flash fiction friday #84
steups. this shoulda go up on time because i was so fucking on top of it, i do the thing in advance and schedule the post for noon. i busy, gone about my business, assuming the thing done, only to finish errands and reach back here and see no trigger; it still sitting there as a draft with the scheduled time watching me big big like i's a ass. steups.
anyway. flash fiction friday #84 trigger: choose an existing archetype/stereotype/trope, and flip [a major component of] it.
rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for flash fiction friday triggers (starter sentences/phrases, closers, titles, inclusions, structural/thematic challenges, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.09a.m. friday, trinbago time; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago time.*
if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too brilliant not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, song or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to this/my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your piece (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment here).
you may join in at any time prior to deadline.*
you will display your piece as a post on your own blog (or as a comment on this/my trigger-post or fasbook note or instastory or whaever, once we can all read it; please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends online).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago time.*
[in light of collective busyness and my general mentality, i not pressed about these deadlines 'cause i'd rather have fun reading late than never, so if you want to fff past deadline, go through hard, just make sure you comment on the appropriate trigger-post so we know which it belongs to, and if is a real old trigger, comment on the most recent post as well so we know something new to back-back+read...if nobody fffs i leave the same trigger up until at least 1person other than myself writes a piece]*
write fresh!
walk good.
posted by sweet trini @ 1:58 pm
10 comments
10 Comments:
i write a ting i quite like, 2nd week in a row!
https://urbanfolktales.blogspot.com/2020/05/fff84.html
walk good.
I is ah super hero! Look at me! Look at me!
His father's eyes never really leave the newspaper that is covering half his face. The steam from the cup of coffee in front of him seems more alive than the man. At least the steam moves unpredictably, shifts. His father just sits there doing the same things over and over. He turns pages and grunts from time to time. There is also the occasional sentence.
You is a superhero? All superhero have name. Wha is your name?
My name is Strong Man!
All right, Mr. Strong Man. An' you eh have no cape? Batman, Superman, Thor...all dem have cape. Where your cape?
Look it here!
And he turned, proudly to show the towel tied under his chin.
Boy, dat is ah towel! Dat eh no cape!
And in truth, as his father said this, his 'cape' billowed flat, it felt heavy and uninterested as it hung from his shoulders. The general lack of inspiration in the thing became so obvious to him now. Of course it was a towel. All this was delivered by the father without ever once looking away from the newspaper.
So he spent his day looking for a cape. At first he searched inside the house. He went through his sister's room, waiting of course, for when she left home. Strong Man or not, his older sister was a vile, villainous thing, yet he knew that when supplies for adventure were needed, this was as good a room as any to start. He went through her closet when it was safe. He found many things, sequinned things, a few almost-capes, a large, strange-coloured veiny thing that looked like his penis, but no good capes. If something was the right colour, it was too heavy, or too short, or too long. He didn't want to stay in there too long, or make much of a mess. If she knew he was in her room, she would rain such a vengeance upon him.
His parent's room was more disappointing. At least he had found a stash of money in his sister's room. He left it alone, but it may come in very handy at some time, like when they lollie man was passing and she wasn't at home. He searched under his mother's bed, in her closet and her chest of drawer. He found more towels, and sheets, but no capes.
So he left the house. He imagined himself like King Arthur. Instead of a sword in a stone, he imagined a cape on a clothes-line flapping in the wind, calling to him. A cape just for Strong Man. Then he would get to join Justice League, or even his favourite, Avengers. And he started to think of his favourite heroes and he realize something. Iron Man, Hulk, Flash, Spiderman, no capes! He doesn't need a cape to be a superhero! The realization wreaks a good kind of havoc in his little mind. Oh! The possibilities! He has to get home to tell his father and he starts to run. He wills his feet to go faster and faster until they are a blur beneath him. He is happy with his news and he doesn't really know when his feet left the ground. In his mind he can't wait to tell his father that he does not need a cape, he can be a hero without one. He is not paying attention to things like where he was going or if he maintained the expected connection with the ground. It is the look on the face of another little boy that brings him to the realization. There was so much jealousy and yet amazement and joy in his face that he wondered why. Well that, and the fact that he looked this boy, somewhat in the eye, as he sped past his a second story bedroom window. Yes he had started running, but now, now he was definitely flying. He had sped over the tops of hedges and then houses, and now he was positively in the air. Not only did he not need a cape to be a hero but he didn't even need on to fly. What he has to tell Father now he can't remember, he can't remember wanting to be a super hero. What he wants very much at this moment is to get back down. He screamed over and over and as loud as he could for someone to help him.
Just because a woman my age doesn’t have children doesn’t mean that I don’t love the little gremlins; they’re people like you and me. I enjoy hearing the pitter patter of their grubby, little feet. I always give a pleasant smile as the little beasts, with their foul little mouths open showing uneven spaces between crooked teeth, tumble past me in an aisle wreaking havoc on everything and everyone they meet. But my favourite child of all is the snorting, resting piglet inhaling air and mucus while it sleeps, because a sleeping little child never tells big lies.
When the disciples didn’t want to allow some children to see Jesus, Jesus said “Let the children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these” (Matthew 19:14). Jesus said so Himself, and it was written in red. That’s why when Sister Mary Joseph condescended to ask me, of everyone in our church, to give Sunday School lessons to the mongoloids aged 9-12, I was more than willing to help.
It was month two of Sunday School and I knew that I was growing in my faith. “The rod and reproof give wisdom, but a child left to himself brings shame to his mother” (Proverbs 29:15). Sister Mary Joseph had told me that I should look at that verse, and the Bible in general, less literally, because although I was right that the scripture still stood today, “quite logically”, Father Clarke was right to run out of the church hall and into the yard where I stood whipping Mongoloid Phillip (aged 9) with a cane because he was unable to tell me who Jesus’ least favourite disciple was, despite my comprehensive lesson on the betrayal in The Garden.
Until that point, I believed that the Word was the Word but when I went home after Church that day, I realized that Sister Mary Joseph (of Perpetual Complaints) had a point. There could be so much meaning to any of the teachings and that’s why, the next Sunday, after I gave the beautiful story of the Good Samaritan to my class and Mongoloid Sarah (aged 11) asked me to explain it “in real life” (as though the Scripture wasn’t real!) I didn’t take her outside for a good hiding. Instead, I explained it like this:
“Imagine Sarah, that you are an old woman of 69. Your stupid, runny nose has grown hard and dry, and now it is a beak. The skin all over your body is pleated and loose. Your hair that used to be long and rich is now thin and falling out in clumps. When you wake up in the morning your eyelids are always covered in gobs of thick, yellow cold and when you dig the gunk out with your gnarly claws, your eyes look sunken and weak. Because you have had a long, hard life, your limbs ache, quiver and creak. You lie in bed most of the time because you normally feel very tired and very sick. You have a bad disease and you are alone. On your good days you sit in your gallery and stare into your neighbour’s empty yard just because it’s a change from staring at your empty house or trying to think with your empty head.
Did I mention that you’re in pain, Sarah? When you were young you thought you knew pain. Sometimes you would stump your toe in the night and you would feel the shockwaves surge through your body sharply like a jolt of electricity, but the pain you’re in now is different. Pain before was a temporary feeling that would surprise you, last a moment or maybe a day and vanish. This pain in your old age, my dear, is different. Your body is unified by pain and it’s somehow the only sensation that you seem to know apart from hunger and maybe dissatisfaction. Sometimes the pain is throbbing, sometimes it is sharp, sometimes it is dull, quite often it is intense, but the pain is always there and it is everywhere.
The pain makes you cling to your faith. You pray and ask God to take the pain away but when it doesn’t leave, you ask Him to take you instead. Then one day you shuffle to your gallery and you see sparks of light from the yard across the road. You hear the noise of iron and machinery and then you notice a rough, strapping man wearing overalls and a helmet with a visor . He waves and feebly, you nod and wave back. You realise that God works in mysterious ways.
You raise enough strength to make this game of nods and waves a habit until one day you signal for him to come and he does. You offer him lime juice and cake. Do you like cake Sarah? No, you prefer sweet bread? Okay, you offer him lime juice and sweetbread. He tells you about his problems with the law and the welding work that he’s currently doing. You tell him about how you were once a little mongrel whose mother took her to church and put ribbons in her hair and how you grew up and had a husband and then you had a son but they both went away – one to another country and the other to another man. You tell him about the pain, the disease. That’s when you ask carefully, but casually, about his crimes. “Assault with intent to cause grievous bodily harm? How sad” you say as you carefully remove the five, crumpled hundred dollar bills from your pocket and lay them gently on the table in front of him.
He says he can’t do it; you expected that, but after you cry, you beg, you explain that you can’t endure the pain, that God doesn’t forgive suicide, he takes the money and promises to think about it.
By now weeks have gone and welding is still happening but nothing else. You call his cell phone when you see the light in the yard. He never answers and he never calls you back. You almost lose hope but you remind yourself that God works in mysterious ways. Then, one day, you see a car parked in the road outside and a tall, Indian man talking to the welder. You clap your hands and get their attention and get the Indian man to come over. You make sure the welder sees you pointing at him and shaking your head while you’re talking to the Indian man who you learn is the new owner of the house. When the Indian man goes you send a message to the welder that says:
“I told him every5hing. He’s gone Now but he’s coming back wi5h The police”
It worked. In no time the welder is in your house and he has a desperate look in his eyes. “How could you do that to me, lady? I never wanted your money!” and he throws the same five, crumped hundred dollar bills at you. Coincidentally, you hear a siren wailing in the background. “Thank you for small mercies, dear Lord” you think and at that very moment you cock your head back and spit at the welder.
As the welder reaches for the knife that you laid on the table before he came, you feel peace in knowing that someone has finally come along to do God’s work of showing you final mercy from your pain. A good Samaritan, at last.”
@swantastico, must admit, i couldn't see at all where the old lady was going with the good samaritan ting, oui...
Maria Conchita Paloma Juana Garcia-Benjamin-Lutchman-Benjamin-Gill-Valentine was the most beautiful woman I did ever see in mih whole, entire seven years of life. She was prettier than my own mother. And yuh know at that age it ain’t have nobody bigger, better, brighter, stronger, smarter or prettier than yuh own mother. Well she, Maria, was prettier than my own mother. My mother didn’t wear fancy clothes like her or comb up her hair and wear lipstick and eyelash and all of those things. My mother sure would never be caught with her breasts pushed up high under her chin and be wearing stockings with seams down the back and toe less, high-heeled shoes with gold buckles at the ankles either. My mother wouldn’t be caught dead outside the house with her hair flying all around her head in so many curls and coils look like she alone had hair for about 5 people. My mother surely didn’t have bright red, long nails to match her lips. My mother…well you get the picture. She was the most beautiful woman that I had ever see and I tell my mother as much when we reach home.
As we crack the corner by our house and I rest my hand on the gate I say mummy I could tell you something? I had to wait until we reach home because my mother say that when in public little children should be seen and not heard. I tell her I is not a little children anymore since I turn seven last week but she still say that I must do as she say. So as we hit the gate I tell her, I say “Mummy I could tell you something? I find Miss Maria real pretty and I want to look just so when I grow up”.
Well I don’t know what was wrong with what I say but is two tap I get in the back of my head, pushing me toward the back step. Whenever I talk about Miss Maria it seem that mummy used to get vex. Not only mummy either; mih granny, mih aunts, as well as Miss Pearlie from next door.
“Go eenside, go eenside with all that foolishness!”
Is a good thing I have plenty hair or else all now so I done crying already.
“Mummy you don’t find she pretty?”
“Look, go and take of dem clothes and come help me put away these things please! Asking me shit about that…that Maria woman!”
Daddy look up at me from what he was doing, eyes wide but mouth decidedly shut.
After the market put away, supper had and pot turn down, we were on the back step shelling peas that mih grandmother bring.
“Mummy I could ask you something?
“Sigh”
“Mummy you think you could get me one of those stockings like what Miss Maria does wear?”
“Look just shut up with all that talk before I get vex yuh hear?”
“But mummy!”
Well I see the hand on the hip, the head tilt and the chin thrust forward and I know to hush.
“Yes mummy.”
Two hours later my eyes start to get heavy.
“Mummy my hand tired from all this peas.”
“Put yuh cup next to the stove, go bathe and get ready for bed.”
Washed and powdered and slight drunk on the huge cup of Chocolate tea I couldn’t help mihself.
“Mummy you think granny will get them for me? The stockings?”
You ever get a cut ass before bed?
Steups. I in the bed too vex to cry. I don’t even know what I get lix for.
Daddy…well you know the rest.
By the time I was twelve or thirteen I was old enough to understand. I’d heard the rumours and whispered with my friends about the parade of men in and out of Miss Maria back door. Miss Maria Conchita Paloma Juana Garcia-Benjamin-Lutchman-Benjamin-Gill-Valentine-now-Gerard was what my grandmother called a ‘loose woman’. My aunts and dem say that she was a slut. Well as you could imagine the older I get, I learn never to talk about Miss Maria in front of my female family members. Especially as I’d seen both my aunt’s husbands at that very back door on more than one occasion. Ha! Keisha St.Bernard, or dog-face Keisha depend on who yuh talk to, say that if you want to know what going on all you have to do is cross the road and walk directly in front the house on an afternoon and you could hear Miss Maria and dem dirty men callin for Jesus! Oh geed! I didn’t even want to think about what was going on behind those doors. That is until one day I see my father walking toward Miss Maria back gate lookin nervous, nervous.
Of course it didn’t help that day before walking from school is when we hear Lionel uncle by the bar saying
“Maria did make me stand up with that gift in she mouth alone.” He with he sickly hop and drop, broko- foot self. You ent see he should be shame to be letting people know he was even over there? What he doing by the bar anyway? He should be home resting he old foot and trying to be on the mend.
Anyway, I walk straight home, drop my book bag and head out toward the little track behind Miss Pearlie house that lead me onto the next street where Miss Maria house was. Coast was clear and I let myself in and walk straight to the back door. Just like Keisha say is only a setta “Oh God” and “Yes Jesus” I hearing throw between daddy and Miss Maria. Hear nah I never know my stomach could churn so much. Not my good, good father. And dis Maria woman – is how much man one woman want? Some yuh could throw back man! My mind tell me to run out the yard but mih foot say “No, Onward ever! We have to see for we-self.” Somewhere in the excitement, it seems that I am now in partnership with mih foot. So me and foot walk along the back wall on the far side of the house, fighting Miss Maria flowers and vines, to where we hearing the noise comin from, until we reach a window. What I see in that window change my life forever.
“Daddy!”
It jump out mih mouth before I could think. My eye open wide wide and same speed daddy look up and see me, seeing him with Miss Maria.
There is my father, down on his knees, Miss Maria in front of him with a hand on his head. Well my two knee lock-up and is me and me alone because Foot is clearly off the clock - partnership done. I couldn’t even move, much less to run. I could only try to figure out what I seeing play out in front of me. There is Miss Maria standing in front of my daddy, one hand on his head and the other hand… holding a Bible? Wait wait, wait a footing minute! Is pray the two of them praying? All the Jesus and Jesus is level prayers Miss Maria putting down, my father on his knees hands up in the air with tears in his eyes, agreeing with Miss Maria for healing. I look around the room and it start to sink in that it’s a small chapel. Miss Maria have pictures of Jesus, Mary, Joseph, all the Angels and saints, even a picture of the last supper with Mary Magdalene clearly portrayed (a nod to the divine feminine I would later learn). I now, understand what good good, healthy body, strong back, strong foot Lionel uncle was saying by the bar yesterday. Dat is man. I did always like him.
Turns out ole ting, Miss Maria was something of a faith healer and when she move to the village she just stick with the men because well considering her looks and her name the village women were, well, being village women. Just like dog-face Keisha. In the end even my mother come around and would to send me with a little pone for Miss Maria for helping daddy with he bad back. This Christmas guess what I still want? Yes dat self. Seam down the back and everything!
@winter: a delight worth the wait. i thoroughly enjoy every moment and kinna didn't want it to finish. nicely unexpected flip, too...
This was great!
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