Flash Fiction: The Continental

Sometimes, Wednesday is all about using Wordsmith.org’s word of the day as a writing prompt and posting something by midnight. Past essays, poems, and flash fiction pieces can be found under the Wednesday’s Word category.

It’s Humpday, and it’s rainy, and I’m feeling kind of Flashy. I thought I might take on the word of the day – lancinate: to pierce or tear – but that sounded dangerous. Besides, the prompt I really wanted to tackle came from a listen to the radio a few weeks ago.

Through fortunate events, my husband and I wound up with free satellite radio for a whole month. Similar to satellite TV, there’s an overflow of options, most of which (like NASCAR radio) I could do without. One station, though, I quickly fell in love with: The Coffeehouse, a collection of acoustic songs that are really stories woven into musical threads. A writer’s dream. Well, this writer’s dream. Maybe you prefer the Liquid Metal station. Anyway….

The Coffeehouse is where I heard Suzanne Vega’s acapella version of “Tom’s Diner.” This song, like a good story, uses tempo to pull the listener along and incorporates pauses to allow the listener’s mind to wander. Just for a second. Just long enough.

Even if you don’t read the flash fiction piece below, listen to the song. I dare you not to write from it. You might even find a way to squeeze in the word of the day, too.

*****

The Continental

Nostalgia can be hazardous, Jenny thought, as she walked into The Continental. Just look at this place.

The original horseshoe counter had a tinge of antique color to it. The floor was sticky, probably caked in diner grease. A rotary phone hung next to the register. A rotary! And, the griddle sat off to the side, out in the open, where anyone could see the cook flip patties and wipe the spatula on his apron.

This place is neither efficient nor healthy, she figured, but it was the only place around. She grabbed the first open seat at the counter, a metal-rimmed stool with a vinyl cover that – of course – had a crack down its center. When she sat on it, the edges of the broken vinyl fell together and pinched her in a tender place on her thigh. She jumped and cried out. The waitress walked over.

“What can I get for you, honey?” The waitress cleaned the space in front of Jenny with a wet cloth and set a napkin down.

“Coffee,” Jenny said. She dried the counter with the napkin. “To go, please.”

“To go?” the waitress repeated.

“I’m waiting for a tow-truck,” Jenny said. “I won’t be long.”

The waitress shrugged and pulled out a white, ceramic cup. “Tastes better in a cup. And, I know that tow truck. He takes twice as long as he says.” She filled the cup to the very top and walked away. Jenny looked around, but no one else seemed unnerved by the waitress.

Jenny had blown a tire a few blocks down from the diner and ended up calling Information for a mechanic in town. She hated calling a mechanic, but while she knew how to change the tire, she didn’t have the strength. She dialed the number and was told forty-five minutes. She thought a slow walk to the diner and back would kill time. But, after hearing forty-five minutes would be more like an hour and a half, she regretted sitting down.

Next to Jenny, an old woman pulled up her purse and began rummaging. As she dug around, the aroma of Doublemint gum filled the air, and Jenny thought she smelled Aqua Net. She turned away, so she wouldn’t be tempted to peek at the contents of the old woman’s bag.

A bald man with a goatee sat at the end of the counter, next to the coffee burner. He refilled his own cup and worked a crossword puzzle with a gnawed pencil. “What it doesn’t hurt to do,” he said to the man next to him. “Fourteen down. Three letters. Should be easy, right?” The two men stared at each other for a minute.

“Ask,” said the woman with the purse. “A-S-K.” She turned to Jenny. “Men.” Then, she turned back to her rummaging.

Jenny snickered to herself and sipped her coffee, which was now cold. She waved at the waitress, who waved back. The waitress was busy, tapping her pen on her pad, while a young couple at the corner table giggled over the menu. The young man said something, Jenny couldn’t catch it, and held up two fingers. Then, he brushed a piece of hair behind the young girl’s ear.

Jenny’s body softened.

The woman next to her smiled.

The man with the goatee folded his paper and hit his pencil against it.

The phone rang, genuine, and the bus boy answered.

“More coffee?” the waitress asked. Jenny hadn’t noticed when she walked up.

“No. Well…yes. Thank you. I suppose you’re right. I should stay a while.” Jenny ordered a cup of clam chowder and a grilled turkey sandwich. The waitress winked, clicked her pen, and gave Jenny’s order to the cook.

 

Wednesday’s Word: Once I clicked, I committed.

I’ve got a long list of excuses as to why today was not a good day for writing a new piece of flash fiction (in fact, if this post gets out by midnight tonight, I’ll be lucky). The problem is, I clicked over to Wordsmith.org this morning and read the word of the day and, therefore, committed myself to write something – an essay or a poem or a very short short – based on today’s word:

phycology: noun. The branch of botany dealing with algae. Also known as algology.

Algae. Green, slimy, stinky snood. Wordsmith never makes it easy, but then who said writing was easy?

(Past pieces from Wednesday’s Word exercises can be found by mousing over to the sidebar on the right and clicking on the Wednesday’s Word category.)

*****

Solitude

Joanne’s canoe glided towards the far side of the lake and carried her into a space void of campers, unreachable by motor boat, and reminiscent of times when the electricity went out at home; the air surrounded her with a heavy quiet.

Relief, she thought.

Sometimes she tired of the constant buzzing or humming caused by electric or other what not noises that smothered her at home and at work, sounds that were noticed more so when they ceased. She thought a weekend retreat to her cabin would offer solace, but the Wisnewskis were up this weekend, too. They were a raucous bunch, even at breakfast, which is why Joanne pushed off in her canoe shortly after her second cup of coffee.

from misserion via www.flickr.com/creativecommons

She relaxed her shoulders and relished her space and didn’t think twice about floating into a blanket of algae. The canoe cut through it like a wedge, splitting the muck and setting off spirals of green around her. She scooped up a handful of slime and rubbed her fingers together, searching for the substance. The algae held together only in mass.

Figures, she thought, just like the Wisnewskis. They thrive in clumps and encroach on the lake just the same.

Joanne breathed a sigh of disgust and, at the same time, lurched forward; the canoe had slowed, almost stopped. She brushed the tip of a sunken log, and as it scraped against the underside of the canoe, it pierced the quiet with a sound that frightened a kingfisher out of the trees just feet in front of her. She about had a heart attack because of that damn bird, and now, with her hands clenched to the sides of the canoe, she watched her paddle bounce and slip right off into the water. Into the muck. Away from her canoe.

Now, she certainly was alone, and the algae was closing in behind her.

Flash Fiction on Wednesday: Cold

There’s a new website in my Google Reader: Fiction Writers Review. Writers can find a plethora of information, stories, and great blog posts there. Plus, they have a blog series by Celeste Ng called “Get Writing,” where she posts an exercise to get your muse off the couch and back to some serious calisthenics. This week, Celeste suggests writers turn to the tabloids.

Looking through the tabloids is a lot like waiting for Wordsmith.org’s Word of the Day – you never know what you’ll get – and, seeing as it’s Wednesday, the timing was perfect to use the tabloids as a spark for a little flash fiction.

*****

Cold
(Based on this post, called “Magnetic Boy,” from Weekly World News)

Standing outside, Nicholas Baker – even at ten years old – could see that his mother had lost it. She used to get mad if he ran outside without a jacket, when the air was just a little bit cool. But now, she was insisting that he stand in the front yard, naked from the waist up, in the middle of winter.

“She’s looney,” his older sister, Emily, had said about their mother just a few days before. “Mental.”

“You are what you say!” Nicholas yelled back at first, because he didn’t want to hear her call his mother crazy. Though, he figured she might be right.

“Mom, Nicholas is shivering,” Emily said now. “He’s freezing.”

His mother adjusted his arms up and out to his sides and then stood back to look at him.

“Mom!” Emily shouted.

“Shhh,” she said. “Hold still, Nicky,” his mother told him. “I have to get this picture just right, otherwise we won’t win.” Then, she wiggled her hand toward, Emily. “Hand me some tablespoons,” she said.

Emily rolled her eyes and bent down to grab a handful from the silverware tray that sat on the ground. The wind kicked up. Nicholas’s teeth started to chatter.

“At least let me get him a coat, Mom.”

“No. If his skin is warm, the metal won’t stick. You know that. Now just be quiet and let me work.” His mother’s hands moved in swift diagonals across his chest. She shifted spoons around into various shapes. Her eyes flashed and she was breathing hard.

This wasn’t the first time he stood out in the cold while she lined him with kitchen utensils. Ever since they found out he was attracted to metal, or that metal was attracted to him, his mother had glued herself to the internet in search of contests on sites like Ripley’s Believe It or Not. She took picture after picture and drove to the post office every weekend. Nothing ever came of the pictures, so Nicholas started to wonder if it was really such a big deal that a set of keys sitting on a  table would jump into his palm if he held his hand over them.

“You’re like  Jedi Knight!” His mother had told him. “Like Luke Skywalker living in Cleveland, Ohio,” she’d grinned.

“Worth money,” he’d overheard her tell his Aunt Judy on the phone.

His stomach felt sick, and his head was frozen like a giant ice cube. He told his mother that his fingers were numb. She cupped each of his hands and blew on them, promising that in two more minutes she’d make him the biggest cup of hot chocolate he’d ever seen.

He didn’t like being a Jedi so much anymore, and he wondered if Luke Skywalker ever felt this bad. But, he did his best to smile for the camera, thinking maybe this would be the last time.