Category Archives: Extraordinarily Brief Stories for the Attention Span-Challenged

I need to justify paying for my Wordpress site every year so this is my latest attempt at not being such a negligent blog parent. Thus, every week, I will take five random sentences from different sources and weave them together into some sort of narrative (i.e. brief story) that I hope is thought-provoking, amusing, delightfully effervescent, or at the very least, entertaining. At the end of the day, I’m doing this for me to toss my noodle back into the creative writing pot. If you enjoy it, that’s just a nice perk. Carry on.

#46 – Favorites

Extraordinarily Brief Stories for the Attention Span-Challenged, ,

Parents always say that they don’t have favorites, but Christina knows this is bullshit. Of Ruth, Moses, and Levi, it was Levi who had stolen her heart from the first time their eyes met. 

Meanwhile, it had been her older brother who was the clear favorite in her family. He was the golden child who could do no wrong and who grew into the golden adult who could do no wrong. Especially in her mother’s eyes. Christina had always taken the silver. Maybe she didn’t get top billing, but it was better than the award given to her youngest brother, Louis. He was never even a contender for the bronze. The quintessential ‘problem child’ since he came home as a squirmy blue bundle from the hospital, he was in military school by the age of 11 when there was nothing more that any of the therapists, doctors, teachers, tutors, specialists, or spiritual gurus (and there were a few) could conjure to save him from himself. 

This was compounded by the fact that her father had no room in his crowded life at that point for additional worry. Having divorced Christina’s mom when Louis was 9 (and Christina was 11), he didn’t waste any time adding two new stepchildren to his menagerie. While they never stole Christina’s silver, they quickly tied for the bronze that was denied Louis. At least, as far as her father was concerned. 

Christina had watched her parents struggle to reconcile their choices when it came to Louis. And then eventually, their marriage. Her mother’s overriding inclination for survival made her a fierce fighter. Meanwhile, her father’s gossamer vision of immortality rendered him an impractical dreamer much of the time. The third child who was supposed to make the family complete instead accentuated these differences and pulled them apart.

“He frightens me,” Christina heard her mother say in a low voice one night behind their bedroom door when Louis was getting ready to enter kindergarten. “He has this… distant look. Like he’s not all there.”

“He’ll grow out of it,” her father had said in way that even Christina knew was dismissive at the time. She’d had the same experience of feeling that disconnect from her younger brother – though she hadn’t been scared of him. Yet.

“I don’t think he will,” she said, desperation in her voice. “It’s like he’s fearless.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” her father laughed. “Would you rather he be a scared little mama’s boy who clings to you all day?”

“Of course not,” her mother sighed. “But you’re not listening to me,” she said, her voice a little louder. “He doesn’t understand consequences.”   

“He’ll grow out of it,” he said again slowly, annunciating each word this time as though her mother didn’t understand. But she did understand.  

So she gave up. Eventually, her father did too. 

And Louis did not grow out of it. It turned out that the fright her mother had felt early on would be tragically justified.

“You ready to go?” Christina hears her husband calling from the other room and she’s relieved to be drawn back into the present moment. She puts the finishing touches on her makeup and walks out to the living room. Her husband is sitting on the couch, Levi next to him.  

“Wow!” he smiles. “You look fantastic.”

She feels herself blush. “Stop,” she says, yet ever grateful that he still regards her as beautiful; even as each of them approaches their 60th year. They’ve been the best of friends for such a long time. As she glances at him and Levi on the couch, her heart feels as though it might break from all the love. She knows it’s cheesy. But she presses her hand over her heart trying to feel for the jagged edge of that broken heart beneath her flesh. 

“Ready?” he asks again.

She nods and takes a deep breath thinking about the night ahead; about the reward she’ll be receiving for the tireless work she’s done in their community; about how wonderful it feels to have the means and the inclination to help so many families become whole again. And to be a part of all of them. She then thinks about her mother and realizes how fortunate she’s been to have the luxury of time and self-study over the years that her mother never did. Of course, it was a conscious choice she made. And it’s a choice she’s never regretted – despite how often she was told the contrary. 

As her husband and Levi rise from the couch, he asks, “Did you feed the skittish Yiddish?” 

She smiles. “Of course I did.” The skittish Yiddish is her husband’s name for Ruth and Moses who stay hidden whenever Christina is not home. Levi, by contrast, must always be the center of attention. In a way, he’s a little like Louis was. But also, not at all. “Need I remind you that I’m one badass childless cat lady?”

Her husband smiles. “Never.”

#45 – Purple Dress Morning

Extraordinarily Brief Stories for the Attention Span-Challenged, ,

Isabella had a good morning. 

At dawn, the sun poured through her bedroom window, coating the room in honeyed light. She swore she could almost taste its sweetness. 

Rolling over in her bed, she glanced at the clock. It read 7:15 in digital numbers that seemed a brighter hue of red than the day before. Even in the glimmering sunlight. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d awakened to anything but darkness and considered it a victory. She smiled; knowing that her brother Xavier would fail to see a 7:15 wakeup as anything but drudgery. He whose definition of drudgery hailed from a different dictionary than hers. So she decided that the only thing to do was to call him right then. 

“Is everything okay?” he answered quickly in a voice that managed somehow to be both sleepy and alarmed. 

“Let’s get breakfast,” she said. 

There was a long pause and a sigh. “You do realize what time it is.”

“I do,” she said. “And I’m hungry.” 

Another pause. She knew he was tilting his head back and throwing his arm over his face in exasperation. She knew this because she knew him better than anyone in the world. She also knew that he would capitulate because she had barely eaten in a week – despite his repeated efforts to get her to do so. Just three days previous he’d swung by with a bag of Funyons and a cherry Slurpee – two of her childhood favorites – in an ill-fated attempt to lure her out of the darkness. She could not bear to put either to her mouth that day for all of the uncontrollable shaking and shuddering of her body. 

“Fine,” he said. “But you owe me.”

“I will never argue that,” she said. “Ernie’s?”

“Sure,” he said through a yawn.

“Meet at my place in 20 minutes?”

He paused again. “How about a half hour?”

Izzy stood at her window and bit at a loose hangnail on her thumb. She watched her neighbor Corrine tending to her garden. She had a faraway and peaceful smile on her face. “Fine,” she responded absently to Xavier – marveling at how Corrine moved from plant to plant with such effortless grace and focus. It gave her a familiar sinking feeling; something that smacked of failure. 

“See you then,” said Xavier, then hung up. His inability to formally end the conversation with a goodbye had always irked Izzy. More so, in all likelihood, because he was her brother. 

Since she had a little extra time, she decided to shower. Realizing she hadn’t cleaned herself in five days, she knew she must be a bit ripe. At this thought, the words no wonder nobody EVER wants to hang out with you moved across her consciousness as though on a ticker tape. She closed her eyes, shook off the words, and replaced them with an image of her brother smiling at her. 

From the closet, Izzy pulled out her favorite summer dress – the flowy purple one upon which she’d embroidered pale yellow flowers with delicate blue-green leaves. She carried it into the bathroom and placed it gingerly on the back of the toilet. Turning on the cold water in the shower, she quickly stepped into the icy stream. She’d heard that shocking the nervous system in this way was good for the body. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. Whatever the case, she felt a long-absent surge of energy edged with a sense of hope. She inhaled the clean scent of the peppermint shower gel, then released a long exhale – envisioning a small cloud of black glitter dissipating then settling to the bottom of the tub where it would circle down the drain and out of her life forever. 

“Adios, ick,” she said to no one. Except, of course, the ick.

She pulled her hair up into a ponytail and looked in the mirror – relieved to be spared of the repulsion she’d felt in previous days. There was a lightness in her step as she walked through her kitchen, swiped her meds off the counter, grabbed an apple and a bottle of water, and went onto the porch to await Xavier. 

Sitting in the warmth of the early morning sun, she reflected on her nearly two decades of practicing yoga and meditation. Then she opened the bottle of water and took her medication. As the cool water flowed down her throat, she was overcome with gratitude for it all. The yoga. The meditation. The pills. And, of course, her brother.

Then she sighed, thinking about all of the unsolicited advice from well-meaning “healers” over the years who thought they had the magic elixir for what ailed her. They promised her she could go off her medication and live a happy life. She was not too proud to admit that, compelled by misguided shame, she bought into these ideas a few times. Not once. Not twice. But three times. Yep. Turns out the whole “fool me twice” trope (or thrice in this case) was easily achieved in moments of painful desperation.

“See, you need to stop referring to them as your meds,” one particularly bleary-eyed New Age creature had recently said to her. “When you take ownership, you become dependent.” And so Izzy had gone off her meds. Three times. And three times, she went back on them when the agonizing emotional pain and physical misery outweighed the shame of needing to take them. This time was the third time. And the last time, she said to herself with resolve.

“I brought you some flowers,” Corrine said, appearing suddenly at the bottom of the stairs and startling Izzy to the point where she jumped. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“No, that’s okay. You didn’t,” Izzy lied, then added, “I just startle really easily.” 

Corrine came up the stairs and handed Izzy an array of lively zinnias, sunflowers, and snapdragons so brightly colored that they vibrated and hummed. Izzy reached forward to take them and smiled. “Thank you so much, Corrine,” she said, holding them close to her nose. She knew they wouldn’t be sweetly fragrant in the storybook way of flowers, but would instead impart a scent that was organic and earthy. Warm. “This is so kind of you.”

Corrine smiled and shrugged. “We could all use a little more brightness in our lives, yeah?” She nodded in a strangely knowing way to Izzy and smiled as she turned around and began walking back to her house. “Have a good morning,” she called out, leaving Izzy standing on her porch with the flowers and the recognition that, once again, it was a good morning.

“Bella Ding Dong!” she heard Xavier sing as he came up the walk a minute later. 

As a child, Isabella’s name was never shortened to Izzy, but rather to Bella. Shortly after recovering from her first serious episode/setback, she’d adopted Izzy in an unsuccessful attempt to wipe the slate clean and start over. And since she’d retained no childhood friends and her parents had since departed, only Xavier still called her Bella. 

“Nice flowers!” he said with a goofy smile that reminded her of the 3-year-old Xavier.

“Yes,” she nodded. “I think they are.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you’re up and about,” he said, investigating a ball of wax he’d just mined from his ear. She envied how he seemed to move through life with such ease. He always had. And even if he couldn’t grasp the trappings of her brain, he was always there for her. Always. “Ready to go?”

“I am,” she said, proud that she was unafraid to leave her house. “Just let me go put these in some water,” she said, holding up the bouquet like a trophy. Placing them into a vase of water, she was moved by their beauty.

Yes. Isabella had a good morning yesterday. 

But today, as the same bright sun shines in her window, she begins the day in darkness. The flowers that hummed and vibrated have gone quiet and still while her body shakes and shudders in fear. There will be no leaving her house today, no purple dress, no invigorating shower, no Funyons, no cherry Slurpee. The memory of yesterday reminds her that the meds are finally beginning to work again. Meanwhile, the hopelessness of today tries to convince her that they won’t this time. If she’s to survive, she’ll have to hold on until the next purple-dressed, brightly-flowered, sunshiny morning at Ernie’s with Xavier – whenever that might be.

Because this is the process. 

The cruel, exhausting, goddamned process. 

#43 – Garage Sale Chair Snoozing

Extraordinarily Brief Stories for the Attention Span-Challenged,

Quinn sprawled languorously in the new grass, as she was prone to do. There was no arguing that she was a languorous sprawler. She then rolled onto her back to expose her face and chest to the vernal sun; feeling its early May warmth. Even through her coat; the ridiculous white fuzzy coat with the brown and black patches which everyone jokingly asked if she got at Goodwill. So many people thought they were clever. And so many people were wrong.

Growing tired of the sprawl and its languor, Quinn got up and settled into a chair instead. It was her favorite chair – acquired at a garage sale down the street. It was wide and inviting and met the tenets of the Goldilocks principle – just the right amount of hard and soft. As she nestled further into the cushion, she caught wind of her neighbors on the other side of the fence conversing. They were discussing the merits of Budweiser beer, above-ground pools, and yacht rock. Suffice it to say, they were not clever. Bored with their utter lack of imagination, Quinn tuned them out, stretched, and yawned. She noted a few small gauzy clouds dotting the otherwise clear sky and it stirred something in her. Something primitive and animalistic. Meanwhile, a cardinal and a blue jay politely took turns at the feeder in her backyard. This was just suspicious. Maybe even a little chilling. It was a rarity to witness two showy birds acting with such eerie politeness. But she shook it off.

Jason had filled the feeder with his own proprietary blend of seeds and thistles before he left for work that morning. Also before he kissed Quinn on the top of her head and told her he loved her. She loved him too. She’d show him later in her own ‘special’ way. (Nudge, nudge.) Ah, Jason. When she thought of him, a warmth encircled her heart as though it were wrapped in a cozy scarf. Yes, people talked about how Quinn and Jason were meant to be together. Inseparable. And they were. Well, except for the 40+ hours when Jason was at work each week. Which Quinn found acceptable because it allowed her time to be with herself and explore her rich inner tapestry (a term she’d recently acquired from one of Jason’s more clever friends). It also gave her a chance to spend time at the conservatory. 

No, Quinn was not studying to become a classical musician or artist. Though she was not opposed to the idea – had circumstances been different. This conservatory, however, was of the “room with a glass roof and walls” variety. It was attached to a house where a little girl lived with her father. Quinn didn’t know what had happened to the mother. Maybe she split. (Her own mother had split – though this was NOT something she was compelled to discuss. Because, like, it happened and now it’s over and she has Jason.) 

Anyhow, shortly after Quinn moved in with Jason the previous autumn, she’d been wandering the neighborhood while Jason was at work. It was then she happened upon the conservatory. She’d stopped and stared at it for a while when a little girl and her presumable father approached her. “Hi there!” said the little girl. “What’s your name?”

Quinn had ruffled for only a moment. Given her troubling past and history of abandonment and betrayal, she’d had to master the art of parsing the attitudes and motives of others early on if she was to survive. In other words, she had street smarts. And she knew almost immediately and in no uncertain terms that the little girl and her presumable father were no threat.

“Do you want to come into our glass house?” asked the little girl of Quinn.  “Come on!” she beckoned. Quinn looked at the man and he smiled and nodded, tousling the little girl’s hair. 

So Quinn followed them into the glass house conservatory. It was magical, this glass house. And not the kind of magic resulting from sleight of hand or other acts of deception. It was pure beauty. The floor was carpeted with an array of soft mossy ground cover and ferns that whispered luxuriously under her feet. A few small tropical trees stood lush against the backdrop of the brighter yet barer autumnal trees on the other side of the windows. Perhaps most impressively, when Quinn looked up, she noticed the conservatory was beclouded with dozens of hothouse orchids. It was a sight to behold. So she positioned herself in a sunny spot and became still. The little girl stood off to the side with her ankles crossed, arms akimbo, and her head drooping to her chest as though observing something there. That’s when Quinn saw the butterfly flitting on the girl’s belly. The perfect butterfly. And as much as she wanted to possess it, nothing in her went toward it. She was content to sit still in the sun and absorb the good juju of the space.

She’d spent the rest of the morning that day with the little girl and her father until the little girl became sleepy and crawled into her father’s lap. He began to tell her a story about bears or monkeys or some such creature and when he was finished, he began to hum a tune. The little girl’s arms loosened as she fell off to sleep in her father’s arms and Quinn quietly snuck out of the conservatory. 

She’d returned to the glass house a few times since that first time, though she usually snuck in. Trespassing was another skill she had acquired in her youth and she was quite accomplished at it. Plus, she didn’t want to bother the little girl and her father with her languorous sprawling. It wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. 

Quinn had dozed off in the garage sale chair and was stirred awake by the sound of Jason’s car pulling into the driveway. She jumped out of the chair and quickly pounced through the cat door to get into house. The ‘special’ demonstration of her love for Jason was sprawled out on the kitchen counter – its tiny rodent teeth in a perfect line; its glassed-over eyes like little black beads, its inconsiderable neck snapped. It was the feline version of magic and she couldn’t wait to see Jason’s joy at receiving such a clever gift.