Being Deliberate

Prey - #fridayflash

12/13/2012

“Leave me alone.” Sonya said it quietly, her eyes focused on the fence at the edge of the school yard.

The gathering crowd had started to chant and none of them heard her. But Jenny did. She tightened her grip on Sonya’s hair and leaned her head in close to whisper in her ear, “What did you say?” Then she yanked down hard enough to bring Sonya to her knees. They stung where the gravel bit into them.

Fight back next time, Mitch had said when she called him last night. Show them you’re not easy prey.
But they’re bigger.
So am I but you used to beat the shit out of me.
That’s different.
No, it’s not.

“I said leave me alone.” She dug her nails into Jenny’s hand and then scrambled away when she let go. One of the Evil Twins, probably Lara but maybe it was Tara - Sonya could never get them straight - was dumping the contents of Sonya’s backpack onto the ground.

I wish you were here.
Me too, kiddo. Did you tell Mom yet?
Yeah.
And?
She wanted to know what I did to make them mad.

“Why should we?” Jenny said. She stared at the red crescent-shaped marks on the back of her hand and then held it out to face Sonya. “You drew blood, you little bitch.” Lara/Tara opened up Sonya’s binder and let the wind rip the pages free. The other twin rifled through the rest of Sonya’s things and picked up Mitch’s baseball.

You didn’t do anything wrong. You know it’s not your fault, right?
Yeah.
Sonya.
I know.
Do you want me to call your school?
No.
Did Mom?
No.

Sonya stood up. “Good,” she said.
Someone in the crowd laughed and Jenny glared at her. “Did you just say good?”

You have to show them you’re not scared of them.
But I am.
I know.

“Apparently your hearing’s impaired,” Sonya said.
One of the twins - Tara? - snickered. She was bouncing Mitch’s baseball in her hand. “Hey, look at this,” she said and tossed it to Jenny.
Jenny turned it over in her hand. “Who signed this?”
“My brother,” said Sonya.

At least tell your teacher, okay?
Okay.

“He sent it for Ms. Harold’s son,” said Sonya. “I’ll tell her if you don’t give it back.”
From the back of the crowd, someone yelled, “Teacher!”
Jenny glanced toward the school and then back at Sonya. “Think fast,” she said and hurled the ball at Sonya.

Did you get my package?
Uh huh. Thanks for the snow globe. I didn’t know they made them in Arizona.
They have everything here. I thought you’d like that.
Yeah, it’s cool.
Ha ha.

Sonya caught it. She couldn’t stop herself from flinching at the sting as it hit her palm.
Jenny sneered at her. “He isn’t such hot shit, you know. He’s only in the minors.”
Sonya stood up straighter. “No he’s not. He just got called up.”

Call me if they do anything else.
I will.
You sure you don’t want me to call?
I’m sure. I can handle it.
All right. Love you, kiddo.
Love you too, bro.

“Whatever. My dad says a faggot like him is prob’ly happy around all those guys in tight pants.” Jenny turned and followed the dispersing crowd across the field. “We’ll finish this after school,” she called back.
Sonya glared at the back of Jenny’s head. Then, just like Mitch had taught her, she shifted her body to the right and set up for the pitch. Lift your knee up. That’s it. Keep your eye on your target. Now step forward and snap and release. Follow through, follow through!
Her follow-through had always been stellar. Sonya heard the dull crack as the ball found its mark, heard Ms. Harold yell as Jenny landed face-first in the gravel. One of the Evil Twins started to scream.
Sonya turned and started toward home just as the morning bell rang. If she called now, she could catch Mitch before he left for the field. I’m so proud of you, kiddo, she imagined him saying. And he would be. She was sure of it.

© 2012 Dawn Huddlestone

Friday Flash is a weekly opportunity for writers to pen and share short stories of 1,000 words or less with fellow flash fiction writers (and anyone else interested in reading them). For more information, visit FridayFlash.org.

12 Comments

Stolen Penny - #fridayflash

12/6/2012

12 Comments

The day that Penny saw Bigfoot in the backyard, I was stuck inside with chickenpox. That morning at breakfast, Mom had pointed at Penny’s arms with their ugly, scabby sores and said, “Penny will have those scars for life. Don’t scratch.” Then she had sent Penny outside to play and me to my room to do anything but scratch.

I was splayed out on the floor scratching an oozing blister and trying to find Waldo on a page of Waldo-wannabes when I heard Penny bellow. I got to the window just in time to see Penny stumbling into the trees on the other side of the railroad tracks.

The rules in our house are few: no sugar after six o’clock (I have two packs of Gummi Bears stashed under my dresser for emergencies); no boys in our bedrooms (Penny gave me said Gummi Bears to keep me from telling about the times Jesse snuck in her window); and NEVER go anywhere near the railroad tracks without an adult. Once, Penny had dared me to go across the tracks and touch a tree at the edge of the forest and then had told on me when I did. Mom took away our Game Boys for a whole month. Neither one of us had ever risked doing it again. Until now.

After a quick listen down the stairs to be sure Mom was still occupied with Molly Johnson’s Tuesday morning piano lesson, I darted out the second floor balcony and down the outside stairs. Halfway across the yard, where the trimmed grass surrendered to the wild, I vaulted over my old, rusty trike and into the tall weeds. The hot wind rushed past and I imagined I was a cheetah chasing down its prey.

I rolled under the barbed wire fence and raced past the tree stump where we sat to watch the trains rumble by. We used to balance pennies on the tracks, three each, so the trains could squish them flat. We weren’t supposed to do that any more but Penny still came out here with Jesse and brought me back her flattened pennies - another bribe. I leapt over both rails and skidded to a stop down the sharp rocks on the far side. I glanced back at the house to make sure Mom hadn’t seen me and I was about to risk yelling for Penny when I heard a muffled yelp.

Smacking pine boughs aside, I sprang into the coolness of the forest and ran right into a wild-eyed and panting Penny. She screamed and held her hands up. “Don’t scare me like that,” Penny hissed and glanced behind her. She grabbed my arm and hauled me back into the sunlight. “Where are your shoes?”

“Quit pulling,” I said and yanked my arm away. “They’re in the kitchen. Mom would’ve seen me. What happened to your shirt?” One of the pockets was torn and the top three buttons were popped off.

Penny scrunched her shirt closed with one hand and grabbed my arm again with the other. “I fell,” she said. “Keep moving.”

We had just rolled under the fence when the screen door on our back porch screeched open and then slammed shut. Penny pushed down on my head to keep me in the long grass.

“Josephine May Jenkins! Where are you?” Mom yelled.

Penny and I looked at each other in silence. A full name meant trouble.

“You go,” I whispered to Penny. “You came out here first.”

“She doesn’t know I’m here. She called you.” Penny whispered back. “You go.”

“You’re older. Shouldn’t you be the more responsible one?”

“Fine. We’ll both go.” She slipped her torn shirt off and said, “Give me your t-shirt.” Before I could protest, she yanked it up and off my head and then shrugged into it as she stomped toward the house. I pulled her shirt on, folded it around myself and ran after her.

I avoided eye contact with Mom as she held the door open for us. Molly was sitting at the table in her perfectly white sundress with her perfectly curled pigtails. I slid onto the bench beside her and brushed my arm against hers. Molly recoiled and stood up. “Mrs. Jenkins, I think I’ll wait outside for my mom.”

Mom nodded but didn’t take her eyes off of us. “Okay you two. Whose idea was it this time?”

I intently examined the time-worn gouges in the top of the old oak table and waited for Penny to blame it all on me.

Penny straightened in her seat. “Bigfoot,” she said. I stared at her open-mouthed.

“Very funny young lady.” Mom wasn’t laughing. “One of you had better tell me what’s going on. You are not supposed to be outside and you are not supposed to be out by those tracks.” Her long finger jabbed the air in front of each of us as she talked.

“I’m serious, Mom. It was Bigfoot. I saw him with my own eyes. I was waiting for the train and he came out of the bush by Mr. Nichols’ place and ran down the tracks and I sat very still so he wouldn’t see me but then he stole one of my pennies so I yelled at him but he didn’t stop so I chased him but I lost him in the bush and then Josie followed me when she wasn’t supposed to be outside and she–”

Mom held up her hand to stop Penny’s ramble. “There’s no such thing as Bigfoot, Penny.”

“But I saw him!”

“That’s enough, young lady.” Mom glared at Penny and Penny glared back. “Start again. The truth this time, please.”

“Arrrgh. You never believe anything I say!” Penny shoved her chair back from the table and ran from the room. The back of her hair was studded with pine needles.

I expected Mom to start in on me but she just stared at where Penny had been and then picked up the phone and dialed just three numbers.

“Go to your room, Josie,” she said.

I didn’t wait to be told twice, but when I got upstairs I went to Penny's room instead. She was lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Two inches of her belly peeked out below my two-sizes-too-small-for-her t-shirt.

"Don't tell anyone, okay?" she said and held out her hand. "Promise."

I shook my head. "I can't," I said and left her lying there, the three flattened pennies still in her outstretched palm.

© 2012 Dawn Huddlestone

Friday Flash is a weekly opportunity for writers to pen and share short stories of 1,000 words or less with fellow flash fiction writers (and anyone else interested in reading them). For more information, visit FridayFlash.org.

12 Comments

The Very Inspiring Blogger Award

11/28/2012

5 Comments

Awarded by Steve Green at The Twisted Quill

I've been writing Friday Flash stories for two weeks now and am thoroughly enjoying writing short fiction again. But, despite some wonderful comments from other writers, being new to the community still had me wondering if my stories resonated with readers. If they were good enough to keep them coming back. (We writers are such a self-flagellating lot, aren't we?).

So imagine my surprise when, earlier today, fellow Friday Flash blogger Steve Green awarded me the Very Inspiring Blogger Award! (Congratulations on your own award, Steve! It's well-deserved. You pack so much into so few words and often with a delightfully disturbing twist.)

The honour of receiving the award also comes with some responsibility. I am to write a post (this one) that 1) links back to my nominator (check!): 2) displays the award's logo (check!); 3) reveals 7 things about myself (coming next...); and 4) nominates 15 more bloggers for the award.

Seven Random Facts About Me

1. I wanted to be a singer when I grew up. I didn't sing particularly well but joined my school choir anyhow. I still harbour this fantasy as an adult. And I still don't sing particularly well.

2. I tried a triathlon for the first time last summer (a 40th birthday present to myself...think it twisted if you want to) and loved it despite feeling like I might drown during the short swim and having to tackle Muskoka's many hills with an old, likely-not-road-safe mountain bike that was missing half its gears. I plan to do more.

3. On a family trip to the Butchart Gardens in Victoria, BC, my helpful 10-ish-year-old self (I can't remember exactly how old I was, but this would be close) insisted that I could push my 6-foot tall dad around in a wheelchair. He was on crutches after an unfortunate frisbee-playing accident earlier in the trip and a wheelchair was easier for navigating the network of paths. All was going well until we came to a hill, dad asked if I was okay, I said yes and promptly lost my grip. He came to rest in a rose bush at the bottom of the hill, miraculously without having taken out any other tourists in the process. I was suitably horrified then but would now love to see video of it. I like to think it would have gone viral on YouTube.

The Seven Seas Restaurant

4. On the same trip, I tried frog legs for the first time at the wonderful but now defunct Seven Seas Restaurant in North Vancouver. It was on a ship! (An old ferry, actually.) Moored right in the ocean! It was heady stuff for a prairie girl on her first visit to the coast. I deemed just about everything on the buffet inedible (too raw, too weird looking, too unknown...lest you think me too picky, know that I would later become a woman who adores sushi) so my dad ordered me "chicken". Those legs tasted just like it.

5. I believe chocolate should be a food group and long for the day when it is finally conferred the Superfood status it deserves.

6. My daughter's hamster died this week (don't feel too badly for her - she recovered from the shock within about 10 seconds and immediately asked if she could get another). I also had hamsters as a child and was surprised to discover that I can't remember a single one of them dying. They must have, but I have no idea what happened to them. My dad doesn't remember either. Weird.

7. I like spiders, will only kill one under duress and sometimes give them names if they stick around long enough. We have surprisingly few in our house. I blame the cat.

Blogger Nominations

Like Steve, I am going to break the rules and nominate just one blogger (with two blogs) who has a heart of gold and as much spirit as fifteen other bloggers combined: Cathy Olliffe-Webster. If you haven't yet been introduced to her fabulously funny, honest, down-to-earth posts at Life on the Muskoka River, you should go check them out. And while you're at it, have a look at her new blog Separation Advice. You'll be able to say you knew her before she was famous.

Thanks again for the nomination, Steve. You made my day!

5 Comments

Periphery - #fridayflash

11/23/2012

24 Comments

I must have dozed off. Stupid. Someone could’ve stolen my shit. I’d still be asleep if a finger hadn’t tapped on the lip of my ballcap. I keep my head down so that my face is hidden and I don’t say anything. I’ve perfected the art of instant, stealthy alertness. Like a wild cat. Five, maybe ten seconds pass before the tapping starts again. One, two, three, four. Evenly spaced and timid. I still don’t move.

To my left, something juts into my field of vision. A black knit hat with reddish-blond curls poking out from the sides. The hat tilts sideways and then there’s a small face staring at me. I shift my eyes to meet big green ones surrounded by long lashes that glisten with tears.

“Have you seen my mom?”

I shake my head slightly and stare back down at my lap, silently willing her to leave me alone. I don’t need any trouble. She doesn’t get the hint.

“My mom said if I’m ever lost I should ask someone in a uniform for help,” she says, pointing at the stripes on my green army jacket. I almost laugh. I’m about as far from an authority figure as you can get.

So far, no one has noticed us. She has temporarily entered my sphere of invisibility, but that won’t last long. A well-dressed child perched next to a derelict will attract attention. Someone will come to her rescue.

She pokes my shoulder. “Aren’t you going to get up?”

I shake my head again and she slides down the wall to sit beside me.

“Good idea,” she says. “That’s rule number two when you’re lost. Stay where you are.”

I glance at her again. She’s humming now and tilting her head from side to side. The song is off-tune but familiar and I almost have it when she stops abruptly.

“Oh! We could call her,” she says. “May I borrow your phone?”

“I don’t have one.” I reach into the can settled in front of my crossed legs and pull out a quarter. I hand it to her.

“What’s this for?” she says.

I point at the pay phone on the corner and she stares at it for a few seconds before returning her gaze to me.

“I don’t know how,” she says.

“Do you know her number?”

She nods and rattles off a string of numbers, so I sigh and push myself to my feet. I debate taking everything with me but grab just the can instead. I’ll dial for her and come right back.

I push into the crowd of suits and she slides her hand into mine.

“Hey,” a voice says from behind us. “Where do you think you’re going?” A hand shoves my shoulder hard and I stumble forward. My can clatters to the ground, spilling coins across the sidewalk.

“It’s okay,” I say to the girl. “They’ll help you.”

I shake off the girl’s hand and start to run but I’m not fast enough. I’m pulled backward by the collar of my jacket and then yanked sideways into the wall. The girl reappears at my side, but she’s wailing now.

“Let go,” I say. “I didn’t do anything.” I stare down at polished black shoes. They are toe-to-toe with my worn boots. Another pair, equally shiny, edge in from the left.

“You like little girls, huh?”

“She’s lost,” I say. “We were going to call her mom.”

Shiny shoes number two is kneeling down beside me now. He has the girl by the shoulders. “It’s alright,” he says. “You’re safe now. He can’t hurt you.”

She snuffles and looks up at me. “He wasn’t going to hurt me,” she says.

Number two shakes his head. I can imagine the story he’ll tell when he gets back to work. She was so trusting, he’ll say. She had no idea.

Shoes number one still has me pinned to the wall. A semi-circle of legs has gathered around us now and from somewhere beyond them a woman is yelling, “Miranda? Miranda!”

Number two stands up and his shiny shoes are replaced by high-heeled black boots at the end of flared jeans.

“Oh, honey,” she says. “Thank goodness you’re okay.” She hoists the girl up so her tiny black shoes dangle at mid-thigh. Doesn’t anyone buy anything but black in this town?

“We’ve already called the police,” says number one. I can’t stifle my groan and he shoves me and tells me to shut up.

“Thank you so much,” says the woman.

“They’ll probably want to talk to you,” says number two. “Why don’t you wait over there.”

Her legs turn away and Miranda’s feet start to kick.

“No, Momma! No! Put me down.”

The woman is shushing her as she walks away, then she’s yelling “Come back here” and I feel Miranda’s small hand press something warm and round into mine. I glance at her and she smiles. “This is yours,” she says before she’s pulled away again.

I close my fingers on the coin and slide it into my pocket. I have no one to call and it won’t get me much else. At least I’ll have somewhere to sleep tonight.

© 2012 Dawn Huddlestone

Friday Flash is a weekly opportunity for writers to pen and share short stories of 1,000 words or less with fellow flash fiction writers (and anyone else interested in reading them). For more information, visit FridayFlash.org.

24 Comments

A Spoonful of Sugar - #fridayflash

11/16/2012

28 Comments

Jim didn’t think his secret was a big one. It wasn’t even a particularly troubling one to his mind. It would, however, have troubled him greatly if he had known what was going to happen when, on a Sunday morning in June, he opened his mouth to ask Moira to Please pass the sugar, Sugar, as he had done every Sunday morning for as long as he could remember, and instead told her the one thing he had been keeping from her for sixty years.

He hadn’t found it troubling because he knew that she had been keeping a different version of the same secret all that time. If he had only realized how different, he might have been more careful.

Their Sunday morning routine was so entrenched that Jim had only just opened his mouth and Moira was already reaching for the sugar bowl. The early sunlight that turned the stand of birch at the edge of the yard an unearthly gold, lit up her face with a youthful glow and when she smiled he said, “My God, Rosalie looks just like you.”

Moira’s smile disappeared into the deep recesses at the edge of her mouth and her hand paused in mid-air. “Who?” she said.

He could have lied and said, You know, the girl at the market who always laughs at us when we squeeze the tomatoes and giggle like school kids. Or, She’s the new librarian. You’re going to love her. Moira would have known he was lying but she would have let it go.

Instead, he said, “Our great-granddaughter.”

Rosalie, five years old with wild blond curls and an impish grin, perfectly matched his memory of the young Moira he had fallen in love with so long ago. She had been six, he had been eight, and she had shoved him into the dusty street outside Witt’s General Store when he had tugged one springy curl to see if he could make it straight. Ten years later, he had courted her relentlessly until she had finally agreed to a date.

“We don’t have a great-granddaughter,” she said and fixed her gaze on the birch trees. “If you’re suddenly imagining that we’ve had children all these years, it might be time for me to call the home.” She pressed her hands together and held them to her lips, her silent prayer for him to change the subject.

Jim pulled her hands away and held them between both of his own.

“We should have talked about this years ago,” he said. “I know about the baby. I’ve always known.”

There was only one reason back then for a young woman to be sent away for a year. Moira had left without saying goodbye and on that day Jim pledged to himself that he would make her his wife when she returned. It took him another year after that to convince her but they were married in the back yard of her parents’ house on her eighteenth birthday.

He had tried at first to coax the truth from her, but Moira stuck to her story: times were hard, her family needed money and she had gone to the city to work for her uncle. As year after year of their marriage passed without children, Jim stopped asking about her year away. Her sister, Edna, had been the one to finally tell him and it was Edna who, years later, had given him the letter from his adult son John, a letter addressed to Moira at her childhood home, asking if she might be interested in meeting him.

Moira doesn’t want to meet him, Edna had said. Don’t tell her I told you. He never did.

Now he wished that he had. In this moment, with sixty years of doubt and shame spilling down her cheeks, he wished that he’d had the courage to tell her what he knew and to tell her it didn’t matter.

Jim rubbed his calloused palms over the paper-thin skin on the backs of hers. “Moira, please look at me.”

She shook her head and closed her eyes.

“Just listen then,” he said. “I met him. I’ve met all of them.”

“Please, Jim,” said Moira. “Don’t.”

But his secret wanted desperately to be told. He told her how his annual July golf trip to Banff was a cover for visiting them; how every year he would stand next to the first tee and watch his son’s easy swing send the ball straight down the fairway. How proud Moira would be of John, now CEO of a Calgary oil company and how much she would love his wife, Connie, and their daughters Gina and Michelle. How much Michelle’s daughter, Rosalie, was the spitting image of her great-grandmother. “She really does look just like you,” said Jim. “Come with me this time and meet them.”

Moira pulled her hands away. “How could you do this? How could you lie to me all these years?”

“But you knew,” said Jim. “You knew he wanted to know you. He still does. I’ve told them all about you, of course, but they want to meet you if you’re ever ready. It’s not too late, Moira. It was a different time. John understands why you had to give him up. Please meet them.”

Moira shook her head. “You don’t understand.”

“Then tell me.”

She stood and smoothed the wrinkles from her pants. Then she leaned over and kissed her husband’s forehead.

“Oh, Jim,” she said. “He isn’t your son.”

She turned and walked out of the kitchen. Jim stared out at the birch trees, their golden glow fading to every day white in the rising sun. The sugar bowl remained at other end of the table, just out of his reach.

© 2012 Dawn Huddlestone

Friday Flash is a weekly opportunity for writers to pen and share short stories of 1,000 words or less with fellow flash fiction writers (and anyone else interested in reading them). For more information, visit FridayFlash.org.

28 Comments

Being me

I'm a writer, reader, nature-lover and budding triathlete from Muskoka, Ontario. I try to live life with eyes wide open.

This blog is a forum for posting Friday Flash stories and my personal views on the world.

This is my personal manifesto:

Be deliberate. Edit your life until all that's left is what matters most. Do what serves you and those you love. Go outside and play every day. Laugh while you're at it. Be kind to everyone, but most of all to yourself. And that thing you've always wanted to do? Go do it. Now.

Thanks for reading!
(And please also visit me at www.dawnhuddlestone.com)

Prey - #fridayflash

Stolen Penny - #fridayflash

The Very Inspiring Blogger Award

Periphery - #fridayflash

A Spoonful of Sugar - #fridayflash

Being me

Being social

Archive

Categories