FFP#11 – Braids

The grandmother braided the little girl’s black hair into two neat plaits.

“There,” she said. “Look how pretty you are.” She turned her granddaughter around so the child could see herself in the bathroom mirror.

“They’re heavy,” the child said, holding a braid as though she were picking up a worm. Standing on a step stool, she shifted from one foot to the other. “My head feels tight.”

“No, it doesn’t,” the grandmother said. “You look lovely. Neat and clean.”

The girl gave a little hop. The stool beneath her shuddered.

“Stop that.”

“I hate my stupid braids.” The little girl shook her head, whipping the braids around her face. “See. They get in my way.”

The grandmother withdrew a pair of scissors from the cabinet and yanked on the little girl’s hair. With two hard snips, she lopped off both braids. “There,” she said. “Now they’re not in your way.” She placed the two ropes of black hair on the counter.

The child’s eyes widened as she looked from the severed braids to her altered appearance in the mirror.

The grandmother felt flushed and ran her bent fingers through her own hair, which was short and sparse, white tufts that popped out of her scalp like ragged chicken feathers. She glanced at her reflection and was surprised to see such a different woman staring back at her.

She used to have beautiful hair that hung to her waist, just like the child’s, and she had always kept it long, even after it turned white. That is, she had always kept it long until her children brought her home from the hospital, until they decided to cut it all off, to make caring for her easier on themselves.

Yes, she had been bedridden, but only for two weeks.

Only two weeks!

Now here she was, three months later, and her hair still hadn’t grown back.

The little girl laughed.

Outside, the older grandchildren called for the girl. She jumped off the stool and ran from the bathroom. “Look at my hair,” the grandmother could hear her saying. “Look what Grandma did.”

Alone, the grandmother stroked the braids. She held one up against the side of her head. Then she took both braids and hurried to her bedroom, where she found an old shoe box full of receipts in the back of her closet. She emptied it except for a silverfish which scuttled along the bottom of the container, so quick and translucent it was almost invisible.

She folded the braids softly in half to make them fit.

Someday, the grandmother thought to herself, when her granddaughter was much older, she would find this box and her perfectly preserved braids. They’d bring back memories of her childhood. And maybe she’d also remember the grandmother who had cared for her, the old woman who had braided her hair.

The grandmother licked her lips. She was crying, and her tears tasted of stale hope.

FFP#10 – The Commute

That night, I counted six dead rabbits as I drove over the bridge. The car’s headlights lit their battered bodies, revealing broken jaws and red eyes. Blood dripped from their mouths, steaming as it hit the frozen ground.

And then I saw him: a man, naked and bent, huddled in the middle of the empty road, hands pressed against the slick pavement. I slowed down, not stopping until he was directly in front of me, the headlamps bathing him in a cold, white glow.

I honked my horn to see if he would move. And he did, but slowly. His head lifted up in a jerking motion, the skin of his face blanching in the direct light. Oh, that rotted face! Those sharp and uneven teeth crowded in his blistered mouth! I knew those features all too well. I was shaken, but I couldn’t say that I was surprised. Just as a guilt-ridden murderer is always waiting for the police to take him away, a man who makes a deal with the devil is always waiting for the demon to stake its claim.

For a moment, I considered running him over. “I didn’t see him until it was too late,” I imagined telling the police, even though I knew he’d be gone by the time they arrived. Even though getting hit by a car wouldn’t really hurt him. But maybe he’d take it as a warning, a show of strength and determination on my part. Just as I was about to press down on the gas, the demon jumped onto the hood of my car.

The car swayed back and forth under his weight. He crawled toward the windshield and scratched at the glass, his fingernails chipped and ragged, his clawlike hands purple and red and scabbed, smearing grease and dirt and melting ice across my view.

“Not enough! Not enough! Not enough!” he cried.

I didn’t wait to see what he’d do next. I hit the gas and he rolled off the car. I drove on, not looking back, realizing that I couldn’t hide from him anymore. For a brief moment, I considered crashing the car into a tree, killing myself just so all this would end. But I didn’t crash. I couldn’t do it. I gripped onto the steering wheel and sped home.

As soon as I parked in the driveway, I jumped from the car and rushed into my house. In the living room, the babysitter was watching television. She startled when I slammed the door behind me.

“Mr. Aguilar? Are you okay?” she asked.

I pressed a handful of bills into her hand. “Thanks for watching him tonight. Now get home quick. A storm is coming.”

She stared at me, confused, her lips parting in question. “What?”

“Go,” I said. “Just get the hell out of here. Go!”

She grabbed her coat. “Miguel’s sleeping,” was all she said, before running from the house.

I hurried to my son’s room, where I found him sound asleep on his small race car bed. It was red and blue with matching bedding and pillows, something I bought him on his last birthday. Sometimes I’d get in there with him and let him take me on an imaginary drive, but tonight I watched him sleep. The nightlight illuminated his snub nose and round cheeks. One foot stuck out from under the covers. His chest rose and fell with each tender breath. Black hair framed his tan baby face, and I wasn’t even sure if he looked more like me or his mother. I kissed him gently on the forehead, careful not to awaken him, and then I left.

I left him there, my beautiful angel, in his room, alone and helpless while I hid in the basement. Beneath a small window, we kept four rabbits, now nestled together, inside a wire cage. I pulled one out and kneaded its furry scruff with my fingers. “Too bad you guys weren’t enough,” I heard myself saying. “Too bad for all of us.” I froze as I heard the steady raps of someone knocking on the front door. I listened. Weak with fear, armed only with cowardice, I waited, continuing to stroke the stupid animal I still held in my hands.

I didn’t have to wait long.

Upstairs, the front door groaned opened. Hard footsteps stomped along the hallway above me. The house was small, my idea, so that I would always be near my son, so that I could easily hear if he needed my help. Now I could hear the demon breathing, his shallow breaths like dry leaves scraping against concrete.

My son called for me. “Daddy?”

And then the demon, laughing, mimicking, “Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?” I could hear his claws dragging along the walls. Scritch-scritch, scritch-scritch.

“I’ll run upstairs, attack him with a bat,” I thought to myself. “I’ll grab the boy and we’ll leave. We can drive to another state and start over. We can hide.” But I knew I couldn’t stop the demon, just as I knew I couldn’t save the child, just as I couldn’t save my wife.

I had already failed.

For years I’d been trying to appease the demon, trying to keep what I thought was mine. But the child had never really been mine. Not really. Now the demon wanted what was his, and there was nothing I could do. I was a coward. That’s all. Nothing more, and nothing less. A brave man doesn’t make deals or promises he can’t keep. A real father doesn’t sacrifice his only child. A real man deals with the blows life brings his way, accepts an early death in order to save his soul.

“Please, God,” I prayed because that’s all I could do. Because then I could blame God rather than myself. I held the rabbit close to my face, its soft, white fur brushing against my wet cheeks.

“Daddy!”

I wrapped my hand around the rabbit’s neck.

“Daddy!”

Was that my son crying out for me? Or the demon?

Miguel wouldn’t die, at least that much I knew. He’d be forced to become a monster. Not a monster like his father, but a monster nonetheless. He would become demon. He would become my demon’s son. My demon son.

“Miguel,” I said.

“Daddy!”

And then I was alone. I thought I would feel empty and cold. Thought if I ever lost my son I’d wither from grief. Instead, I felt like a ball of fire, ready to explode, ready to destruct. My heart, my lungs, my bowels burned with hate. There was no reason to be brave now, nothing left to lose, nothing left to fear, and so I decided to be hate.

I tightened my grip on the rabbit neck. Tightened the grip until the animal’s mouth, long and red and wet, opened wide and swallowed me whole.

FFP#9 – :):

I am the courier of emotions.

When everyone is asleep, I shuttle from house to house seeking a person receptive to my particular extreme of positives and negatives. I slide through windows, like water seeping through linen, and make my way to a sleeping body. The easiest transfers are to those who sleep with their mouths open. I place my lips around theirs, breathe out, then in, and out again.

In the morning, some will awaken rested and peaceful and some will awaken sorrowful and unsettled.

What is my payment? Satisfaction. Balance. A state of perfect equilibrium. I am the math problem solved. I am the end of proof. I am reason and logic. And the world moves forward and I move on.

But once in a great while, I mistakenly breathe into the mouth of a dying body. Diluted and stale, their breath infects me. For days, my own body is crooked. My mind races. I am reminded that I will never die, will never experience love or loss or loneliness.

There’s something in that dying breath that damages me. It’s the forever and the naught. Two equal and unequal ideas, lingering on their tongues and mine, a bitter aftertaste that becomes a curse, reminding me that I am forever, showing me what I can never have no matter how long I live.

Forever, I’ll be the courier. But to live forever, to live alone, to live without mystery – there is no balance in that.

FFP#8 – The Paratroopers

He doesn’t come from the sky. He comes from under my bed.

He falls up, his parachute exploding behind him, one arm pressed against the ceiling.

He falls toward the window and holds his hands out to me. I don’t want to touch him, this stranger who crashes about my room like a heavy kite spiraling out of control. He smashes through the window pane and disappears.

My hair stands on end. My stomach turns. A parachute bursts from my shoulder blades. Now I’m falling too. I grab at sheets, at curtains. No use.

Through the window I go.

I fall up and up. Soon I’ll touch the moon!

But then —

My head hits wood.

And there I am, falling up from beneath a different strange man’s bed.

He smiles, his eye squinting in welcome and surprise.

My head hits the windowpane. I extend a hand and he grabs it.

His turn.

Together, we launch through another window, shards of glass cutting our exposed skin, the cold night wind drying the tiny beads of blood on our faces.

Up we go.

There are thousands of us in this darkened sky, falling, flailing, flying. Moving so fast we can’t catch our breath, moving so slowly we get nowhere.

We pump our fingers in the air, a silent code to God, S.O.S. S.O.S. S.O.S.

A cappella Zoo, Issue 4 Spring 2010

Issue 4 of A cappella Zoo, in which my story “Stain” appears, is available for pre-order. Only $5 right now. You can see the full table of contents here.

FFP#7 – Ambrosia: A Very Generic Apocalypse

Before the first bomb hit, the talking heads had already predicted we’d become a nation of zombies. What they didn’t know was that you’d have a choice. We’d also end up with a scavenger race, nocturnal humans with severe anti-social behaviors, feeding on the refuse of others, leaving the zombies to prey on the young and the weak.

Quick now: Which would you rather be? A zombie or a cockroach?

In other words, would you rather eat brains or shit?

FFP#6 – Something Like Nick @ Nite

It was like that one episode of Roseanne, where Dan’s mom (played by Debbie Reynolds) shows up in the middle of the night and then tries to kill him but fails every time. It was just like that. Except first you dug the grave and then I got stuck in the closed garage with the car running. I managed to let myself out, through the unlocked side door that you forgot about and which led straight into the kitchen where you were sitting at the breakfast bar drinking coffee from my “I’m a musician and I can HANDEL it” mug and eating dry toast. You looked surprised and at first I thought it was because I was hacking up a lung, not because you were disappointed I wasn’t dead. “What’s wrong?” you asked, tracing the edge of the coffee mug with the tip of your finger. Your fingernail was framed in dirt and your upper lip twitched just enough for me to realize what you’d been up to. And then, somehow, the mug ended up shattered on the floor, the brown ooze of coffee speckling the white vinyl like decay on teeth. You tried to run, but I pinned you to the table. You shoved me back against the buffet, my elbow knocking your glass ashtray collection to the floor. “My ashtrays!” you yelled, which almost made me laugh because screaming about your ashtray collection when you don’t even smoke is probably the stupidest thing you could ever scream about. “I hate you,” you said, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” pulling me into the living room by my hair, which was in a ponytail so it didn’t hurt as much as you thought. We dragged each other over to the couch: You on top of me, me smashed beneath the weight of your body. And then — well. And then for a moment we were both silent, staring into each other’s eyes, my hand gripping your waist, your hand still wrapped up in my hair. I thought you were going to kiss me so I spit at you. Spit at your face a second time and a third until it looked like you had cried some fizzy, semi-translucent discharge. You didn’t spit back. You didn’t even try to force me to kiss you. Instead, you went fucking hysterical with laughter. I didn’t know I was so hilarious. God, I thought. She’s such a loser. Can’t even kill me. Can’t get a kiss out of me. Can’t even keep it together in the middle of a girl fight. I went back into the garage and raised open the door, then sat in my truck for a while, tired and lonely, waiting for the next attempt, hoping it would come sooner rather than later, thinking about Roseanne and Dan and how if one of them had died the other would probably end up sitting in a busted-down truck numb with devastation, not broken-hearted confusion. Not knowing what you want — that’s something like love, right?

More recommended (and free) fiction

Hospital by Edith Zimmerman

Beautiful White Bodies Part 1 and Part 2 by Alica Sola Kim

FFP#5 – Filth & Honey

The fly knew how to be alone. She wasn’t happy about it. She wasn’t sad about it. This was all she knew of life. (She had interacted once with another fly, a stranger who had silently climbed on her back and caressed her body. He disappeared soon after, but she never missed him.) The fly spent entire minutes at a time sitting on the counter top or clinging to the white walls. She meditated, she napped, she ate. She watched the man and woman of the house go about their daily routines. Try all she might, she couldn’t understand why the man and woman didn’t mind her watching them while they were making love or arguing but as soon as she decided to leave them alone, to stretch out her wings and enjoy a quick flight about the kitchen, they were after her, swatting at her with towels or newspapers or shoes.

One day, the man left and never came back. For a short while, the fly was allowed some peace while the woman kept to herself in the bedroom. But when she finally emerged from her darkened room, the woman fell into a violent rage and chased the fly throughout the house.

The fly tried to catch her breath by resting on the ceiling.

Unfortunately, the woman had purchased a newer, longer flyswatter, which she now used. She jumped up, smashing the swatter sharply against the ceiling, attempting to flatten the fly to death. The fly narrowly escaped and, in a panic, flew to a window. She had never been outside before, but she realized that this home was no longer safe. The fly banged at the glass with her small, round body. Horrified, the fly flew to another window, one which had been left open, and found a way out through a tiny hole in the screen.

Poof!

And just like that, she was outside.

The fly clung to the exterior wall of the house, wondering at this new, limitless world. The sunlight warmed her body. She felt dizzy as she stared up at the tall trees lining the front yard. She wiggled her antennae but couldn’t smell anything other than fresh air and flowers. There were no people out here to watch, no countertops dusted with crumbs. And the fly couldn’t relax or meditate because there were too many birds about. She wasn’t exactly sure what birds did, but her instincts warned her that she would be easy prey for these flying creatures. She searched for a safer place to be.

That’s when she first saw her, them, the worker bees. There were at least a dozen altogether, all hovering about a lilac bush. Deciding she needed a closer look, the fly flew toward the bees and landed on a cone-shaped mass of lilacs. She watched as they collected nectar from the white and purple flowers. Each bee had her own set of four wings, which they flapped so rapidly that they created a buzzing sound.

Unlike the humans, the bees did notice the fly watching them. First, they grouped together, discussing what they should do, asking why a fly would be staring at them in such a way.

“I don’t care for her at all,” said one of the bees.

“She’s creepy,” sniffed another.

They spoke quickly and in whispers so the fly wouldn’t hear them.

“She looks so lonely,” said the smallest bee. She had only been a worker bee for a week now, and the others had already noticed she wasn’t as disciplined as one should be.

“Leave the fly alone,” said one of the older workers. “Back to work everyone.”

So they returned to their duties. Except, of course, for the smallest bee, who left her flower and buzzed on over to the fly. She landed on a full and fragrant blossom, the lilac shaking just the tiniest bit.

“What’s that?” the fly asked, surprised that one of them had come to her.

“Hello,” the bee said. “You look lonely.”

Up close, the bee was about the same size as the fly. Her wings were at rest now, but she paced around the flowers, climbing, moving, turning around in circles. The fly studied the little bee, whose antennae were straighter than her own, and the bee returned her stare. The fly liked the way the bee looked at her, as though she were important or interesting, as though she mattered.

“Well, I have been alone for a long time,” the fly replied.

“Then you should come with us.” The little bee spun around faster now. “Please say you’ll come. It gets so dull in the hive with everyone working, doing the same thing all the time, talking about the same old things. And I bet you’ve seen much of the world. I bet you know some good stories.”

The only stories the fly knew were those which involved the humans and what she had seen them do to each other and to themselves.

“Okay, I’ll go with you.” the fly said.

The little bee laughed. “You’ll love our colony. And our mother will love you. You’ll be a gift to my mother.”

And so, it was decided that the fly would join the worker bees on their flight home.

Because the colony was such a distance from the lilac bushes and the bees weren’t confident in the fly’s endurance, the little bee carried her the entire way. This form of travel was new to the fly, but soon she grew to enjoy being held by the bee’s strong and hairy legs.

When they reached the colony, the little bee and the fly were the last to enter. The others proceeded ahead, preparing their interpretive dance of the day’s events. The fly watched them, wondering if she was part of their story. Then, as soon as the dance was finished, all the bees disappeared. Only the little bee remained.

“They won’t let you in,” she said. “My mother, the queen, has sent word that she’s seen a fly before. She said you fed on death. She said flies are disgusting.”

The fly didn’t know what to say.

“But I like you,” the little bee added. “I saw you sitting on the flower, and you weren’t disgusting at all.”

“Thank you,” the fly said. “But perhaps I am disgusting. Your mother is a queen after all. She would know.”

The fly and the little bee were silent for a moment.

“I’m getting rather hungry,” the fly finally said. “Maybe I should just leave.”

“Wait,” the bee said. “I’ll go with you.” She glanced at the entrance to the main chamber. They would notice she was gone, but they wouldn’t mind. As long as the queen, her drones and children were fed, the little bee was free.

The two insects didn’t travel too far from the colony. They stayed close to the ground and flitted from one flower to another. The little bee took tiny sips of nectar. The fly tried to do the same but she wasn’t impressed with the taste. Then she caught a whiff of something sweeter, something pungent and substantial.

“Do you smell that?” the fly asked.

The bee shook her head and followed the fly from the garden to a paved road. Surprised by what she saw there, surprised by the fly’s sudden fixation, the bee hovered in the air. She landed carefully on the side of the road, three legs touching dirt, the other three legs touching asphalt.

The fly darted into the roadway, aiming for the freshly killed squirrel in the middle of the road. She didn’t even glance back to see if the little bee had followed her. Instead, the fly landed on the animal remains and tapped her sticky legs against the deepest wounds. She paused, then vomited on the meat. Out came her long tongue as she sucked out blood from the squirrel’s mangled body.

And then the fly did what the bee considered to be the most horrible thing of all: she laid her eggs within the flesh of the decaying animal.

“I thought you were a housefly,” the bee wailed. “I thought you were domesticated. Lovely and friendly and clean. How can you bring your children into the world in such a way?”

The fly flew back to the bee. “But what’s wrong?”

“You’re disgusting,” the little bee said, beating her wings so hard that her buzz hit a new octave. “My mother was right. You’re not a housefly at all. You’re a filth fly.”

“No,” the fly said, afraid the bee would leave her. “No, I’m not that at all. Please, I’m sorry for whatever I’ve done to make you mad. I’m sorry.” She held out her legs and touched one of the bee’s wings, a gesture meant as an apology. Instead, the little bee lost her balance, but she caught herself and quickly regained her composure.

Flustered, offended, and scared, the bee didn’t know what to say. She was ready to leave, ready to return to the hive, ready to forget about the fly and the dead squirrel.

The fly would not leave her alone. “I’m sorry,” the fly repeated, trying to touch the bee again, trying to fix what she couldn’t understand.

The bee turned and brandished her stinger. “Don’t touch me,” she said.

But the fly, who loved the bee and didn’t want her to go away, touched her anyway. And, as promised, the bee responded violently, stinging the fly, piercing the hard and hairy flesh of the round insect’s thorax.

The fly batted her wings in pain.

The bee tried to withdraw her stinger, but couldn’t.

Together the fly and the bee fell to the hard, bare earth.

By the side of the road, there were no flowers, only rocks and weeds. There would be no way for the other bees to find their sister now. And as long as she was stuck to the fly, the little bee wouldn’t be able to get home and die among those she loved most in the world. She flapped her wings at a low, heartbroken buzz. “If only, if only,” she repeated to herself, a mantra of regrets that brought her no peace.

The fly, impaled and dying, felt the bee’s sadness vibrate throughout her own body.

“I’m going to die alone,” the bee said.

“I’m here,” the fly replied, her voice tinged with pain.

The bee fell silent. Her wings stopped moving and, for a moment, the fly believed her friend was dead.

But then the bee asked, in a voice both soft and hard, “Will you eat me when I’m dead?”

The fly was surprised and saddened by the question. She wondered: How was it that in only one day, she had learned about love and loss? And how was it that now, for the first time in her short life, she had never felt lonelier?

The sun began to set, the earth cooled, the trees’ shadows meshed with the approaching darkness.

Together, alone, the fly and the bee waited.

You’ve Got to Read This

Cucuy by Marcela Fuentes

Superman’s Dead by Robert Swartwood

The Girl In the Glass by Valerie O’Riordan