Category: Visual

Flash: Barefoot with the Rain Falling Down

Erin Penn

Woman standing in rain

Image from multiple postings

Why couldn’t the rain have waited just a few more hours to break the drought? Alison thought as she stood in the law office foyer where she worked as a receptionist. She pushed up her umbrella before joining the throng outside on the sidewalk. She elbowed her way into the moving mass.

Unlike most, she did not have a short walk to one of center city’s numerous parking garages. Her massive school debt made owning a car a distant dream. Alison reminded herself, as her left sneaker was soaked in a deep puddle, the walk saved on gym fees. Exercise was good for her.

She huddled under her portable shelter, bringing the umbrella in tight, so its ribs touched her head, and scurried with the rest of the rat race from work to home. Alison tried not to think about the mountain waiting at home from her second job in medical transcription. At least between her two jobs, she managed to pay off the credit card debt from college last month.

If she could keep from punching Mr. Jewels, Esquire, for another six months, and kept dumping everything onto the loans, she would be debt free. She could spend a few more nights in sleeping bag in her little rented room. Ten years from the beginning of school to the end of debt. Show her parents for kicking her out.

Alison turned through the park. Normally more crowded than the sidewalk, the rain drove the bicyclists and basketball enthusiasts home for the day.

She focused her eyes on the concrete walk and picked up speed.

Mr. Jewels really needed to be knocked on his ass. She couldn’t believe he ripped up the contract he had her prepare in front of the client. All because of a clause he had told her to add. She thought it didn’t look right and had even braved his ire to double-check the wording with him. … But no, HE couldn’t look foolish in front of his client, so he screamed .. screamed! … at her for the mistake.

If she wanted screaming, she would go home. The only difference was here she was being paid to listen to his rants. The other lawyers of the partnership were so desperate to have someone act as his secretary, they paid her a bonus for the work she did over and above being the general receptionist.

Still no one should be treated like that. Churned her stomach.

She really should consider having her résumé hit the pavement.

No, no … just six more months, then she could start saving for her master’s degree. Must stay focused.

The sidewalk ended. The rest of the park was grass until she hopped the low brick wall near the project where she rented a room. Alison removed her canvas sneakers and placed them in a plastic bag. They might dry before tomorrow, but not if they go through the puddles covering the park lawn.

She tucked the bag into her carryall next to her office shoes and started crossing the grass.

She dodged the puddles as best she could, trying to stay upright in the slippery grass. The wind picked up and tugged at her protection. She firmly kept the umbrella close. A losing battle to stay dry, but she was getting good at fighting losing battles. Juggling her now thicker and heavier carryall made the umbrella harder to manage in the growing wind.

A gust blew the umbrella away. “Perfect”, she muttered.

She dropped her bag chasing the umbrella. The weather protector stopped in the pine needles between trees. Rushing to catch it while it was stopped, Alison slipped and fell.

Water slashed everywhere. She pushed up and stood. Her business suit was sopping.

Walking more carefully, watching for pine cones, Alison bent over to grab the umbrella handle. Her underwear crept up uncomfortably. The perfect end to a perfect day.

She returned to her carryall, keeping the ineffectual umbrella above her in sheer obstinateness. Water inside the umbrella dripped onto her wet face. Again she thought, the perfect end to the perfect day. She shouldered her heavy bag.

A flower bed was in the way of her beeline home. She looked for harder dirt between the flowers that wouldn’t leave evidence of her steps.

For a second, her eyes focused on the beautiful purple blooms lining the bed. She didn’t know the name of the flower.

… The perfect day.

Maybe it is, if I let it be.

Beside the flowers, she dropped the umbrella to the side and leaned back. The rain stroked her upturned face. Water trickled down her body and for the first time since her parents and her started nightly screaming matches all those long, angry years before she left … she didn’t think.

Alison let the heavens wash her and wash over her. She breathed in the ozone laden air and held it deep in her lungs. A hidden part of her unfurled.

Tears she didn’t know she had in her flowed out. Salt water at the corner of her eyes diluted in the fresh rain drops.

She started whirling and laughing, barefoot with the rain falling down.

(words 863 – originally appearing at Sunday Fun on Breathless Press 4/16/2013 and on blog 4/16/2013; republished 3/13/2016)

Flash: Eat Half

Erin Penn

Half a Hot Dog

Image from multiple Internet postings

Joe stopped inside the living room. The house was clean. Not just picked up trash clean which was intimidating enough. Because between two small children, one of which was nursing, and a fairly full-time job as a real estate agent, Cheryl usually met “at least not smelling of garbage” standard until he had the weekend to bring everything into the healthy livable please-don’t-call-social-services-on-us environment.

Today his son laid in his onesie in front of the television, wet hair slicked back from a recent bath, watching “Frozen” and not a toy was in sight. The determined dust bunnies and stains he had not been able to unseat had been murdered by a vacuum and … he sniffed … lavender-scented carpet foam. A sparkling white playpen, bleached clean of the thousand of teeth marks and grubby fingerprints, contained his daughter trying to pull her socks off. So far the infant was unsuccessful because the feet kept moving on her when she reached to grab them with her hands. She smiled and gurgled at the challenge.

He continued through the Stepford Wives perfection to the kitchen where his wife scrubbed the dishes he had left soaking the night before, her blond hair swept back into a bun without a hair out of place, her make-up perfect for house-showing, and her nearly re-tamed belly brushing the counter as she leaned over the sink for leverage. He didn’t mind the paunch, two children stretch things, but she hated it and had the adults of the house on diets.

“My love,” Joe bravely called her attention to his existence, “how was your day?”

Cheryl turned toward him, her eyes sparkling angrily, her hands scraping the scrub brush against the non-stick pan hard enough to remove the special surface and leave groves. Through gritted teeth, words emerged.

“Your son.”

“Yes…”

“Lunch.”

She nodded sharply to a plate and glass, beside a ruler and a water-soluble child’s over-sized magic marker. The only dirty dishes in the room. Even the dusty wine glasses had been washed. While she could not drink alcohol, Joe abstained. He never was much of a drinker anyway. The last time she wasn’t nursing or pregnant, they shared a bottle of champagne in belated celebration of their anniversary which likely lead to the baby in the crib now. That was the sum total of in-house consumption.

Walking over to the plate, he examined the offense. A hot dog had been chewed length-wise beside a half-a bun. A bit of ketchup, strangely not a blob, but with a portion wiped clean. Apple pieces broken in the center. A green mark had been made midway on a glass of milk, with the top of the milk aligned perfectly to the mark.

Joe closed his eyes a moment, trying to contain himself. Don’t react, don’t react. He thought to himself. She’s still hasn’t rebalanced hormonally from the postpartum. Life would be easier, maybe, if her balance shifted to the more typical to the depressive state instead of manic.

“So, my love, did you said he couldn’t go outside and play until he ate half of what was on his plate.”

“I blame you!”

Don’t laugh. For the love of God man, don’t laugh. Don’t even say “But you agreed food was the perfect way to teach children fractions.” She will hear it as “I told you so.” The couch is not comfortable, far too short and some of the springs are broke from Scott bouncing on it. And don’t forget she knows where all the knives in the house are. She just finished polishing them.

Staring at her a moment, considering all of his options, Joe’s mind got distracted. She was beautiful. How did he end up with someone this special? Clever, brilliant, utterly gorgeous, driven. Shaking himself mentally from the fatigue of work and wonder of his wife, Joe returned to the temporary minefield of his house. “I’m sorry, my love. Truly. Could I help make it better by finishing the dishes before we eat?” And saving what is left of the non-stick surfaces, he added internally.

(680 words – first publication 2/28/2016)

Flash: The Amores

Erin Penn

Arms, warfare, violence – I was winding up to produce a

                Regular epic, with verse-form to match –

Hexameter, naturally. But Cupid (they say) with a snicker

                Lopped off one foot from each alternate line.

“Nasty young brat,” I told him, “whom made you Inspector of Metres?

                We poets come under the Muses, …. – Ovid (translated by Peter Green)

****

“we’re not your mob …” The young beatnik continued urgently, never grokking when The Amores switched  from high poetry to erotic love imagery.

Theodore looked at Nika. The young-looking brunette had put her hand over her mouth when the pretender had stepped up to the mike. A regular like themselves, they knew the boy never wrote his own poetry, and barely understood anyone else’s.  Nika’s hand was now sideways so she could bite the fleshy part to keep from laughing. Or moaning in pain.

It would be rude to laugh. Moaning in pain would be worse.

“you can’t keep your arrows idle – They’re so hot.” Emotive angry rage shot the lines into the crowd.

Coffee snorted out of Theo’s nose. Wiping his greying beard with a napkin, he hid his moving lips behind the cloth. “Can it get any worse?”

Nika left off from gnawing her hand. “I’m waiting for ‘I’m no sexual circus rider’.”

“Zeus and Mercury, that is part of the first poem, isn’t it?”

A giggle-moan of confirmation escaped Nika as she went back to biting her olive-skinned hand.

Eventually the torture, or comedy routine, depending on one’s love of poetry and toleration of youth, came to an end.

Theodore had gone earlier in the evening with one of his limericks. The earnest creative writing crew from the local college never knew how to deal with them. The short poems were always clever, requiring a deeper understanding of English which the children treasured. But the rhymes, however good they were, were still limericks, an affront to their lofty art. Since he was a best-selling author who often spoke on campus, they silently drank their coffee and clapped politely when their professor nodded permission.

The two stayed through last call at the coffee house and the final poem. Two poets continued to show promise, one from the college who somehow was not being stifled by the esteemed professor, and a high schooler who was out way too late on a school night.

Poetry readings were Tuesday. The coffee house had various musicians come in over the weekend. The guitarist on Sunday was the best of that mediocre lot. Nika didn’t have a vested interest in them, so they rarely attended the performances.

Tossing a fifty onto the table to cover drinks and an inflated tip for the hard working waitress who would get nothing from the students, the two left.

“I think I should underwrite a book for Sindee and one for Hampus too.” Theodore commented as they walked hand-in-hand through the quiet parking lot to their truck.

Nika considered, her wide hips swaying to brush Theodore’s long legs. They had the money to spare. “Hampus, definitely, needs to be removed from the cutting machine before his creativity is crushed. … Sindee, hmmm, she’s local. I may be able to inspire her directly.”

Startled, Theo pointed out. “She is still a little young for that in this culture.”

“It’s no always about sex. … Although the child is a dark desire to drink.”

Theo leaned against his truck. He ran a finger across his lover’s lips.

Nika opened her mouth to let the finger enter. Closing her plump lips, she swirled her tongue around the finger. Theo slowly slipped the finger out, hissing as Nika lightly closed her teeth around the end just before he pulled out completely.

Groaning, Theo slipped his hands into the back pockets of Nika’s jeans and grounded his arousal into his personal inspiration. “But it is about sex between us at least, my love.”

“Always, my favorite wordshaper.”

Theodore drowned Nika in a kiss, before the female pulled away to whisper the closing lines of The Amores, Book 1 properly. Theodore knew it was coming. The Muse had to heal the affront to the poem she had nurtured in Ovid.

“ergo etiam cum me supremus adederit ignis, vivam, parsque mei multa superstes erig.” The words steamed between them, promising Theo an immortality unique among the mortals the Muses chose.

“So when the final flames have devoured my body, I shall survive, and my better part live on.”  

(words 742 – originally appearing at Breathless Press 9/17/2013 for the 4/15/12 Sunday Fun – See the picture that inspired the story! – As I do not know the copyright permissions, I have not copied it here)

Passages of The Amores, Book 1 come from Ovid, the Erotic Poems: The Amores, The Art of Love, Cures for Love, On Facial Treatment for Ladies, translated with an introduction and notes by Peter Green. Published by Penguin Books in 1982. A copy can be purchased at Amazon, but clicking on book description.

Latin version from http://www.thelatinlibrary.com/ovid/ovid.amor1.shtml. 

Flash: Monsoon Inspection

Erin Penn

Woman in Red Chair

Image courtesy of Freedigitalphotos.net

“I’m okay mother.” The young woman opened the phone conversation after the other line picked up and waited while the electronic stream bounced up to a satellite and returned from orbit to station to feed into her mother’s archaic landline on the other side of the planet.

“Why on Earth wouldn’ t you be?”

“The monsoon. geez, don’t tell me American news didn’t cover it.” She raised her galoshes-covered feet to rest on the red plastic chair and laid an arm over her knee, then answered herself. “Of course not, it wasn’t like it was a big–”

Her mother interrupted, or more accurately, the stun of her child being in danger and the time delay caught up. “Monsoon! Dolores, I told you that foreign job was no good. If you stayed here you could have married that nice boy from college…”

Whom you never bothered to learn the name of because he was totally forgettable, and a drunk … but I didn’t bring up that part of his sparkling personality with you. You did not need to know everything I got into while in college. His frat did throw the best parties.

“…and have you met any rescue workers. They do have rescue workers there? And food drops like you used to help with. Oh, do I need to send anything to you?” Her mother asked finally winding down.

“No mom. We are set up for this weather. My house is on stilts and everything.” Dolores closed her eyes and crossed her fingers for a small white lie. “I’m totally dry.”

“So no cute rescue workers?”

“No, mom, no cute rescue workers.”

Someone laughed. Dolores eyes popped open. Florescent orange waders rose out of the floodwaters, followed by a dark blue t-shirt with a logo related to some construction sites she had seen around, and topped by a very cute face of the male persuasion. “Got to go mom, the inspector is here.”

Doing the small hand twist which locally translated to the American equivalent of holding up a finger for ‘wait a second,’ Dolores waited for her mother’s response. “Inspector? I knew something was wrong.”

“No, nothing is wrong. Just got to officially get the house looked at. Happens after every monsoon. And no, before you ask, this is my first inspection; my work just told me to expect it. I love you.”

The man face arranged in a pleasant waiting expression. Nothing like the rush-rush the Western world, but also lacking the ever-present fake smiles she would have seen back home too.

“I love you, too. Send me an email when you can.”

“Will do. Good-bye.” Dolores clicked off her phone. Taking a second to change her thinking patterns to Burmese, she stood, putting her phone back into its waterproof sling. “Thank you.”

“To support mother and father, this is the good luck.” The man responded in Burmese, before switching to her native tongue more quickly than she was capable of. “Would you be more comfortable in English?”

“If it is not too much trouble.” She smiled, then bit her lip. Smiling wasn’t always good here. She didn’t make that mistake in Burmese mode. “The last couple of days have been a strain.”

“Mynmarr sends me the foreign housing since I speak languages. My name is Salim.”

“My name is Dolores.” She dragged the plastic chair over to a stilt and bungeed it to the house. “I speak several myself, but the weather took a lot out of me. I’m surprised to see you so soon.”

“High ground this is, houses well built. First inspections always here.”

Ah, Salim has some constant phrases well memorized, like she could ask “Where is the bathroom?” in a dozen languages, but new sentence construction was based on his primary tongue’s structure of subject, object, and verb. When her brain was translating instead of straight hearing, everyone sounded like Yoda. Well, he talked faster even with that then she could translate or hear Burmese right now. She felt mostly okay, but her inner self was curled in a ball shaking from living through a natural disaster. In her life, she had always been part of the rescuing, not one of the rescuee. “Yes, the company told me they put these houses in well. Drilled down into the bedrock to drop the stilts.”

“Good company. They bring lots of jobs. You agriculture instructor?” From one of his many pockets of his mid-chest waders, Salim pulled out a telescoping metal prod and started pushing the foundations around each of the stilts.

“No, I am system admin.” She switched languages. “Computers I work and fix.”

“Smart girl.” He moved to another stilt. “You speak Burmese well. Where did you learn?”

“I picked it up while in India on summer work-studies. Along with Hindi and a few other languages.” She double-checked the sling; she didn’t want to loose the satellite phone. “Where did you learn English?”

“We are taught English in school, then I went to Memphis University on an exchange program for a year. Okay to climb?” He motioned to the ladder leading up to her house. “Need to check floor…” The inspector mimed sliding sideways, his sun-darkened face animating surprise while his black eyes sparkled.

“Pitch of the floor.” Dolores translated. “Slant.”

“Yes, yes, slant.” He motioned at the ladder again. “Climb okay?”

“Please do. Do you want me to come up with you?”

“Yes, good would be.”

Dolores waited until he got to the top before following to avoid the drips from his waders then climbed quickly up the wooden planks. “The front door is unlocked.” The twenty-something inspector did not move until she opened the door for him. She could see everything in her one-room house from the door, so she did not follow him in as he poked around and hopped up and down along the various walls.

“Roof good, no leaks. You no lie to mother about dry.”

A light blush rose in Dolores’ cheeks. “She worries.” In his world, this dry would count since half the people around regularly have their houses flood. Her mom would have problems with water being as far as the eyes could see.

“Mothers worry.” Salim walked over pulling a green card out with numbers in a big block font. “I will put this outside to indicate the house has been inspected.”

Dolores watched as he tucked it into a small plastic square outside her door. She had never figured out what it was for since her house wasn’t numbered and all mail went to her work. “Do I owe you anything?”

“No, no payment needed. Your company pays for the inspections.”

That answer was firm and clearly rote. So the normal additional gifts she had come to expect with all government dealings would actually get him into trouble. Maybe she should offer some simple hospitality. “Would you like anything to drink?”

The man tilted his head considering. “I houses inspect. Three. Can I come back in an hour?”

“Yes you can.” Dolores let a full American smile light her face. “Would you like something to eat as well?”

Salim smiled back. “Yes, I would.”

(words 1,192 – first publication 1/24/2016)

Flash: Special Night

Erin Penn

Young Man Stock Art

Image courtesy of Freedigitalphotos.net

“You are going through with this, aren’t you?” Rober accused Drew.

Drew ran around the kitchen doing last minute preparations; he couldn’t believe Rober had cut his business trip short to revisit the argument he thought settled two months ago. He wouldn’t have started the down this path if he didn’t believe he had Rober’s full support. “It’s the only way with the new laws.”

“Damn politicians need to get out of the bedroom.”

“It’s not the bedroom that is the issue, it’s the nursery.” Drew pulled out the chicken breasts to lay a couple slices of Swiss cheese on them and pour a splash of wine before returning the entrée to the oven. “And society has the responsibility to regulate the care and training of its future members.”

“The only reason to restrict artificial insemination to married couples it to keep gays from making babies.” Rober growled. He bit back several curses about republicans and conservative values, knowing Drew’s adamant support of tradition, even after a decade under the military’s don’t ask-don’t tell. Or was that especially after serving an institution that specialized in hating homosexual and brainwashing its members?

“True. And in a couple years it will tumble because of the discrimination. Already single women everywhere are fighting the law.”

“Then wait … or go to Canada. Or Europe.” Rober begged.

Drew shook his head as he carried the salad to the formally set table. “No, I want our child to be an American.”

“It’s not our child!” Rober grabbed the smaller, but stronger man by the shoulders. “We can’t have children. It will be you and this slut.”

Drew broke away. “Brie is not a slut.”

“Prostitute, then. She will be having sex for money.”

“Because it is the only way!”

“No, it’s not.” Rober countered. “We could adopt.”

“I want at least one my own child, not someone else’s.” Drew said firmly, adding some bread to the oven for final warming. “We can adopt a couple more later, but I want one of mine now.”

“Hypocrite. You talk about overpopulation but are just adding to the problem when thousands of children are looking for dads.”

“And you know how hard it is for a single person to adopt. I’ve been trying ever since I left the Navy. Somehow I never qualify.” Drew’s sarcastic tone admitted he knew why he didn’t qualify even after serving two tours in the Mid-East.

“So you are just going to pay a woman to have sex and carry your kid.” Rober threw up his hands. “That is just sick and obsessive.”

The doorbell rang as they stared daggers at each other.

“Guess that is your whore. Have fun tonight.”

Rober popped the collar of his sweater and stalked out the glass doors leading to their deck and down to the bench. He didn’t look back.

(474 words – originally appearing at Breathless Press 10/21/13 for the 8/5/12 Sunday Fun and published on Erin Penn’s First Base blog on 11/3/2013. Republished under the new format for 1/10/2016.)\