August 12, 2020 - Entre oscuro y claro - Flash Fiction: 12

Flash Fiction: 12

At a bustop in front of a small restaurant. A man down on his luck attempts to get the attention of the crowd of six freezing souls waiting for the bus to pull up. Most, if not all of them, are heading to work across town. He looks at everybody but no one will look at him. He starts to speak.

“You can say my name is Xava. If that’s what you want. Or Salvador if you prefer to be proper. Either way, I’m the same guy. Jeans and a t-shirt wearing, sing of the cross at freeways, nachos from the ice-cream truck guy. Needs to get some food in his belly kinda guy. 

“I’m not worried about my name though. What I’d like to do is sell you this ring I have here. It has one diamond that’s a pretty good size. 

“Ma’am, you interested? Sir? Want a closer look?

“No need to step back. Don’t be scared. Jesus. You all jumped back like I got that Covid. But I don’t. I don’t. I don’t have a lot of things and right now I’d like to get some money for food. This ring is worth a good amount. All I want is $100….. I’ll take $50.”

Not one reply or even nod from those standing. He releases a long breath that sends a cloud of cold smoke out of his mask. Some shoots up around his nose.

One of the men standing is holding two coffees in a cardboard container. He’s holding a small book in his other hand and he’s looking at Xava with extreme disdain in his eyes. 

Xava catches the man’s eyes for a second and lets it sink in that this man hates him. 

Ring! Ring! A bike riding on the sidewalk startles Xava forcing him to jump out of the way. Knocking the coffee out of the disdainful man’s hand and splashing it on his khakis. The man doesn’t even say a word. He simply reaches back and smacks Xava so hard it sends the ring twirling down the sidewalk, off the curb and into the sewage drain. 

As the bus arrives and everyone gets on, Xava is left sitting on the floor rocking back and forth, in tears.

Meanwhile, inside the restaurant a woman and her child wait for Xava to return with money so they could eat.

August 10, 2020 - Coveralls Overalls. - Flash Fiction 11

Flash Fiction: 11

They were both wearing grey hoodies and had black bandanas for masks. If this was pre-pandemic you would think they were robbing this store. That’s precisely what Dario’s mind conjured as they walked in the liquor store. Elario was wondering if he forgot to roll up the window on the car they left parked outside. 

Ding! Dong! The sensors announced their arrival.

“Hello, welcome,” said the lady behind the counter, behind a face shield. She was applying sanitizer to her light skinned dainty hands. She smiled and could tell under the masks that these guys were twins.

Dario, walked around the Dorito display and down the isle lined with cans of menudo, salsa de pato and canned sardines. He knew that if he wanted to he could get whatever was sitting in the till. Couldn’t be much he thought. This little store was not in a busy corner. It was hidden deep in this neighborhood. He could pull out his pistol and surprise both Elario and the woman.

He knew his brother would know what to do even if they had never done this before. His brother would grab as much merch from behind the counter he could carry. They’d jump in the car and jump in the freeway that was only one block away.

Elario pulls open the refrigerated door and pulls out a case of beer. And walks to the counter.

Ding! Dong!

“Hello, welcome,” said the lady behind the counter to the two LAPD walking in for a soda, radios beeping and chattering.

Dario, suddenly quit his fantasy.

“Thank you. Have a nice night,” said the lady behind the counter as Dario and Elario walked out with beer and Doritos.

Elario put the beer through the window he left open. They drove off.

At home they sat and played video games all night. Dario imagined what would happen if he actually owned a gun and he was glad that he didn’t. He was still nervous from just thinking about it.

August 07, 2020 - Heavy light poles - Flash Fiction: 7

Flash Fiction: 7

He had already turned in the manuscript. All one thousand three hundred twenty seven pages it. He made sure to double check all the submittal guidelines he had found through the web.

-Use 12-point type. ✓
-Use a serif font. ✓
-Double space your manuscript. ✓
-Etc.

As he sat with his paleta melting in one hand, he remembered looking over the entire book to make sure he had left only one space between sentences. On Chavez and Soto the daily cacophony was no match for the voices in his head. Sure the manuscript looked perfect. But it was the quality of his writing he couldn’t stop thinking about. Was he any good? The vulnerability of leaving it in someone else hands to dissect and judge was eating him internally. 

He threw away what was left of the paleta and opened his laptop to go over it again. Nobody even noticed him as he sat on the grimy sidewalk reading to himself.

He’s in this alone at the moment. His family doesn’t understand what all goes into actually putting together a novel. All they see is him wasting away at the keyboard and not contributing to the state of the refrigerator inventory. Every time they come home from the market he feels embarrassed that he didn’t contribute but he helps as much as he can carrying the bags. As if that brought some kind of balance. 

He needs this book to be perfect. He couldn’t find any mistakes in it but he knows he’s looking at it with a paternal love. What flaws will this person uncover?

Two weeks later there is still no word from the publisher. He won’t allow himself to fall into doubt or depression. He waits. Instead he starts to work on a new book. A new story born from the despair of his current concerns. Creativity loves to dwell here.

The email finally arrives. He will be published. He writes back confidently pitching his next book. 

He helps bring in the groceries with a smile.

August 04, 2020 - Vuela - Flash Fiction: 4

Flash Fiction: 4

The cold air on this morning makes it so that his breathy exhales look deceivingly like the smoke that is coming out of his father’s cigarette. He hates to see his dad smoking. Still, he knows he can’t tell his dad what to do. 

This moment, knowing his dad is dying and watching him inhale toxins, hurts him. Conversely it makes him feel good that his father is allowing himself this last little pleasure.

Lots of people have been coming to visit with stories like, “This is your father’s cousin’s daughter’s husband’s child and children.” Everyone brings food and sincere concern. He just sits and watches everyone.

The old man finishes his cigarette while he and his son sit outside  listening to the chatter in the house behind them. Neither of them know that this will be his last smoke. This will be the last time they connect eyes and nod as they stand up and walk back inside. 

In his room later the old man lays still. He takes only a few breathes and accepts his night fall. His eldest daughter is the first to come in. She covers his face before any kids walk in. Everyone knew he was dying but you hold in the tears in until the levy breaks and floods. Everyone cries.

Many prayers ascend and tears wash over souls. Some people will hurt forever. Bur for some, time washes it all away. The sun shines differently on that occasion.

Ever since the old man came to this country this part of town has been his home. Seven people spent decades on this tiny plot of land. The house and contents in it have already been divided. It isn’t much.

This home, in a universe filled with clusters of gasses, solids spiraling into infinity, on a planet so small a tiny rock from space could alter it forever, in a continent that stretches the globe vertically, in the southern part of a golden coast of a country crunched between two others, in an urban sub-region of the east side unincorporated section of Los Angeles, on a squiggly shaped hillside, on a street where the sidewalks were just introduced ten years ago, -this is where the remaining family still reside and remember him.