Five Sentence Fiction: Foggy

Sitting across from the nurses’ station on Unit 9 was Annie’s regular resting spot; moved there by the morning shift so her hospital room could be cleaned properly, the attendants usually forgot about retrieving her until the food trays arrived on the ward at noon, four hours later.

“Come on Annie, let’s get you some lunch” was the daily refrain from whichever student nurse was assigned the laborious task of pushing her back down the hall to her room; Annie’s toes curled rigidly on the foot rests as if she was trying to engage parking brakes on the wheelchair, but her bony arms flailed out to each side, endangering frail patients and medical carts innocently lined up along the walls.

Annie’s rheumy eyes stared straight ahead on these brief journeys; no longer was she able to identify objects or people.  Though her vision remained intact, she could not see.

For over the tumultuous course of the past three years, Annie had retreated to a confusing world of memories covered over by cumulus clouds and present days overcast by a constant fog.

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Unexpected Us - a poem for my mom

I tell everyone, well anyone who asks
That you were the best mother any child ever had
And I mean it when I say it, when I say it
But when I don’t, I know our truth
That we were, for none to see, a mother and daughter
Of complexities not imagined in banal platitudes

Ours was the slamming of doors
And the embarrassment of time
Ours was full acceptance of failure
And strongest denial of change

We were children together, hand in hand
Questioning the lines in which we stood
Related but unyielding
Causing wounds that grounded our flights

You were my strength and my comfort
You were my hesitation and my doubt
You were my deepest pain
You were my utter joy

I miss you everyday, Mom.

Five Sentence Fiction - Sombrero

The sudden storm blew dust from the dirty sand up onto Emelina’s face, but she simply swept her arm across her eyes and continued on, weaving long dried reeds into shape with her suntanned brown fingers.  It was 6 o’clock at night but she had no way of knowing that because clocks and time had never mattered to her.  The only thing that mattered was production of crafts for the tourists' eager spending; as long as there was enough light to see her hands moving in front of her, Emelina worked. 

Her fingers had remained nimble over the many years of creating baskets and hats - for this she was thankful.  But when the scorching sun finally set, and the moon took its place in the midnight blue sky, Emelina cried out in pain as she pulled herself upright onto wooden crutches and staggered home on wasted legs.  

What have I?

Chimes and bells ring, catching my breath, piercing my soul.  Church sounds haunt me.  They return me to a childhood defined by discipline and critique. Devoid of love. 

Before the fire, before the end, I had walked through my days pretending to be proud. Pretending to be studious. Pretending to be.  But since the hills melted and the waves crashed in, I have only tried to exist.  Hearing those sounds has awakened me, though not in the gentle way of fairy tales. No, the music of prayer has shaken me and forced me to finally assess my circumstance.

I see her in the distance, clamouring to stay upon a raft in the murky waters left to us.  I try to call out but my voice has been used up.  Terror has taken it completely.  Now that I have a gentle use for my words, they cannot be uttered. 

I call with my eyes – is such a thing possible?  She seems overwhelmed yet somehow strong. Determined. I focus my attention completely on her, forcing her to feel my energy. I plead with her in silence.  Look at me! You are not alone! I am here!

I can tell she is frightened by the dark sea and the miasma that floats around her;  but she moves, her eyes searching for the source of empowerment lifting both her body and spirit. 

I realize that I am hoping. Surely this must be a sign that I am alive. I have hope.

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I don't usually put add explanations of my writing posts but perhaps this piece warrants one.  I have been thinking about genres of fiction, mostly prompted by the insightful writer, David Antrobus.  I felt it might be time to try out a different "voice" in my fiction, to ensure I have options available as I decide what stories I want to tell, and how I want to tell them. 

This piece was a challenge because the cadence is completely different than my usual.  The thread that ties this story to my others is the theme and the challenges of the protagonist.  No matter what era or sentence structure I employ, I hope the themes are personal and universal.

Five Sentence Fiction - Candy

Leaning over the neon-green serving counter, the clerk raised an eyebrow in the customer’s direction; he was used to the school kids spending more than ten minutes deciding on what junk to buy with their allowances, but the lumpy, roly-poly woman currently in the candy aisle was a new species to him. Ellie’s face burned red as she became aware of the young 7-11 clerk staring in her direction; she grabbed four chocolate bars and a small bag of jujubes and dug her wallet out to pay.

“My kids got their report cards yesterday so I thought I’d buy them a treat in celebration – but you know kids, they can be so picky", Ellie said, responding to the unasked question hanging in the air.

Taking the money, the clerk thought to himself that she shouldn’t be feeding her kids chocolate or they would end up looking like their horribly fat mother – but he didn’t voice his opinion, instead handing her twenty-three cents change without thanks or a smile.

Ellie moved as quickly as she could out of the convenience store without looking ungainly, and got into her car that she had parked around the corner; then checking to ensure no one was looking in her direction, she unwrapped the first Oh Henry bar.