Extremely random flash fiction and photo collages.
The letter
Lily gazed out the rain streaked window, the handwritten letter clutched in her hand. She let her memories of Owen play over and over in her mind. Lily and Owen had been married for only a year when Owen was deployed overseas. She always knew that there was a possibility of him not returning. The letter was kindly written by Owen’s friend Nathan telling her the series of events that led to her beloved’s demise.
Dear Lily,
It is with a heavy heart that I write this, but you need to know what happened. We were on maneuvers, five of us patrolling through the night. There was no moon, the air was thick and warm. We moved up the trail through the underbrush, wading in swamps and being eaten alive by the mosquitoes. When we came to the bank and exited the water shots rang out all around us. We engaged with our enemies, shooting back and moving into the dense forest. Owen and I got separated from the others. The enemy was closing in and we ran, holding our guns to our chest, running through the trees to gain some distance from them. Sweet ran down our backs, our breathing became labored in the heavy moist air, and then it all went wrong. I stepped wrong and rolled my ankle hearing a loud pop as I found myself on the wet ground. Owen, your Owen stopped and came back to help me. He got me up and we hobbled over to a large tree to take some shelter. We could still hear distant shots ringing out. As Owen was checking on my ankle an enemy approached from behind him out of the darkness. He shouted something neither of us understood, aiming his gun towards Owen’s back. Owen made eye contact with me and then he turned towards the enemy and shot him, unfortunately the enemy shot as well. I tried to stop the bleeding, I tried to save him. My efforts were not enough, Owen gave his life to save mine. I will forever live with that guilt and gratitude.
Sincerely Yours,
Nathan
Dreamer
Wolfgang’s eyes fluttered open as the subway intercom announced, final stop. He sat up straightening himself out and realizing that he was the only one left on the subway car.
He checked the pockets of his oversized dirty gray trench coat: one billfold brown worn containing a photo ID and five dollars in singles, one paperback copy of Ubik by Philip K. Dick, published 1969 very loved copy with a slight tear in the right corner of the front cover, one folded flier for the Salvation Army Men’s overnight shelter in Brooklyn New York, one stuffed blue, brown and yellow roadrunner about eight inches in length named Clive extremely loved and cherished.
After taking inventory of his belongings Wolfgang left the subway car and made his way up to the surface street. As he did most nights due to his insomnia he wandered around the streets of New York City.
Sometimes he was meek and quiet, making his way through the neon streaked sidewalks with his head down avoiding eye contact with others. Other nights he would take Clive out of his pocket and show him the sights, reciting the New York City’s Visitors Guide, which he had memorized many years earlier.
Holding Clive out and pointing and announcing at full volume the sights they were currently passing. This activity however had landed him in a holding cell on more than one occasion. On this particular night in late August Wolfgang felt out of sorts, maybe it was the warm summer night or the full moon.
Whatever the motivation, Wolfgang walked in silence, finding himself a park bench under a large oak tree just south of Central Park, where he sat down and fell asleep.
Upon waking Wolfgang found himself still on the park bench but something was different, the large oak tree was much smaller and his clothes were different, he was still wearing the gray trench coat but it was clean and felt newer.
He quickly fumbled through his pockets, removing the pristine new paperback copy of Ubik by Philip K. Dick, to get to his billfold that was also in new condition and contained his ID, credit cards, a bank book, cash and photos of a pretty blond lady holding a little boy.
Wolfgang paused for a moment, then slowly reached into his other side pocket and pulled out a brand new stuffed roadrunner.
“Clive.” He whispered under his breath.
He arose from the park bench, started to walk and broke out into a run. He ran till his heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest, he approached a two story brownstone, made his way up the stairs, pulled out a set of keys, slid the key into the door and walked back into his life.
Perfection
Jacob tossed the paint brush across the room. Letting out a heavy sigh of frustration. He got off of his stool that he had been planted on for the last three hours trying to finish a still life painting for a client. He made his way over to his minifridge and pulled out a Coke, popped the tab and downed it.
Tossing the can into the trash he looked at the calendar, it was December 22nd and this piece was being picked up Christmas Eve. Jacob ran his hands through his shaggy hair and exhaled deeply. He walked over to the wooden crate that was standing upright on its side, topped with a wooden salad bowl full of an assortment of fruit. One green apple, one red, a pear, an orange and a banana. One stupid yellow banana that was torturing Jacob at the moment, every time he tried to paint in the banana it looked wrong, the shape, position, color, it was wrong.
Jacob wandered around the wooden crate staring at the bowl of fruit, he’d been painting for over sixteen years now and never had he ever remembered such an obnoxious prop. He’d painted landscapes, portraits, flowers, lamps, books and all sorts of decor. But now on a deadline this long, yellow, mocking banana was getting the better of him.
All of a sudden Jacob grabbed his coat and left the studio. He returned with a bag from the market down the street. He opened the bag and pulled out a pineapple. He placed it behind the bowl of fruit, removing the banana.
Taking his seat on his stool he returned to the painting. He worked quickly dipping his brush into the platelet of colors. “Ha!” Jacob exclaimed to the empty studio, as he sat back and admired his work. A classic still life portrait of a bowl of fruit and a pineapple. He picked up the banana, snapping the top of the peel back, pulling the long yellow skin away from the soft pulp and devoured it.