemed to beg mercy from the heavens...
Brenda paused; Mr. Hansa definitely knew how to paint depression. After inserting a bookmark, she closed the volume. Loud Silences by Thomas W. Hansa. I wonder what the “W” stands for, Brenda pondered. Walter? Winston? No, not Winston, perhaps Wendell or William....more
The night was done for.
Richard eyed the rain—falling in thick sheets against the windows—glanced at the lonely customer slouched against the bar and continued polishing the glassware, raising a goblet to the light to check its transparency or remove a stray fluff.
When it started raining around six, Richard had assumed patrons from the hotel across the street would not risk a crossing. As usual, he was right. Not a single soul had entered The Grange for over three hours.
Once he finished the wineglasses, Richard tackled the tumblers. After twenty years behind the counter, he knew that a sparkling glass was the trademark of a good bartender and he was proud of his chosen profession.
A good bartender; a rarity; a dying trade. ...more