Short Stories

Here is a flash fiction piece that I just completed. Tell me what you think:

For Just A Moment
By Dawn Joyce

The road before her looked long and treacherous. Yet she had traveled far. The willow trees that adorned her path angrily swept with the wind as if sending a warning of the perils ahead. But she had already faced danger. She mustn’t fear for fear itself, she had to keep moving.

The grey road camouflaged with the sky and she could feel her eyelids droop with exhaustion. She reached into the hollow of her purse careful not to lose sight of the road. Anxiously, she rummaged for the pack of wipes she confiscated from the rest area a few miles back, hoping to feel for the thin plastic they were encased in. The endeavor proved much too large and instead her fingers wrapped around a familiar friend. Her lighter. She remembered the emergency cigarette pack that she had secretly placed in her glove box more than a month ago. Proud she hadn’t touched them since, she wrestled with the idea of having one now. This was an emergency and maybe, just maybe the smooth taste of nicotine would be comforting enough to keep her moving. The road ahead was still treacherous though and if she wanted one she would undoubtitly have to pull over and she wasn’t ready.

The road ahead looked long and lonely and as she glanced in her rearview mirror, she could see the emptiness of the path that was left behind. Her cheek burned even more than it did before, before she took this trip, and she thought glimpsing at her reflection. But what she would find in her mirrored images frightened her more than anything. How could she have let it go on so long? If she looked in the mirror would she find the frightened girl, the one afraid to run for a more stable life, would she go back? No, she decided. It wasn’t worth it for she had to keep moving.

The air darkened and the clouds opened allowing the cold to drift down, down into her bones. Her jeep offered no heat, and was just another reminder of the selflessness of the man who promised to love her. Her sweater draped in the back seat was too far from reach and she decided to keep going. And for the first time a smile emerged as she thought of how uncanny it was that the ice cold air was a blessing, a blessing in disguise that kept her awake.

Her glee turned to pain as her battered cheek caught her smile. Instinctively, she drew her hands to her face for protection and she could feel the pulsing whelp in her naked palm. She had to let go, for the road was twisting, and if she wanted to keep moving she needed to take control of the wheel.

The road seemed to lead to nowhere even as it entered the city. There were cars ahead and behind, to the left and to the right but still she was alone, alone in this crowded route. Dawn approached bringing with her snow filled clouds that promised the threat of approaching storms. But the mighty storm could not compete with her weary mind and so she kept moving.

The passing line of food chains sent a signal to the empty gnawing in the pit of her stomach. And even though it was still morning, she dreamed of New York strip, rare and tender, with warm juices enticing her senses, she tasted the twice- baked potato, and thirsted for an ice-cold soda. She fantasized until she realized that she hadn’t eaten in two days, she hadn’t eaten since the episode when the chicken tortellini she prepared ended up along the kitchen walls. She kept moving denying her inner hunger the fuel it needed, she kept moving denying her fantasy. She kept moving until she could no longer deny the jeep, she hadn’t filled up since the rest area and now she had to stop, she had to pull over, whether she was ready or not.

The convenience store she encountered was amassed with morning commuters. She covered her tangled, balding hair with a cap, stepped out of the jeep with her head hung low, retrieved her sweater and began pumping gas. She was unnoticeable. The smell of warm coffee and donuts drifting from the store signaled her hunger and her fingers started to quiver. She could no longer deny herself and she decided to venture out of her world and entered the store. It was a brave move.

She stood in line with her possessions and she pretended not to notice as fellow patrons gasped at her bruises, she pretended not to notice even as she heard them whisper. And she pretended not to notice as the store clerk who rang her up also pretended not to notice. It was a brave move and as she exited the store she held her head up high.

The trip back to nowhere lead her out of the city and she found herself comfortably back on the country road. The same road she feared only a day before, nothing ahead and only memories left behind. The road was coming to a fork and as she brought her vehicle to a halt she noticed a familiar car. The white sheets of snow made it hard to see, but intuitively she knew. How he found her, she will never know, but that didn’t matter now.

He exited the vehicle and fell to his knees, pleading with blood stained hands. He offered apologies and promises, promises she heard before. And although she wanted to remain angry, he looked sincere. She reminisced of their beginning, of their love, and how beautiful it was. For just a moment she wanted to forgive him, for just a moment she wanted to go back home, until she realized something different.

The road ahead was scary, and it probably lead to nowhere, but as of this moment, she had to keep moving. It would be a brave move.

****************************************************************************

An excerpt from Lucky Mr. Roundmiddle

“In your nightmare, seek past the despair and find the truth.”

It was a grey morning on Corning Hen Lane. Even the elegant elm trees that adorned this road didn’t lift the clouded mood. As poor Mr. Roundmiddle waddled his way down this crowded route he grumbled and growled. He had made this trip day after day and was growing weary of the pedestrian hustle and bustle this old town tourist trap route had to offer. He could not even enjoy the sweet taste of his twenty-cent cigar anymore, as passerby’s would exclaim of offense if they had to smell the trail of his cheap cherry smoke. There was a time, not so long ago, that this town held its secret. Nestled away in a private corner of Southeastern North Carolina, neighbors were neighborly and everyone knew everybody else. The simple nature of Southport was enough to keep its residents alive.

Then the developers moved in, and this town and the needs of its residents changed drastically. Suddenly the children of Southport were no longer its focus. Even the gossip changed a bit, after all there was much more to discuss.

To the world or at least to the townsfolk, Mr. Roundmiddle was not poor at all, he was lucky and he was rich. His candy story Iggy’s Delights became so successful that even the big name countrywide candy stores could not compete. They would try, but within a year they would have to shut down and another business would fill its place. The old time feel and the award winning vanilla milk shakes of this candy store was truly unique, and that is why the people came. But even still, even with all his riches, grumble- grumble every morning, and by the time he would pass by the tittle-tattle owners of The Lady’s Lounge Hair Salon his grumbling would get worse.

“He has nothing to complain about! I wish I had one tenth of what the petulant oaf has in just the interest in his investment,” is what you would hear Ms. Lindsey say to Mrs. Herndon.

“Yeah, I don’t understand why he just doesn’t drive that expensive heap of metal to his store every morning. At least he could smoke there, and we wouldn’t have to smell it in our shop!” is what you would hear Mrs. Herndon say to Ms. Lindsey.

Mr. Roundmiddle didn’t care what Mrs. Herndon and Ms. Lindsey had to say, after all those two fat ole biddies were always stirring rumors around town. And they loved to stir rumors about Mr. Roundmiddle and all his riches. The townsfolk, they believed every word of it. But what the townsfolk didn’t know was that Mr. Roundmiddle wasn’t really an irritable man, in fact he was a sad man and this long walk helped clear his head of the nightmarish dreams that would revisit him each night. His grumbling was merely a process of releasing negative energy so that when it was time to great the children, his mood would be positive and friendly. Mr. Roundmiddle loved children, and children loved Mr. Roundmiddle. What did the children love about Mr. Roundmiddle? Was it his big-belly Santa Clause laugh they would here when he would tell a silly joke? Was it the way his soft blue eyes would light up, as a small child would taste his exquisite chocolate for the very first time? Or, was it the glory of all the wonderful kid friendly decorations set up as mazes throughout his shop? It is merely just a bit of spiritual chemistry, he was trustworthy and children just felt warm in his presence.

This particular morning, Mr. Roundmiddle was captivated by last nights dream and his thoughts just could not sway. You see, what the townsfolk also did not know about Mr. Roundmiddle is that he was once was very poor, and he once was married and that he once was a father. Those days, were the days Mr. Roundmiddle considered lucky, yes those days were the days that Mr. Roundmiddle was truly rich. But, just about seven years ago, his son of eleven months was taken suddenly by a disease called SIDS and his wife passed shortly after of depression. Driven by despair, Mr. Roundmiddle packed only a small overnight bag and moved far away from his hometown. Mr. Roundmiddle is constantly haunted of the image of his sons still greenish body.

His wife’s shrill voice still disturbs him. “OH MY GOD, he is green, he is green, why is he green!”

The answer never came. Little Nicholas was tested relentlessly to find out what could have caused the discoloration.

“Undetermined.” Dr. Mullin plainly stated.

“Undetermined? That is all you can tell me. I am sorry doc, but that just isn’t good enough.”

“Iggy, you are dealing with a devastating loss, you must give you and your wife time to heal. Understand that SIDS is still a mystery, we do not know all the answers except that this death is not yours or Mary’s fault. Maybe it is time to consider therapy.”

But Mr. Roundmiddle would never consider therapy. Instead he and his wife would argue and dissect everything each of them did that caused his discoloration and ultimately his death. And to this day, because he did not seek therapy, he blames himself for not only Nicholas’s but his wife’s depression and death as well.

Last night, Mr. Roundmiddle dreamed that his dead wife was smiling at him tenderly as small fairies encircled her and danced a drunken dance. Her body lifted up from the circle and she flew to him like an angel and whispered in his ear, “In your nightmare, seek past the despair and find the truth. I love you my dear” And although, it wasn’t exactly nightmarish, it certainly was eerie.