I hate buzzkills, which is why I’m leaving the bar before closing time, this stranger pretending to be my mother says to give her my keys.
The smell of wet asphalt hits me when I step outside, snaps of lightning pulse in the distance.
I’m seeing double, double key fobs, double driver’s side doors, double rearview mirrors until I see Uncle Haynes hovering over my windshield, floating freely like a jellyfish.
His legs were fluid, not confined like they were in the nursing home bed. His arms swimming laps in the shadows of night, the nerves no longer severed from his body after he flipped his Miata, fracturing his C1 vertebrae from driving intoxicated three times over the legal limit.
His skin translucent and smooth, clear of puss-oozing sores that stirred a banshee wail out of him whenever the nurses turned him for cleaning.
The old spiritual says, “death don’t have no mercy” yet never explains how death can also be cruel in letting you linger.
The blood rushes back to my legs, my car sits abandoned while I stand at the street corner, waving down the yellow cab who can hopefully still see me wrapped in the tinsel rain.
Wow! This comes full circle, the arc (in such a short space) is bril. Love the drunken put down of the woman who tries to keep the narrator from driving "pretending to be my mother" which sets things up (great use of voice!!) and the surreall, ghostly visit from Uncle Haynes.. Great that you never tell us "drunk", and yet the narration of the story is informed by drunkenness. The ghostly moments are all about contrasts, healthy ghost uncle vs the demise of an uncle who lived carelessly, and a clear feeling that alcoholism in lives deeply in the family genes. Love that last line. Brilliant.
Thanks so much Meg! :) this prompt was so much fun, and as with all your prompts, it really frees up creativity, it’s flexible and allows us to explore a multitude of different directions. Thank you again!
There are roads to take, though I don’t know which one until the boy steps onto the ribbon of asphalt from wherever he’s been waiting. He’s got coppery hair, like my son did, that looks especially good with the color purple and a face as pale and full of promise as the moon. I know he’s a ghost because I’m late with the brakes, and when I manage to stop and whip my head around, steeling myself for another crumpled parka in the middle of the road, the boy is sitting in the back in his booster seat, the one he outgrew years ago. Mommy, he says, the word hanging there like tinsel on a Christmas tree, We’re going to be late. I remember the orange and black parka that he’s wearing with the hole in the elbow, the feathers drifting where they didn’t belong like snow in the desert. Don’t worry, I tell him, just as I did so many times before I knew the words flesh and snap, shadow and slick. I’m sure we’ll find a shortcut.
Whoa! This is beautiful and sad. I ate it up. So many wonderful poetic, sensory details. This line is pure poetry: "I remember the orange and black parka that he’s wearing with the hole in the elbow, the feathers drifting where they didn’t belong like snow in the desert." Really beautiful work!
While she was dying I asked her to send me a sign when she got to the other side. I should call you when I get there? she chuckled, but I didn’t expect that her bed’s alarm would go off with her last breath, or that the faucets would open the way they did. The maintenance man went pale as he worked to shut everything off but could not. He’d seen a lot of strange things at this hospital full of ghosts, and he understood goodbyes. Was he surprised that I was shushing him? We should be careful not to wake her, I thought, but did not say in so many words. I was on red alert, watching for any other messages from her, and trying to interpret this one. By opening the faucets was she encouraging me to cry? She wasn’t so literal while she lived. Did she want reassurance that I loved her? The pink azaleas I had brought with me began to wilt in my lap. I laughed and the maintenance man’s eyebrows shot up. She never wanted me to have something she didn’t already have, I could have explained, but didn’t.
This is excellent Cheryl. Chilling. Especially love the pink azaleas wilting.. Something about that image is so startling and right. I'm wondering about ending the story with that line, but that's just a thought. So great..
Death Don’t Have No Mercy
I hate buzzkills, which is why I’m leaving the bar before closing time, this stranger pretending to be my mother says to give her my keys.
The smell of wet asphalt hits me when I step outside, snaps of lightning pulse in the distance.
I’m seeing double, double key fobs, double driver’s side doors, double rearview mirrors until I see Uncle Haynes hovering over my windshield, floating freely like a jellyfish.
His legs were fluid, not confined like they were in the nursing home bed. His arms swimming laps in the shadows of night, the nerves no longer severed from his body after he flipped his Miata, fracturing his C1 vertebrae from driving intoxicated three times over the legal limit.
His skin translucent and smooth, clear of puss-oozing sores that stirred a banshee wail out of him whenever the nurses turned him for cleaning.
The old spiritual says, “death don’t have no mercy” yet never explains how death can also be cruel in letting you linger.
The blood rushes back to my legs, my car sits abandoned while I stand at the street corner, waving down the yellow cab who can hopefully still see me wrapped in the tinsel rain.
Wow! This comes full circle, the arc (in such a short space) is bril. Love the drunken put down of the woman who tries to keep the narrator from driving "pretending to be my mother" which sets things up (great use of voice!!) and the surreall, ghostly visit from Uncle Haynes.. Great that you never tell us "drunk", and yet the narration of the story is informed by drunkenness. The ghostly moments are all about contrasts, healthy ghost uncle vs the demise of an uncle who lived carelessly, and a clear feeling that alcoholism in lives deeply in the family genes. Love that last line. Brilliant.
Thanks so much Meg! :) this prompt was so much fun, and as with all your prompts, it really frees up creativity, it’s flexible and allows us to explore a multitude of different directions. Thank you again!
Tinsel rain is really brilliant.
Thank you so much Stephanie!
There Are Roads
There are roads to take, though I don’t know which one until the boy steps onto the ribbon of asphalt from wherever he’s been waiting. He’s got coppery hair, like my son did, that looks especially good with the color purple and a face as pale and full of promise as the moon. I know he’s a ghost because I’m late with the brakes, and when I manage to stop and whip my head around, steeling myself for another crumpled parka in the middle of the road, the boy is sitting in the back in his booster seat, the one he outgrew years ago. Mommy, he says, the word hanging there like tinsel on a Christmas tree, We’re going to be late. I remember the orange and black parka that he’s wearing with the hole in the elbow, the feathers drifting where they didn’t belong like snow in the desert. Don’t worry, I tell him, just as I did so many times before I knew the words flesh and snap, shadow and slick. I’m sure we’ll find a shortcut.
Whoa! This is beautiful and sad. I ate it up. So many wonderful poetic, sensory details. This line is pure poetry: "I remember the orange and black parka that he’s wearing with the hole in the elbow, the feathers drifting where they didn’t belong like snow in the desert." Really beautiful work!
the unknowable shadow of flesh
While she was dying I asked her to send me a sign when she got to the other side. I should call you when I get there? she chuckled, but I didn’t expect that her bed’s alarm would go off with her last breath, or that the faucets would open the way they did. The maintenance man went pale as he worked to shut everything off but could not. He’d seen a lot of strange things at this hospital full of ghosts, and he understood goodbyes. Was he surprised that I was shushing him? We should be careful not to wake her, I thought, but did not say in so many words. I was on red alert, watching for any other messages from her, and trying to interpret this one. By opening the faucets was she encouraging me to cry? She wasn’t so literal while she lived. Did she want reassurance that I loved her? The pink azaleas I had brought with me began to wilt in my lap. I laughed and the maintenance man’s eyebrows shot up. She never wanted me to have something she didn’t already have, I could have explained, but didn’t.
This is excellent Cheryl. Chilling. Especially love the pink azaleas wilting.. Something about that image is so startling and right. I'm wondering about ending the story with that line, but that's just a thought. So great..
You're right, Meg! It works much better with the wilting azaleas as the final image. Thanks so much!