Fragments & Fancies: Ficlets, Flash Fiction & Shorts



  Fragments & Fancies

  Ficlets, Flash Fiction & Shorts

  by Jean Marie Bauhaus

  Copyright © 2011 by Jean Marie Bauhaus.

  Published by Daydreamer Publishing.

  Also by Jean Marie Bauhaus:

  Restless Spirits

  ORANGE SALVATION

  She missed oranges most of all. That sweet burst of liquid sunshine exploding in her mouth and dripping down her chin, licking her fingers, sticky from peeling the rind… she could maybe deal better with the absence of actual sunlight if she could only keep oranges around. Oranges, she knew, were the key to her sanity. Everything else - the colorless cold constancy she faced - could be endured. Just one orange. The color, the fruit, the scent, a shot of Cointreau. A glimpse of sunrise. Her mother’s fiery hair.

  Fire. That was orange. She cried, knowing that she would never see it; but then she smiled, knowing it would be the last thing those sons of bitches outside ever saw, as she released the grenade.

  FAIRYTALE ENDING

  (Inspired by)

  They arrived at sunset. It was beautiful-breathtaking, really-like something out of a fairytale. The Disney versions, even. But Jensen knew that this story was closer to the ones handed down before the Grimm brothers got hold of them and gave them a good polish.

  Her grandfather had made sure she knew those versions. He’d wanted her to be tough, not under any illusions.

  She thought of the girls who had been brought here, one at a time, and wondered what illusions had filled their imaginations as they first laid eyes on this place, with its Happily Ever After facade. They must have thought they were entering a romance novel. Horror and True Crime was surely the farthest things from their minds.

  At least until their boats docked.

  As the boat pulled closer, Jensen flashed her badge at the uniform on the pier and donned her scuba mask. Time to bring up the bodies.

  THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MIRROR

  He had always seen ghosts. Not like that kid in that movie. Nothing creepy like that. Just glimpses, quick shots of people who weren’t really there, going about their lives, minding their own business, completely unaware that he watched.

  As a child, he’d been called insane, among other things, and sent to get his head shrunk. Later, he was a psychic sensation, except he never believed what he saw was psychic. Now, he was a forgotten oddity. The public had moved on.

  But he still saw ghosts. And they never saw him.

  Until now.

  He stared at the face in the mirror, and got an overwhelming sense of deja vu. He had seen the face before, many times. It had belonged to him, once, long ago.

  He’d worn that face the first time he looked in the mirror and saw someone else.

  Saw the face he wore now.

  He stared at the ghost of his boyhood, as it stared back, unknowing, at its future, and wondered.

  Which one of us is the ghost?

  JOKE'S ON ME

  Three vampires walked into a bar.

  It wasn’t a joke, although from where I sat, it sure felt like one.

  The one in the middle was a bombshell. Tall and curvy, with fiery red locks flowing down her back and legs that most men and some women alike would kill to get between. She was also my girlfriend. Well, at least she had been, until my awakening.

  Yeah, I couldn’t believe it, either. Why she picked me, I’ll never understand. I thought I was the luckiest geek in the world until she showed me her teeth.

  Getting bit hurt. Dying hurt even worse. But coming back…well, I guess there’s a good reason people don’t tend to remember being born.

  I earned her wrath when I turned out less appreciative of her “gift” than she’d expected. She made noises about revenge and making me suffer, but I thought it was just whacked-out nutjob talk. Besides, I didn’t think she could do much worse to me. Especially now that I was immortal and all.

  Guess I didn’t give her enough credit.

  My mom and kid sis flanked her on each side.

  WAITING

  There she is, in the coffee shop window. She stares out—not at you, but toward you, not really looking at anything. Maybe at the odd snowflake drifting down from the sky.

  She has all the appearance of waiting.

  For someone, maybe. Her Valentine. The jerk who stood her up. A love she has yet to know.

  You.

  Maybe. Maybe, you’ve been waiting for her, too.

  So you go inside. She looks up. Smiles. Stands, ties on her apron, picks up her pad and pencil and asks to take your order.

  She was just waiting for her break to end.

  WRITER'S BLOCK

  “Go on, write something.”

  “Write what?”

  “Anything. It doesn’t matter.”

  “I can’t just write anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s just not how it’s done! You have to have characters, and a scene and, you know… plot. I don’t even have an idea.”

  “So?”

  “So, how can I write if I don’t have any ideas?”

  “You’re writing now.”

  “What?”

  “Look.”

  “Look wh—? Oh. Huh.”

  “Don’t stop. Keep going.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know where to go.”

  “Well, what happens next?”

  “So far, nothing’s actually happened.”

  “Then make something happen.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “You’re supposed to be my inspiration. Shouldn’t you tell me?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to do.”

  “Fine. Here’s something: The sun imploded, and every body died. The end.”

  “I’m still here.”

  “You’re still not helping.”

  “And yet you’re still writing.”

  ”...shut up.” ... “Hello?”

  “You said shut up.”

  “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. Talk to me. Please. Tell me what to do.”

  “Just write.”

  “Here we go again…”

  PARKING LOT CHIVALRY

  Okay, so she’d never learned to change a tire. But she could work a can of Fix-a-flat and an air compressor and, failing that, she had AAA on speed dial. She could handle a flat and still be back at work before her afternoon shift began. No doubt about that—at least not in her mind.

  So why did every guy in the parking lot come running to her aide?

  Not that she wasn’t grateful, even to the one who ignored her assurances that she was on top of it and practically shoved her aside to “help.” It was kind of them, if a bit piggish, being willing put themselves out for her; they probably had jobs to get back to, same as she did. She appreciated that.

  Still.

  She wasn’t a bombshell. She was more than a few pounds overweight and pushing middle age. So, what? Did she project incompetence or, even worse, helplessness? What did these guys want?

  Her “hero” didn’t even wait around to be thanked. Chauvinism and chivalry were hard to tell apart sometimes.

  She drove back to work on full tires and altered perceptions.

  ROOMMATE TACTICS

  (Inspired by)

  Cheryl knew she shouldn’t be there, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the dresser or her hand away from her mouth. Not even when she heard movement behind her.

  “What are you doing in Jeremy’s r—oh holy cheese on
crackers, what the hell is that?”

  Cheryl could only shake her head. Finally, she lowered her hand and found her voice. “Do you think it’s maybe some kind of art project?”

  She looked over at Brandon, who’d come to stand next to her and looked to be having much the same reaction she’d had. “Jeremy doesn’t take any art classes. This is disturbing. I’m very disturbed.”

  “Maybe he’s in an art club?”

  “Maybe. Yeah. Let’s go with that.” He backed slowly toward the door, pulling her along with him. Cut off by a slamming door, they spun around.

  “What are you doing in my room?”

  Cheryl pointed lamely toward his alarm clock. “Your alarm went off.”

  “Sorry.” Jeremy opened the door.

  “Hey, cool art project,” Brandon offered.

  Jeremy just stared blankly. “What art project?”

  ONE FOR THE ANGELS

  The river looked hostile. Choppy waves on black water made it look cold. But it was warm this time of year. I guessed it would feel like going back to the womb, floating in that warmth, letting it fill my lungs. I took a deep breath to strengthen my resolve, and climbed over the rail.

  “Geddown from there!”

  Halfway over the rail, a hand grabbed my arm and jerked me back. I lost my balance and sprawled on my ass, cracking my tailbone on the pavement. “Ow! What the fuck?”

  A homeless guy stood over me. Greasy hair, greasy clothes, skanky trench coat held together with safety pins. Hadn’t shaved in at least a week. Or bathed, by the smell of him. “What the fuck?” I repeated, in case he didn’t hear me the first time.

  He crouched over me. His hand held a burning cigarette that he waved in my face. “Seven. Just this morning, I pulled this kid out of a car wreck. Seven years old. Had her whole life ahead of her. And here you’re about to throw yours away. So I’m asking YOU, kid, what the fuck?”

  ***

  He stood, puffing his cigarette, and offered his hand.

  I took it. He pulled me to my feet. “What happened to the kid?” I asked, rubbing my ass.

  “Whad’ya think? She died.”

  I was stunned. My world had gotten so small, my problems so huge, I forgot about those of other people. Man, the kid’s family. What they must be going through. Not that I didn’t have a pretty good idea.

  “Look, kid, I’m sorry about your wife, but—”

  “How do you know about my wife? Who the hell are you?”

  The guy hesitated, then shrugged. “It was on the news.”

  “Oh. Right.” I remembered that reporter holding the mic in my face and nodding sympathetically as she got me to give a statement. I only did because I was still in shock. Fucking vulture. I pointed at his cigarette. “Got another one?”

  “You smoke?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You don’t smell like you smoke.” He lit one with the butt of his active one, and handed it over. “You know, these things’ll kill you.” I just looked at him. He laughed. “Guess it’s better to do it slow.”

  ***

  I tried the cigarette, and nearly hacked up a lung. He was right. I didn’t smoke. Laughing, he slapped me on the back until my coughing fit ended.

  “Why’d you stop me?”

  “Told you. You’re too damn young to die.”

  “I’m too young to be widowed.” I took another tentative puff.

  He shrugged again. I wanted to knock his remaining teeth out.

  “You’re hurting. Who isn’t? Hurting’s what makes you you. Tells you you’re alive.”

  “Thanks for that brilliant and original bit of insight, Clarence.”

  “Just ‘cause something’s cliche doesn’t make it untrue. Go home, kid. Your mother needs you.”

  “What do you know about my mother?”

  “You got a mother? She needs you alive. Trust me, I know.”

  I winced at that. Life had clearly beaten him down. Yet was trying to get me to go on. “What’s your name?”

  “Gotta go. Got an appointment.”

  “Wait!”

  “Don’t worry, kid. We’ll meet again. You stay out of the drink, a’right?” I turned to look out at the water. Suddenly it didn’t seem so appealing. I looked back. He was gone.

  ***

  I thought about him as I watched my mom through the ICU observation window. Just like I’d thought about him when she received her diagnosis. It was like he knew. “Your mother needs you.”

  Twenty years later, it was the reason I was still here. It hurt, watching her die like this. A different kind of hurt than losing my first wife, but just as intense. This time, I knew I could take it. I hated it, but I could survive it. I had to. I had others who needed me.

  I needed a cigarette. I went outside to have a smoke and call my wife. I let the nicotine buzz set in before calling home. I was opening the phone and speed-dialing home when the coughing started.

  I doubled over. The phone slipped from my hand. I heard my wife’s far away voice calling my name. I coughed so hard I fell to my knees. I felt a hand pounding me on the back, and looked up.

  Greasy hair. Greasy clothes. Skanky coat. Hadn’t shaved in days. He smiled. “You made it, kid.”

  “What the fuck?” I managed to ask between coughs.

  ***

  “I’m ready to retire,” he said, his tone conversational, as if I wasn’t coughing my lungs out. He lit a cigarette. I wiped the slobber from my mouth. My hand came away red. “Had to find a replacement first. Someone who could stand this job. I gotta say, I had my doubts about you, that night on the bridge. But you pulled yourself together and proved your mettle.”

  I just stared at him as he took another leisurely drag. I couldn’t draw breath. Fuck this. I started to crawl toward the door. This was a goddamn hospital, wasn’t it? Where the hell were all the doctors?

  “I’m proud of you, kid. You’re gonna make a great agent.”

  I collapsed on the ground. “Who… who are you?” I croaked.

  He came over to crouch beside me. “You know who I am. I mean, who I used to be. That title’s yours now.” He patted me on the back. Then he held up his cigarette and considered it. “It’s not like you didn’t get a heads up,” he said, leaning down to brandish the cigarette in my face. “I told you these things would kill you.”

  TWO SIZES TOO SMALL

  “What the hell is that?”

  It was all she could do not to drop the thing in her hands, it wriggled so much. Unfathomably, the look on her face was pure delight. “My new puppy. Isn’t she adorable?” Her voice was one octave short of a squeal.

  “That is not a dog. To call it a dog is an insult to dogkind.”

  “Not a dog yet.” She held it close and let it lick her face. I almost dry heaved. “Granted, she won’t get much bigger. Chihuahuas stay pretty teeny.”

  A chihuahua. Great. Cheese on crackers, I hated tiny dogs. Anything smaller than a beagle was a waste of space and fur. And this abomination would fit in my shirt pocket.

  “Here, hold her.” She thrust it at my face. I just stood there. It looked like it belonged in a rat trap.

  Except, rats didn’t wag their tales, nor become so happy at the sight of you that their entire bodies wiggled. A strange sensation warmed my chest. I didn’t like where this was going.

  She sneezed. Aw, shit. That was cute.

  “Put her in my pocket,” I sighed.

  She was a perfect fit.

  CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE

  Splinters from the boards over the window dug into her back as strong hands pinned her there with only half as much force as they were able. She would have bruises later, but so what? The cool tongue in her mouth made her blood boil.

  The boards bucked against her, knocking them both away from the window. She stumbled. He caught her (of course he did, with those amazing reflexes) but then shoved her to the ground. She skinned her palms as she landed on the concrete. “Hey!” She looked up, half expecting
him to jump on top of her, and really looking forward to it. So she was a fun mix of surprised, disappointed, and turned on when she saw him ripping the zombie’s head off with his bare hands instead.

  That was so gross. And so hot.

  “You ok?” He wiped his hand (zombie gore, ew!) on his jeans before offering it to her. She took it, releasing the breath she’d been holding as he pulled her up.

  “You kiss good for a dead guy.”

  He grinned, fangs exposed. “Just one more thing the zombies and I don’t have in common.”

  STUPID HUMAN TRICKS

  I once knew this girl. She wasn’t like the rest of us. She had a special power, one that made her the envy of every woman who ever knew her.

  You know how some women joke about how they just look at a piece of cake and gain two pounds? Well, for Linda it was the other way around, and it was no joke: criticize her weight, and she’d lose an ounce. Just like that.

  Big deal, right? What’s an ounce? It’s not like this would get her on the Late Show or anything. You’d be surprised how fast it added up, though. By the time she finished reading a magazine she’d have lost two pounds.

  Most women hated her.

  But then it got dangerous. She had to stop reading magazines. She had to stop watching TV. She couldn’t go to the mall, or to the movies. She became a shut-in, and even then, she had to get rid of all her mirrors.