You had me at me too. You too, I asked. Yes, stuck like Burnt Matches no one seeks. Do we ever get it behind us, I wonder. I might rather be a mushroom cloud than a Burnt Match, or better, an Elm Oyster—hard to find. Oh, to not be me in the me too of it all. You too? Yes, me too.
His eyes pool when he asks, Why are we here? You unpeel his chubby fingers curled around the steely chain links and cup his hand in yours, pointing it up towards the sky. Because, you say, shielding the river of flame in your eyes; here, there are no clouds. Have you ever seen this much blue?
We’d never met, but his orange ‘66 Ford Falcon always sat in the driveway. He was trimming hedges when I looped the cul-de-sac. “Will you sell it?” I asked. He said over his dead body, though his daughter talked about some expensive treatments to bide more time against Agent Orange’s effects. Watching it shine on the tow-truck, I remembered losing a balloon as a child, unfolding my hands, shielding my eyes against the molten sun.
Great prompt, Meg. And that story is incredible. I failed completely with the word count but here goes.
"Will you go away?"
"You’re stuck with me forever like blue sticks to the sky." His eyes hide behind suddenly closed eyelids. "Mama did. Then grandma died. I was in her house by myself." His body crumples inward. "Honey, I am not going anywhere." I sit him on a kitchen stool, pierce his ear like my mother pierced mine, insert one of the tiny sapphire earrings my husband, dead now five years, gave me. "I wear this one always." I touch my left ear. "Now we are stuck to the same blue, like glue." His mouth doesn’t move, but I see a smile deep in his eyes.
Pinkie Promise
“If you die first, pinkie promise you’ll show me a sign.”
“Proof there's another place?”
“Proof you’re alright.”
“What if I'm a pigeon. How will you know I’m not just another bird?”
“Pinkie promise.”
“Like my other ironclad promises?”
“Like we’re kids, before we knew of broken promises.”
“If we don’t know, we won’t break them?”
“The difference between knowing and belief.”
“Like where I'm going.”
She smiles, curls her pinkie.
He's not even packed.
~
gb
Oh man Guy Biederman. This is wonderful. Heartbreaking and lovely!
Gorgeous. I especially love the pigeon line.
Nice work! Resonates. Had that conversation w/ my little sis---of blessed memory.
Me too, Puddle-dumped.
You had me at me too. You too, I asked. Yes, stuck like Burnt Matches no one seeks. Do we ever get it behind us, I wonder. I might rather be a mushroom cloud than a Burnt Match, or better, an Elm Oyster—hard to find. Oh, to not be me in the me too of it all. You too? Yes, me too.
Love this. Puddle-dumped especially and the Oh, to not be me sentence. Are Burnt Matches mushrooms?
They are, indeed, and thank you for your kind words, Sherri.
Mushroom cloud, Burnt Match, love the poetry of this, the pace and flow ~
Oh my -- I cherish this compliment from a master such as yourself.
Blue
His eyes pool when he asks, Why are we here? You unpeel his chubby fingers curled around the steely chain links and cup his hand in yours, pointing it up towards the sky. Because, you say, shielding the river of flame in your eyes; here, there are no clouds. Have you ever seen this much blue?
This is beautiful, densely packed writing Karen! Love it.
Thank you so much, Meg.
Falcon
We’d never met, but his orange ‘66 Ford Falcon always sat in the driveway. He was trimming hedges when I looped the cul-de-sac. “Will you sell it?” I asked. He said over his dead body, though his daughter talked about some expensive treatments to bide more time against Agent Orange’s effects. Watching it shine on the tow-truck, I remembered losing a balloon as a child, unfolding my hands, shielding my eyes against the molten sun.
This is excellent! Agreeing with Sherri about the killer last line!
Thank you so much Meg!
That last sentence is a wowzer, Guy.
Thank you so much Sherri!
“Keep your crap locked up. Can’t trust nobody.”
“Even the foster mom?”
“Old lady Kendall. She’s alright but she'll hit you sometimes.”
“I’m hungry.”
“Dinner always at six-thirty. Got some ‘shrooms. Fills you up.”
“Why is everything brown? Pillows, bedspread. The walls.”
“Cheapest shit is always brown.
“We ever get to go back home?”
“Home don’t exist for kids like us.”
Wow Jeff. This is sad, and wonderfully drawn!
Thank you 😊
I agree with you about not wanting to over analyze it. Great piece.
No wonder--it's a marvel, mysteriously transparent
Great prompt, Meg. And that story is incredible. I failed completely with the word count but here goes.
"Will you go away?"
"You’re stuck with me forever like blue sticks to the sky." His eyes hide behind suddenly closed eyelids. "Mama did. Then grandma died. I was in her house by myself." His body crumples inward. "Honey, I am not going anywhere." I sit him on a kitchen stool, pierce his ear like my mother pierced mine, insert one of the tiny sapphire earrings my husband, dead now five years, gave me. "I wear this one always." I touch my left ear. "Now we are stuck to the same blue, like glue." His mouth doesn’t move, but I see a smile deep in his eyes.
Wonderful work Sherri! So sad, this story. Great use of dialogue in a tiny piece. Love the way these 2 connect.