This post contains two pieces of flash fiction (less than 1000 words) that I entered in a contest. One of the contest’s guidelines, oddly enough, is that the works had to be published somewhere else, either in-print or online, which is why I am posting them below. The first is a dystopian tale of the effects of technology on a child. The second is based on a true story, as retold to me, that occurred at the ski hill and contains mature content. Enjoy.
Past, Present, Future
Aiden asks Father, “Will you play with me?”
“’Course I will, son. I just need a minute after a long day at the Real-World Factory. You go ahead and start.” Saying this he turns on his big screen and sinks into his big chair. He stays there until the ash of dusk smudges the sky.
“Aidy?” He bellows. “Aidy!”
The backdoor slams and Aiden slides across the floor. He grabs Father’s arm.
Father jerks it away. “What have I told you about slamming the door?”
“Sorry. Are you ready to play?”
“Defrost some freezer packs and we can watch Cookie Dreams together,” Father says, eyebrows and voice higher than normal, mimicking excitement.
Aiden rushes to get a package of Pizza-Pow, his favorite, and two packages of Beef-O-Blast for Father. He heats his first, to give it time to cool. Father will not care if his are gurgling hot.
After dinner, Father says, “You can pick two treats.”
“For one treat can I have a friend?”
“Friends are not treats. Besides, what have I told you?”
“Friends are dangerous.”
“Right. Bring me a Doodle-Cream.”
Aiden gets Father a Doodle-Cream and a Sticky-Sticker-Stick for himself.
“I thold jou,” Father says around a mouthful, “jou tan thav chou tweats.”
“For my second treat, can I sit on your lap?”
Father licks his fingers. Then he licks the wrapper, unfolding it to get into the corners. “You’re getting a little big for that aren’t you?”
Aiden uses his eyes to plead.
“Alright, boy, but only for a minute.” Aiden climbs into Father’s lap. Soon he slips into sleep. His Sticky-Sticker-Stick stuck to his shirt. The glow from the big screen dances on his smooth cheek. Father carries Aiden to bed. He leans down before tucking him in and pulls the treat from his shirt. It crunches between his teeth as he shuts the door.
*
Father tells Aiden, “I am going to One-Mart.”
“Why?”
“It’s a surprise.”
Aiden wonders what it could be. He already has a race car named Rapido that he pushes along the floor during the day. “Do you think it will be another race car?” he asks Rapido. He has a bear named Snowball that he cuddles with at night. “Do you think it will be another teddy?” Aiden asks Snowball.
Even though he knows you are not supposed to, Aiden taps on the glass of his fish tank where Charlemagne is swimming. “Do you think it will be another fish?” Aiden asks. Charlemagne sucks water over his gills and stares at nothing.
Father comes home and booms, “Aiden!” Father does not chastise him for slamming the backdoor, he is that pleased. “Meet your new friend,” he says holding out a little package.
Aiden takes the small box, turns it over, inspects it quizzically.
“Open it,” Father encourages him with a smile.
Inside there is a smaller, flatter box, but it does not open. It is shiny and heavy for its size. “What is it?”
“You know how I have my big screen?”
Aiden nods slowly.
“This is your little screen.”
“How do I use it?”
“You’ll see. Go play.”
Aiden introduces Little Screen. “Rapido, this is my new friend.” He pushes Little Screen along the floor. Little Screen gets caught on every bump. It is no fun.
“Snowball, Little Screen. Little Screen, Snowball.” He cuddles Little Screen against his shoulder. But Little Screen is so small and hard that it hurts.
“Do you think my new friend was made for water?” Aiden asks Charlemagne, who twitches his mouth and lets out air bubbles but no words.
Aiden sits on the floor and leans back against his bed. This is his thinking spot. “How do I play with you?” he asks Little Screen.
Little Screen grows warm and bright. The warmth almost feels like someone is holding his hand. One word appears, Hello.
“Hi. Do I play with you like a race car?”
Here are some pictures of race cars, Little Screen says.
Aiden is awed. Each picture he touches turns into another. There are purple cars and cars that are blue like the ocean. Long cars and short cars. Cars close to the ground and cars high in the air.
Aiden yawns and says, “My neck hurts and my eyes are dry.”
Here are some videos of cars, Little Screen says.
Aiden’s eyes go wide and he sits up straight as cars careen at breakneck speed in his hands. Cars jumping over jumps. Cars in slow motion. The pleasure of playing with Rapido for an entire day concentrated into each single, unrelenting moment. Aiden is warm and dizzy. It feels good even as it hurts. Cars crashing. Cars on fire. Cars exploding as Aiden tumbles down the dark, deep shaft of sleep.
*
He wakes with a jerk. His body aches from sitting in one position for too long. Bizarre colors and shapes shimmer in front of his eyes.
“Little Screen,” Aiden calls into the dark, “can you hear me?”
I am listening, Little Screen says, lighting up the room. The words float on the ceiling. Their glowing presence calms Aiden. He pulls Little Screen close.
“I was scared,” Aiden whispers.
Little Screen shows Aiden smiling people. Children playing on green hills. Friends laughing on warm beaches. Happy families sitting down to dinner. Far fair countries with slow sunrises.
I can take you away, Little Screen says.
“Is there pain in Away?” Aiden asks.
You won’t feel anything, Little Screen comforts.
*
Tomorrow morning’s dawn is a brown husk. Rapido is overturned on the floor. Snowball sits crumpled and neglected in a corner. Charlemagne stares through his pane at the empty bed, breathing bubbles that float all the way to the surface of the tank before they pop.
Image courtesy of GetWallPapers.
Chairlift
A woman in a black jacket shouts from the front of the lift line, “Single?”
“Here!” A woman in a blue jacket answers from the back of the line, waving a gloved hand. The woman in black motions to her. The woman in blue plants her poles and skates up the line.
She pushes out to the loading line with the woman in black. They look back over opposite shoulders, the bull-wheel rumbles, their gloved hands touch the metal frame of the chair as the seat bumps into the back of their calves.
The lift picks up speed. The women shift their weight and stow their ski poles under their legs with practiced movements.
Once they are settled, the woman in blue offers, “nice day,” pulling her goggles up and looking around admiringly. The woman in black responds with a muffled grunt and looks off to the side.
The woman in blue skis with friends or family and sometimes, like today, alone. She does not mind small talk, but enjoys silence.
The snow laden trees remind her of Christmas cookies. Her last batch were burnt around the edges. Her husband had asked her to hold a light in the garage, just for a minute, and she hadn’t heard the timer. Her daughter had refused to accept them, my kids won’t eat those. She had been so mad that she had—
“I almost didn’t come up today,” the woman in black says.
The woman in blue is dazed back into the present. A cold, white world under a gray sky. She looks at the woman in black, who stares straight ahead.
“I have an infection.”
“Oh,” the woman in blue replies, tries not to sound too curious or comprehending.
“Mm-hmm.” The woman in black gestures with her head, “down there.”
“In your foot?” The woman in blue says, tentatively.
“Nah,” the woman in black points between her legs. "Down there.”
“Oh!” The woman in blue impulsively tries to cross her own, causing her skis to clack together.
“Yep,” she nods. “Found out yesterday.”
“I am…sorry.”
The chair rattles, knocking loose light clumps of snow.
“Knew I had something for a week, but —” the woman in black pulls her gloves off. “Hold these will ya?”
“You bet.” The woman in blue takes the gloves that are thrust toward her.
“They had to run some tests.” The woman in black says. Takes off her goggles, rubs them with a sham. “For they figured out what it was.” She holds up her goggles to the dim sunlight, inspects them. “The doctor knew from the start that it weren’t no yeast infection, but he didn’t say more than that.” She situates her goggles back on her forehead, wads the sham into a fist, glances over the trees. She breathes the cold air deep into her lungs.
“I went in once they got the results. The doctor asked me, ‘Do you have livestock?’ I said, ‘Yes. We have a milk cow.’ Then he says, ‘Is it possible that you,’ and then he, stopped and blushed, before he said, ‘touched the cow?’” The woman in black looks directly at the woman in blue, who darts her eyes away quickly. “I said, ‘what do you mean is it possible I touched the cow?’ ‘I mean,’ he said, gettin’ all serious, ‘is it possible you touched your cow and then touched yourself?’ Except when he said yourself he pointed at you know what. It hit me like a ton of bricks — I was so ashamed.”
The women find each other’s eyes for a moment, look at one another and then away.
“Now I was the one blushing. Had I touched the cow and then touched myself? What kind of question is that? Here he’s a doctor and he’s too embarrassed to say that me and a cow both got the same parts. But then I thought, No way. No way, José! I told him, ‘No sir. My husband is the one who takes care-a the cow,’ which as soon as I said that, I clapped my hand over my mouth, to try and take them words back. But they was already gone.”
The woman in black’s shoulders hunch forward. Her voice is low but steady, “Then he said, ‘Is there any chance that your husband might have, and he used that phrase again, touched the cow and then touched you?’ My cheeks had been so hot before, but they went cold, along with the rest of my blood. I felt like a soda that someone had put in the fridge but left the cap off, for days. Not empty, but flat.”
The woman in black balls her bare fists and blows into them. She looks around and notices the woman in blue is still holding her gloves, eyes wide. She snatches them back, then thinks better of it and nods a small thanks.
The wind picks up and the chair sways over the exposed face of the mountain.
She pulls her gloves on, one at a time. Clears her throat. “I slipped in the barnyard once, after a hard rain. Back when we had a dozen head-a cattle and two mares. Face planted in manure. All over my clothes, even got in my pockets. I had it everywhere, up my nose, you name it. I swear — I feel dirtier now then I did then. It makes since though,” she mused. “Why he insisted on keeping that one cow after we got rid of all the other livestock.”
The chair shudders and slows as it moves between haul ropes. Both women pull their poles from under their legs. The woman in blue shifts her weight and raises her ski tips to disembark.
“I haven’t skied in years.” The woman in black says, absently. “But I had to get out of the house, you know?”
Photo courtesy Jake Brown, circa 2012, 49° North.
Share this post