Tag: Flash Fiction

Slips Away

~ Jamal H. Goodwin Jr. ~ Leave a comment

His wrists were curled onto the banister. They were weightless, a draped towel. The fluff of his palms connected with the cold metal. Despite this, hot sweat still formed on his fingertips. The fingers themselves were motionless, stale like an uneaten pretzel. They couldn’t move even if he wanted them to… He wanted them to. On both wrists his pulse pounded porcupines. He could grab the railing with his bare fingers, but after being motionless so long he feared they’d snap like frozen carrots. Had his wrists not been pressing against the banister, he would have leaned forward too far, falling four floors to his doom.

* * *

A pink sunset. Orange clouds, only a few, dotting an azure sky. From the roof he could still smell honey from the garden. The scent of tall uncut grass tickled his nostrils. He didn’t know it, but he was scowling. His forehead had relaxed into a folded, wrinkled position.

* * *

Nostalgia was his least favorite emotion. That’s why he was so dour in this moment. It felt like it could have been yesterday. There were no words in his memory. Only images and sensations. Two floors below in this very building, a large storage area. A giant flat cube, with smaller flat cubes in it. Each in a different color. An old iPhone on a table hooked up to speakers. A group, about a dozen, and himself, dancing. Fast. Stomping on those cubes, trailing off onto the concrete floor. A girl. Gentle fingers, clay that molded perfectly into his. She led him upstairs.

* * *

He could see her well now. Jet black hair that shot straight down from her head and stopped at the small of her back. Glistening off her hair was the pink light of the sun. She wore jeans and a loose cream-white sweater. Along the sleeves were perforated bunnies. She smiled wide, an invitation to ask her anything. He glanced at her earth brown skin. It radiated a warm aura. He could feel it, even from the short distance that separated them. This moment, he thought, was the perfect opportunity. To say something. Anything. What to ask her? He found himself staring at her eyes longer than he had realized. She looked puzzled. Perhaps he was not aware that he was quivering, so when he attempted to ask her what he wanted to ask her, she simply laughed him off. Or was she laughing with him? She must have expected him to say something, because he was silent for a long time, and he can vividly remember watching her smile melt away. After that, all he could remember was that she left.

* * *

He wished they’d stayed in the dark. There, they were equal. There, he felt self-worth.

Death Of A Character Exercise

~ Jamal H. Goodwin Jr.

I squeezed Sara to my chest. She was sandpaper rough, her arms chalk-powdered. She burned to the touch. Cracks of flesh lined her body, blood runny and bubbly. Skidded tire smell pervaded the air around us. She was alive but—God, how could I even think this—she’d be better off not. Her shut eyes were twitching. Her mouth was open and her teeth were clamped shut. Everyone outside was calling her, shouting her name, but she wouldn’t respond. Her head hadn’t turned an inch left or right since I pulled her out the house. She was in shock.

I sat on the green fire hydrant on the curb, my baby sister wrapped tight in my arms. Men sprinted past us, their red helmets bouncing on their heads, carrying hoses thick as my thigh. No one looked twice at my seat. Everyone knew this one was broken for decades. The money never came to this part of the city.

Sara stirred, she reached her left arm to touch her face. The gesture looked painful.

“Don’t move so much. You’re very hot, you need to rest.”

Her touching her own skin probably ignited her nerves. Pain from the burns, cuts opening from contracting the muscles. It was so hard to breath in there, she needs to get more air in her system before she moves at all.

She let her arm fell to her side. Her body was sweltering against my knees. She needed water. Something to cool her insides. 

“Hold on Sara. Brother’s gonna save you.”

Holding her, I ran down the block. The flames engulfed the our entire house—they were still trying to get Mom and Dad from the second floor—but they were having trouble reaching rowhomes connected to ours. I had to find a house that wasn’t hit yet. Someone would lend us some water.

When she was six Sis wanted me to teach her to play ball. Of course I said no, she was too little, too short to dribble. Not to mention the ball could hit her head. She wouldn’t stop following me though, standing behind me whenever I tried to shoot. Chasing me, trying to snatch the ball. When she was seven, I let her pass it to me before it rolled down the street. She’d start guessing my shots, “made it,” “nope.” Somehow, she was mostly right.

“I gotta teach you when you get a bit older.”

“Yeah, and I’ll kick your butt.”

Two houses didn’t answer but the third opened. A woman. I explained about the commotion, the sirens, the fire. She gave me some water bottles out her fridge and ran inside. She had some things she didn’t want the fire to destroy.

We sat on her porch, Sara in my lap. I slowly tipped some water down her throat, hoping she’d be able to swallow. She did. I put my head to her chest, her heart was beating wildly.

The cuts. I needed alcohol to clean them. I rushed up to knock on the woman’s door again. My elbow bumped against Sara’s neck. She winced, hard. Tears formed in her eyes. Then she stopped. Her teeth loosened. Her head fell back. Everything around me started going fast. My heart. The men running in the street. The porch grew wide, from ten feet to ten miles. I put my head to her chest. Then I screamed.

Mob Mentality

~ Jamal H. Goodwin Jr. ~ Leave a comment

The speaker gives their speech unwaveringly. What are they saying? Who can be sure. What sex are they? Irrelevant. Words flow out the speaker’s mouth like a cool waterfall, gradually rising and falling in pressure.

Audience members tap the correct keys, clapping when appropriate, nodding in sync. As the speaker made a dramatic pause audience members held their own breaths, perspiring, awaiting the water to start running again.

Quakes resound from wall-to-wall. The speaker has pounded the podium, fist enunciating an important point. Ennui is the last thing the audience feels. Roused from their listless minds they stand and clap for the speaker, hopeful greatness would steep amongst one another.

The speaker bows. But they do not exit the stage. Hurriedly an audience member peels out the center of their aisle and joins the speaker behind the podium.

Astounding is their oration. Rivulets of words flow in and out the ears of their spectators. Two pounds bound off the podium, sine qua non to the performance.

Elan fills the room, grasping each corner of the auditorium—stretching it like a rubber glove—bringing it closer to the livid audience. No one could envisage what would happen next.

Then it happened. Two audience members absconded their chairs and joined behind the speakers who were behind the podium.

It was a sight to see! To hear! To FEEL the vibrations of four synchronized homogenous voices launch from the microphone and smack life onto onlookers. The smell of cold sweat of the forehead and cherry gum (from the speakers’ breaths) sucked itself into the nostrils of the front row.

Vicarious passion presented itself amidst a podium pound. How could one not be elated? Half of the audience rushed on-stage, huddling around the podium. The original speaker could not even be seen now.

Still, sitters sat strongly in their seats, sans a single scintilla of doubt. This, was the greatest speech of all time.

The taste on the tongues of the speakers transferring to the tongues of attendants was victory. It tasted like a burger fresh hot off the grill with melted yellow cheese, no sauce or toppings, on a smooth potato bread bun.

It wasn’t abstruse to understand. And it isn’t. Have you ever felt alive in a room filled with endless potential?

9999/10000 of the remaining audience bolted to the stage. There was now not a single open spot on the stage. No centimeter of floor space was visible. Many toes were stamped and stood on. Several speakers poured/peeled off the stage, forced to stand on the steps. Not a single one was deterred. The show must go on!

Their speech was Godly.

The lone audience member clapped as hard as could be mustered—beet red on the face. The speech was redolent of that great struggle we all must overcome.

Enthralled by the word wonder, the audience member ran to the stage, eyes closed as they embraced the collective passion.

When they reached the podium and opened their eyes no one was there. An entire hoard of humans disappeared. It was deafly silent.

Besides the creaky stage floorboard.

A cold breeze blew through the auditorium. Ice particles formed on the attendant’s shoulders. Or at least it felt like ice. Like twinkling snow. The attendant’s fingers felt like ice blocks. They shivered.

What is this? The audience member wondered. Who am I?

How could someone possibly be such a… stepford.