August 14, 2020. - Con mis chavos - No More Flash Fiction

I will no longer be including flash fiction. It was an experiment for me and now it’s over. It’s too hard for me to deliver that every day. I might try it next year after I finish this 2020 year of photography. Thank you to those that read and commented.

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 06, 2020. - Nice view, tho - Flash Fiction: 6

Flash Fiction: 6

With a slight grudge against la pandemia, he walked over the First Street bridge and into the Arts District. He was trying to get some “outside” time to help with the lifting of his spirits. A mood change, if you will. The mandated self quarantine had started to fuck with his mental. He was certain he would grow roots at his toes if the didn’t get out.

Walking listlessly, left foot, right, he remembered this part of town when it was very different from what you see today. He thinks gentrification fucked everything up by making it look just like everywhere else. Where you once had one-of-a-kind establishments you now get the run of the mill brewery and baked goods. If it weren’t for the old buildings you might as well be in Glendale. (Or Monrovia, imagine that.)

Meh! Fuck everybody, he thought as he avoided every business. He didn’t want to give any of them his money. None looked like they needed it. It was too weird to get food from a woman in a face shield and gloves. Plus all of the outdoor seating annoyed him even before this madness.

Fed up, he decided to walk further in to downtown where he finally stopped at a hot dog lady. At least there he can catch a virus with his dignity intact. 

The grease sizzled louder than the bus engine that just blew a ton of exhaust in his  direction. Put a mask on that fucker.

Mayonesa?

Si.

Verdura?

Si. Pongale todo.

Jalapeño?

Si.

Covid?

Que?

She handed him the nectar of the city wrapped in a thin semblance of paper. 

Did she really ask me if I wanted Covid?, he thought.

Coca?
O Peksi?

Oh, no. Una agua por favor.

Consider that hot dog swallowed. Gone in 6 seconds. The water went down slowly. He took his time, crumbled the plastic and put it in a little cardboard box with other recyclables.

As he wiped his mouth and hands he looked at her one more time wondering if she really asked if he wanted covid on his wiener. He felt she did.

With a slight grudge against the lady, he walked home to the sound of conspiracy theories in his head about who planted her on that corner and why he was the chosen victim.

He sat with those worries for two weeks, in quarantine. After the two weeks he still got tested to make sure he was negative.

His cooking has improved.

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.

August 02, 2020 - New mask, who dis? - Flash Fiction: 2

Flash Fiction: 2

The dried up sewer stench rises through the grates and into your nasal passages. It sticks to the mucous membrane. You can’t shake it. It even gets in your throat. This is why I hate breathing when downtown. I’m lucky that my body does it on its own or I would probably die. If I could only hold my breath for the few moments that I’m here but I can at best do like 15 seconds. Wearing a surgical mask helps with the lurking odors.

She’s supposed to meet me here at 7pm and it’s 6:58. She’s usually five minutes early for the pick up. I hate holding so many doses on my person at one time. But I know she’s good for it.

At least there’s not many people around here. The last decade of outbreaks wiped out huge numbers. Double digit millions. Just a few looters and scavengers left looking for anything that might have been missed from the 7 years of unrest and uprising we’ve been through.

As long as I don’t see any orange tinted eyes I’m ok. That’s the tell tale sign of, “the infected.”

There she comes. I can see her swagger from two blocks away.
Black boots, black jeans, black coat. Classic. 

She’s been the closest thing to “normal” that I still have in my life. I can remember having drinks at the rooftop bar just a few blocks from here years ago. I wish there was at least one bar left or liquor store.

Damn she’s good. Black hat, blond hair, red lips. Beautiful.

If there was a god I would thank it for keeping her in my life. Even if it’s just for these quick pick ups, a quick exchange of product and a bit of conversation every three days.

Here. Beautiful face and - orange eyes.

Fuck.
Slit.

I didn’t know that I could do that so quickly, draw my sword and slice off her noggin.  Her blood pooled as I stepped back and watched the scavengers rummage through her pockets and remove her boots.

No one has feelings anymore. I wonder if I do.

As I strolled back to my lair I recounted all of the many occasions her and I had laughing and drinking. I made a mental list.

I buried the doses that were meant to be hers in the ground. We’ll let the earth get high in her name tonight.

August 01, 2020 - Entre Los y la luna - Flash Fiction: 1

Flash Fiction: 1

Following a long day replete with the exhausting particularities of moving and a little bit of cooking, Carlos took the time, one hour, to set up his new bed in his new home and was finally about to get some proper rest. 

It took him one hour of sweeping, moving boxes, measuring floors and mattresses, selecting sheets and blankets in his new apartment. He was now in a new neighborhood, a different part of the city where he imagined the new life he worked hard at creating.

Wearied, at bedside, he started to undo his pants. He sat on his mattress and for a moment felt gravity tug at his cerebellum with a deliberately delicate tow. He surrendered without negotiation and lay horizontal, resting his greasy mop of a mane on a freshly washed pillow, for two seconds.

It was two seconds in which he experienced nothingness. It felt eternal. Everything was still. His heart beat in silence. He clearly saw his body floating in space, in the universal whirlpool of stars and planets with no bound. With eyes closed he couldn’t feel earth beneath him or roof above him. Only the light from lightyears of galactic travel was present in all directions.

He weighed nothing.
He heard nothing.
He smelled nothing.

Wait, he thought. He did smell something, on the stove… beans. Fuckin’ beans.

In the kitchen - burners off - check. 
Back to bed. Drained.

He still slept saintly and soundly. An innumerable amount of dreams ran through his mind that night. All of them forgotten. None that he could recall if you asked him about them the next morning. 

But years later and even in another home, he did and does still remember those two seconds of… just being in space… with nothing but his universal self.