Thomas towered over his seated mother, yelling—She had a cookie at school and you gave her a cookie in your home; you know I don’t allow her cookies! As he raged on, Susi’s nana stared, wide-eyed, unblinking, waiting for it to be over. Susi told her father of every cookie. She never shared with her nana the punishment at home for each cookie, ten minutes in her little chair inside the coat closet. Immediately after Thomas’ departure, Nana offered Susi a cookie and told her not to tell dad.
Today I’m a ghost sister of a girl destined to become a taxidermist. Yesterday I was a fox spirit assisting a Chinese girl left behind by her mother. Previously, I’ve been the autistic son of a robot, the little sister kidnapped in 16th century Huguenot France, a child turned into a devil elf by an evil santa, and a baby born blue in Appalachia, Kentucky, amongst others. Always the sidekick, never the main character. If only I could get out of this Kindle.
Every evening, Eule slipped gently from the hologram of herself at the entrance to the library, through the thick walls that spoke of multitudes of events, to her beloved books. First to the classics for which her heart had burned from their beginnings. Then on to the newest, soaring through the stacks, absorbing the latest tales from modernity. If any human ever, in her centuries of guarding the library entrance, thought to ask of her what was inside, she could have told them exactly, but that would take centuries.
I’m the best wife—Sarah told her mother—I take good care of Stanley, like you took good care of me. We learn the best techniques from our parents, darling—her mother responded—I’m glad you were paying attention. Sarah hung up with a smile, reminiscing on all the hospital trips, treatments, and medications throughout her childhood. As a result, she was a healthy adult, healthier than Stanley, who suffered chronic neck, back, and knee pain, not to mention the migraines and heel issues. Before he came home, she went to her closet and pulled down the shoe box that held the Flat Stanley her son had sent out for adventure as a school project. The idea had hit her when it was eventually returned. She pushed it down farther onto the leaf’s thorns. Stanley would need extra attention tonight. Sarah would baby him with a back rub, forehead kisses, and a special dinner brought to him in his chair. She was such a good wife.
It’s a parasite, ya know—Len said as he twirled his finger around, indicating the wisteria dripping from the pergola. I hadn’t known. What’s more, I didn’t want to know. Len loved to enlighten me, especially when he could destroy notions of things I loved. I nodded, unimpressed. Parasite indeed. I imagined that beetle that infiltrated spiders and took control as they ate the spider from within its own body. If one crawled into Len, it could commandeer a larger life form, eating on him for an excessively longer amount of time. I wondered how long Len would be in control of himself if this happened—a day, a week, a month. It’s a tiny beetle in comparison to a human.
I believe you can eat the blossoms—I told him and started picking some for (his) dinner. They were prettier than expected on the salad. Len didn’t notice that I took very few blossoms, and that I didn’t actually eat even those. After three long days, I asked if he was okay. He looked at me funny and asked why. I shrugged. Then I looked up wisteria on my phone. The blossoms are edible. Len’s right. I really should pay more attention to what I’m doing.
“Happy Anniversary!” Rich leaned down and gave Barb a kiss as he handed her a dozen yellow roses.
“Oh, honey, they’re beautiful. Thank you.” She beamed back at him.
After he went downstairs to his home office, I asked her how many years. She told me thirty. Later that night, he gave her a 3-carat diamond ring, one carat for each decade of their marriage. It was obnoxious, but the roses were gorgeous. As Barb’s personal home health aide, I was often witness to the couple’s relationship interactions. Today I would become privy to a secret.
“Would you please put them in a vase and set them in my office?” Her office was a small room off the kitchen that she rarely entered.
“But you won’t see them in there. Don’t you want them in the kitchen or living room?”
She leaned toward me from her wheelchair and stage whispered, “I hate yellow.”
“What?” I was astonished. She’d seemed genuinely pleased to receive them. “I figured it must be your favorite color since men usually give red roses.”
Barb sighed and sat back. “He gave me yellow roses on our first anniversary. We were newly married, so I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I gushed over them, and he forever believes they’re my favorite.”
“Why don’t you tell him otherwise?”
“It’s too late.”
I put them in a vase and set them in her office, drawing in their scent deeply before leaving.
He looked exactly the same as the day he left, in his favorite green striped shirt and cargo shorts bulging with plastic dinosaurs. It had to be a hallucination, but I didn’t care. I knelt and hugged my ten-year-old son who should have been twenty. The door hit me on the way down. I hugged him so tightly, wanting to never let go again. Footsteps came up behind me. Hal pulled the door open, and a gasp escaped him. Terry–he whispered–Terry. Hi Dad–said the forever little boy.
Over the next few weeks, Terry told various stories of his whereabouts, none that made sense, except perhaps the few time travel tales. But who believes in time travel? At the end of Summer, Terry announced that he must leave again, that he wasn’t really supposed to have come home. Though he hadn’t seem to have aged, even over the Summer while he was in our sights at all times, he appeared to have the wisdom of an old soul. We let him go. We had to. He promised to visit us again, but we might not remember him then. Yes, he would likely still appear to be a ten-year-old boy. There were no answers to our real questions.
Writing prompt provided by
Sharing is encouraged. Please comment on social media; allowing comments on my website attracts spam. Tag me when sharing and commenting, please.
Yeah, that new little foreign job crumpled up like a used tissue. My big ole Plymouth, made of solid steel, got barely a scratch.
But then, she’s down there talking to a police officer. And I’m up here, looking down at my body wrapped around my steering wheel.
Yellow air dusted everyone who dared go outside. We all looked sickly, most of us miserable. Sneezes caused the powdery tree sperm to be flung off as a wet dog shakes off the water. Snorfling followed, a disgusting, yet necessary action. The spores lingered throughout summer. Hearts clenched.
This piece was originally written for Flash Fiction Friday at Inner Circle Writers’ Group.
Something was crawling on my back inside my shirt. I ripped off my shirt. Standing there in my bra, I flicked the shirt across my back until the creepy crawly feeling diminished to a tolerable level. Then I saw the spider on the last button, wrapped around it like a child clinging to the head of the person holding him on her shoulders. I dropped the shirt, then snatched it back up and ran to the washer. Only after I threw it in, and listened to it fill up, did I realize that the dead spider would not go down the drain with the rinse water, but need to be removed by hand. I shivered. Probably I could procrastinate for a couple days. Maybe someone would drop by in that time.
That night a sleep paralysis nightmare washed over me like a thousand spiders. It felt literally like spiders walking all over me, an army of them, a family of them. Oh, God! Its family! The spider’s family. How many spiders could there be in one family? I’ve seen those eggs hatch; it seems like a never-ending supply of baby spiders, far worse than all those horrifying clowns popping out of that stupid little car.
In the morning I felt itchy everywhere, but not the itchy that cries out for scratching, rather the kind that makes you feel as though you’re being watched. I forced myself to check the washer. I gently pulled the damp shirt from the belly of the beast, shaking it frantically and tossing it in the dryer. Half-expecting the spider to launch itself at my face, I peered in slowly. It was nowhere inside my machine. Maybe I needed a better look. I grabbed a flashlight from the whatsit drawer in the kitchen and aimed it in the washer. The light circled the barrel, faster in case the little critter was still actually alive and running from the light. I did the same in the dryer, shaking the shirt again like a woman on meth, not that I knew anything about that. No spider. No carcass.
Again the same sleep paralysis nightmare overtook me. I woke breathlessly, crying. The spiders crawled all over me, as I lay there unable to move or even open my eyes, repeatedly all night, alternating with gasping wakefulness, great gulping sobs by morning. The itchiness continued unabated. The paralysis attacks me nightly. My work is suffering. What can I tell people? Where is that stupid little spider?