Tag Archives: very short stories series

#34 – Delicious Music

Extraordinarily Brief Stories for the Attention Span-Challenged,

Arriving home from school, she placed her backpack on the old wooden bench in the kitchen. It creaked and complained. She sighed in return. She set to replaying the day in her mind, as she often did. It must have been something I said, she thought. Though, as usual, she had no clue what it was.

She felt most of the time as though she viewed the world through the gauzy and gossamer walls of a cocoon. And that she was perpetually at that stage between caterpillar and butterfly. Long languid days in the chrysalis when enzymes dissolve the caterpillar into a soup-like substance while its tissues, limbs, organs, and imaginal discs strategize their move to their correct positions. Yes. She was butterfly sauce. 

What was it I said this time? She bit into an apple bursting with a sweetness that washed over her tongue like cerulean blue music. Were she to describe the experience out loud, that’s exactly what she’d say.

At the sound of her sister and brother in the other room playing and laughing, she felt that familiar surge of overwhelm – bitter in her mouth like unsweetened chocolate. So she sought solace in her bedroom closet just as a nautilus retreats to the first chamber of its geometrically perfect shell. It was a place where she was free to ponder, mull, wring her hands, and gaze through the small circular window on the eastern wall. How lovely it would be if the rest of my house were as perfect as the nautilus shell, she thought. 

From the closet and the space inside her head – that cozy attic corner where she truly resided – her words flowed into the air with seamless precision. They were white-hot percussion – clear and concise. But she suspected this is not what other people experienced. Those troublesome creatures who lived outside of her head seemed to witness something more akin to an illegible sign composed of buzzing, flickering, and fading neon letters; their narrow winding tubes filled only halfway with the illuminated gas.

“Screw them,” she said and moved to a deep nook at the back of the closet. There she had carved out a her-sized spot complete with a small lamp, a pad of paper, and a set of colored pencils. She leaned against her favorite polka-dotted dress and put pencil to paper. Her body felt at ease and she moved through the gateway to an alternate world. It was a world where colors had flavors, flowers had song, and she never EVER said anything wrong. 

#32 – Canceled

Extraordinarily Brief Stories for the Attention Span-Challenged,

For all (two or three) of the fiercely avid fans of my weekly writings, I regret to inform you that this week’s piece has been canceled. And not in the cultural way like Aunt Jemima. The truth is, I’ve been up all night dealing with rebel daisy. He was beside himself because he claimed he met his doppelganger. At the time that he told me, I had to sigh. We all knew that this day would come. Well, he didn’t know it, obviously. And maybe I didn’t either. Because, really, what are the chances of encountering another unrooted daisy wearing jeans and army boots who also goes by the name rebel daisy? In retrospect, I wasn’t expecting it at all.

Anyhow, perhaps you’ve taken a gander at the rendering I did above of rebel daisy and his newly found twin. That depiction was executed at 4:47 this morning and based purely on rebel daisy’s account of their meeting. Given the overall lack of sleep and the copious amounts of sugar-coated marshmallows I’d consumed by then, I’d say I did a commendable job. rebel daisy, as usual, disagreed. He had some concerns that my interpretation made the other rebel daisy look more manly and in possession of larger genitals. Personally, I don’t see it. But the artist rarely does.

Now, you might be wondering what the other rebel daisy is saying. It turns out that siapa sih kamul!? roughly translates to what the HELL is going on!? in Indonesian. Yes, rebel daisy told me that the other rebel daisy hails from Indonesia and actually goes by bunga aster pemberontak. He added that the other rebel daisy sometimes shortened that name to ‘ron’ – which I thought made perfect sense. rebel daisy said he shortened it to ‘bung’ instead – which I thought was juvenile and a bit mean-spirited and helped me to verify him as the original rebel daisy.

But it turns out there was no need for that. There is no second rebel daisy. Indonesian or otherwise. I’d been fooled.

The whole thing was a ruse. Dissatisfied with my lack of placing him front and center on my blog, THIS blog, in the recent past, he decided to conjure up this ludicrous story and keep me up all night as retribution. He is a vengeful sort. Especially for a flower. (Though he likes to remind me that I’ve not yet met a Venus Flytrap, so I don’t really “know shit.” He’s also an eloquent sort.) Perhaps you feel that I should have punished him rather than publish this; that to now give him such unwarranted attention merely plays into his trickery. And you’d be right. The problem is, the dude is a fixture of my mind. So he sure as hell isn’t going anywhere. And I’m tired. I really want to take a nap. So this one’s for you, rebel daisy. And yeah, for bunga aster pemberontak too.

Ron for short.

#31 – deaf to the song of seeds

Extraordinarily Brief Stories for the Attention Span-Challenged,

liana walks to the end of her driveway on a mid-spring afternoon.

she stops to survey her morning’s work and smiles;

admiring her lawn of emerald green grass, perfectly coiffed and manicured, free of detritus –

except for one lone pinecone.

there’s a tinge of pain in her back; a muscle memory reminder of her morning of clearing said detritus.

she kicks the pinecone in frustration,

across the street, down the block, until a mangy dog runs from the alley and grabs it in his mouth

drooling and thrilled with the gift of an unexpected toy.

the dog carries the slobbery pinecone three blocks to the park

where one firm bite causes it to explode – the seeds scattering like candy from a piñata.

he stares, confused, at his toy now in pieces, before departing quickly to chase a garbage bag fluttering in the wind –

a new toy.

three young squirrels who’d watched the dog from high up in their roomy nest of leaves zig zag haphazardly down the tree

to investigate the pinecone confetti,

using their prehensile front feet, each one picks up a seed, sniffs it, and places it in his/her mouth

to carry off to another locale and bury for the season when pinecone seeds are better than nothing.

the forgotten seeds will soon hum deep in the soil.

a family of turkeys happen upon the seeds two hours later, squabbling delight to be spared the arduous task of extracting them from the cone,

and partake immediately in consuming them – as pinecone seeds are, to them, a delicacy in every season.

the quails join them in celebrating, releasing their assembly call of quavering metallic whistles to inform the other quails of such good fortune.

the following day, having traveled a variety of avian intestinal tracts, these seeds will return to the soil and hum quietly.

meanwhile, a scattering of male cardinals, nuthatches, and finches otherwise occupied by mating duties spot the fortunate cache of seeds,

they skillfully swoop down to take their share of the booty, though they opt for carry-out instead – placing the seeds in their beaks and taking flight.

distracted by a passing female, a few birds drop their seeds a mile or two away into rich loamy earth that not only causes the seeds to hum,

but to sing.

liana returns home from her journey later that evening

as the mid-spring sun begins to set.

she sneers upon seeing two more pinecones have sullied her otherwise perfect yard.

leaning down to pick them up and throw them in the garbage, she sighs and says aloud, “stupid worthless things.”