Author: steve c

Y2K by Sonia Alejandra Rodriguez

On By steve cIn flash fictionLeave a comment

The world might end in 30 minutes. For months, there’s been speculation on the Chicago news channels about electronics failing, of planes falling out of the sky, of the market crashing, of chaos on the streets because we will run out of food and water.  

My baby bump is enormous, I can’t see my swollen feet. My husband’s in jail for being a pendejo but technically for drinking and driving. I’ve huddled myself and my children in the bedroom to wait for whatever Y2K will bring.

“And if we need to use the bathroom?” my eleven-year-old daughter snarks as she bounces her baby brother on her hip. She’s been mad at me for a while now. But who else can I make help me with these kids?

“Pues ahí está, Sofia,” I point to the bedroom door, letting her know she can go in and out as she pleases. 

Sofia rolls her eyes at me and switches to cradling the baby to try to get him to sleep.

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” Sofia whispers and sticks the bottle in her brother’s mouth.

I wish I could go back in time when I’d cradle her.

Meanwhile, Pao, my middle child, bounces from the love seat to the edge of the bed and back. 

When the doctor said I was for sure pregnant again, I took my daughters to La Michoacana for ice cream, to share the happy news.

“No, the baby’s not here yet. We have to wait 5 months.”

“Five months?! The world’s going to end before then. Sorry, baby!” Pao exclaimed and kept eating her rocky road ice cream. 

Sofia pushed away her vanilla scoops. The slight shadow growing underneath her eyes darkened.

“Ya no quiero.” She glanced at her brother in the stroller. When I was Sofia’s age, I took care of my little sisters whether I wanted to or not. But, yes, I worried, too. How were we going to care for another child?

I placed my hands on my belly, thanking God for this miracle, and praying for the ones I’d lost before. We ate in silence while “Livin’ La Vida Loca” blared from the radio. I craved the charred taste of burnt tortillas.

The phone rings at 11:45 pm and we all flinch at the unexpected noise. The baby stirs and Sofia glares at me like I somehow made the phone ring. 

The answering machine picks up, “This is a collect call from Cook County Jail…”

“Papi!” Pao hops from the love seat to the floor to grab the cordless phone before it’s too late. “I accept!” she yells into the receiver and Sofia shushes her. 

“¡Dámelo!” I lean as far as I can from the bed and pull Pao by the shirt to snatch the phone away. Her little face scrunches as if I had reached into her tiny chest for her beating heart. 

“¿Q’vole? How are things over there?” I can barely hear Manny over the yelling happening behind him. 

“They’re doing lights out in 5 minutes. Everyone in their cells before midnight. Se nota que los guards are all tense and shit at the thought of their fancy locks not working when the clock strikes twelve.” 

“Whatever, Manny. If you miss the birth of this baby, I swear to God!”

On the screen, the news switches between people in bedazzled “2000” glasses and images of people looting a Wal-Mart in the Southside, running out with giant TVs. Food is what I’d take. A lot of diapers. Formula for sure. Clothes for the girls. Oooh, maybe a new winter coat. Some lipstick. Hoops that don’t turn my ears green.

“Te habla tu padre,” I hand the phone to Pao, who leaps for the cordless. The sound of Manny’s voice makes the baby inside me kick and vomit rise in my throat.

“Papi, I can jump from the couch to the bed without falling!”

I try to hand the phone to Sofia, but she refuses. I motion for her to place the phone near her brother so Manny can talk to him, but Sofia turns her back.

“Si, si, we love you, too!” I begin to cry because if the world is ending, I wish my husband was at home with us. If the world is ending, I wish I had had a chance to see my mother. The last time I saw her was 5 years ago when we left Mexico. But if the world is ending, I might finally get some rest. 

Sofia yanks the phone and quickly says, “Bye, papi. Happy New Year,” before she hangs up.

I look out the window and see that soft white petal snow is falling—my favorite. I pray this storm isn’t like the one that hit us at the beginning of the year. We were snowed in for days. The snowplows didn’t come through our street. There was no way to drive anywhere. We stocked up on food when the news reported that we should expect the worst blizzard “the windy city” had seen since the late 60s. We got all the formula and whole milk WIC would let us. We didn’t know how long we would be trapped, but at least then we were together.

Sofia gently sits on the loveseat still holding her sleeping brother. I struggle to get myself off the bed and Pao comes from behind to push me up. I scoot in next to Sofia and feel her inching away from me. I pull Pao next to me and she dozes off on my lap.

Someone on TV announces it’s almost time for the countdown. Behind them, someone holds a large poster with the words, “We ❤ robots!”

I take Sofia’s hand, and she presses her sweaty palm into mine so tightly I can feel the intensity of her pulse. I kiss the top of her head.

The announcer counts down: 10, 9, 8, 7, 6… 

My heart pounds and my throat tightens. The baby inside me kicks, their little leg protruding from my stomach. The kick lands near Pao’s head and Sofia bursts out laughing. Soon I’m laughing and shushing at the same time, trying to keep the younger children asleep. 

On the TV, confetti fills the screen. Fireworks and gunshots echo outside. 

“Diosito santo, protégenos.” I hold my children close when the lights go off. 

Sonia Alejandra Rodríguez (they/she) is a writer and educator living in Queens, New York. They’ve participated in writing workshops at Tin House, VONA, and Kweli. Their stories have been published in Latino Book Review Magazine, Kweli Journal, Variant Lit, Strange Horizons, The Acentos Review, Longreads, Okay Donkey, Reckon Review, and elsewhere. Sonia Alejandra’s writing has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fiction, and Best Microfiction. Follow them on Instagram at @soniaalejandrawrites.

Two Stories by Lavina Blossom

On By steve cIn flash fiction1 Comment

Slow Leak

She mounts the first step up from the driveway, hand on the rail. She forgot to leave the front light on but her aging eyes can see well enough from the neighbors’ lights. Wait, had she locked the car door? She depresses the button on the device in her hand, hears the faint unsatisfying click, pushes the button again, a louder click this time. She brings the device up to her face, hits lock and the click is faint, so it’s locked already, right?

But does she have her phone? She rummages in her purse. She can’t feel it in there. Returning to her car, she hits the unlock button. Good, she had locked it. She gets into the driver’s seat and looks in the console. 

She stares out the windshield a moment, weary, then dumps her purse on the passenger seat, shakes it. The phone lands on the pile and she tucks it back into her purse, then adds her wallet, comb, pack of tissues, lipstick, gum, nail file, clippers, the tiny notepad, pencil and pen, a sales slip, her small address book. 

She needs to enter numbers into her phone if she can remember how her grandson said to do it. Every number but Rhonda’s, although yes, she will add that too, and call Jeff, ask how his health has been, although she never cared much for Rhonda’s husband. A pity her friend went first. Up to a year ago, she was full of fun.

Damn, she meant to stop at the gas station. Her son had that gadget to measure air in the tire, but no air pump. Probably a slow leak, he said. But doesn’t that mean she needs a new tire? And which tire was it? She’ll call her son tomorrow, or hell, just look at the tires. It ought to be obvious. Or maybe she will call, talk to the kids if they’ll get on the phone. No, too soon. She has just seen them, only about five minutes before they went to their rooms. 

She rocks herself out of the car, straightens her skirt. Now where are her keys? She leans in and bumps her head on the door frame, sucks her teeth, plucks the keys off the dash. Standing straight, she swipes at her hair that has fallen forward, catching the key ring in a curl. She deep breathes and slowly untangles it. She would get her hair cut really short, but her husband likes it longer. Liked it. Still, when she visits him, she does not want to look different, unfamiliar. He still has some recognition. He seems to know her even if he can’t say who she is.

With the car door closed, she starts up the steps. Did she lock the car? She depresses that doodad thing. A faint click, so unsatisfying. She hits the other button, likes that sound better, being clearer and sharper. She depresses the buttons one after the other, louder click, softer click, louder click, softer click. She decides the final louder click locks.

She wishes she was in bed, but now she can’t recall if she took her umbrella when she left the house. Nearly at her front door, she looks up into the sky. No stars.

There’s a light on her phone, but she can’t remember how to turn it on. She must not fall. Better to live here alone than take one of her grandsons’ bedrooms. They would resent her. It simply cannot happen.

She turns around, looks at the car, shakes her head, turns toward the three remaining steps to the stoop, turns toward the car. She starts to walk down, hating to leave the umbrella in there in case she needs it in the morning. She presses a button, but no click. She’s too far away. Does she have a fresh battery? She walks down farther, testing as she goes, pressing the button with her thumb until she hears a click. She stands a while locking, unlocking, locking, unlocking, matching rhythm to the labored pulse in her throat.

We Wear Suits

They are gray and tailored. We look professional. We look expensive. The women have gray purses, the men, gray wallets. Our shoes match, and our hair. Our teeth are white and straight. I wore braces for a year, but no one here knows this.

We never hurry when walking between our cubicles to speak to one another. We enunciate. We are smart and know where jokes are going, so we don’t need to finish telling them. I used to laugh. Then I smiled. More recently, I grimace.

The curtains are kept closed. I opened them once. I learned that beyond is ripe color. I wonder if our eyes are a betrayal. None are gray. 

I look into the other’s faces. I drop a pencil. No one reacts. I drop a stapler. One person nearby flinches, doesn’t look.

Tomorrow, when I deliver a document, I will touch someone’s hand.

Lavina Blossom is a visual artist and writer. She grew up in rural Michigan and now lives in Southern California. She has written articles on the writing process for the Inlandia Institute and was a poetry editor for the Inlandia Institute’s online journal. Her poems have appeared in various publications, including 3Elements Review, The Paris Review, Poemeleon, Common Ground Review, Gyroscope Review, and Ekphrastic Review.

I Found a Stone Under My Skin by Amanda Parrack

On By steve cIn flash fiction1 Comment

May 10th 9:58 pm

I was brushing my hair when I noticed the top part of my head was tender. When I put my fingers through my hair searching for the tender spot, I stopped and felt the bump the size of a dime. For some reason I had an urge to pop it, like a pimple, so I did. When I squeezed the bump, blood ran a straight line down my neck and what was left was a small stone in my hand. I took a shower of course. I am hoping to schedule a doctor’s appointment tomorrow.

Before that, I was having one of my depressive episodes. Thank God I live alone even though I have my cat, because who in the world would keep up with the messes I leave around the house? I fed Salem in the morning and laid around all day watching reruns of Community. I don’t know what I am doing with my life, and graduation is around the corner. I hate that Sammy broke up with me only two months in. I was hoping she would be my future or at least I would have her a part of that.

May 11th 5:58 pm

I scheduled a doctor’s appointment and was able to get something at 3pm. When I checked in, I sat in the waiting area by a TV with sounds from a recent episode of SpongeBob. I glared at past text messages from Sammy and decided to shoot her an update. I know she said she doesn’t have feelings, but there’s always a chance. Wouldn’t she want to know about the part-time job I got? In all honesty I shouldn’t have sent it, but I did.

The doctor had my blood taken and is supposed to call tomorrow if there is a chance I have cancer or something. She asked if I did drugs or alcohol to which I said no, but then she asked if I drank caffeine, and I said I did. She looked at me like I murdered someone even though tea and coffee are the one joy I have in life. She suggested I cut back on so much caffeine and said that the hole in my head should heal up soon. She also was in much disbelief when I said a stone came out of my head. Perhaps she thinks I do LSD. She did ask very carefully if I did drugs.

May 13th 6:45 pm

Sammy didn’t reply to my texts for a while. I kept saying that we should talk and asking why she was pushing me away. When she finally did respond, she sent something short and simple. That she is sticking to our agreement of not talking for a while until she gets her shit figured out. I should probably get my shit figured out.

The doctors called and said there is no sign of cancer in my bloodstream but I am low on iron. I am not sure what that means or why a rock came out of my head. Just yesterday, I found another tender lump in my armpit. This morning I popped it and this time the stone was as big as a quarter. The doctor suggested I take iron pills, so maybe there is some correlation? Who knows, I am not a doctor. I am just a music major.

Speaking of which, I haven’t been doing good at being a music major. I haven’t been practicing much and I haven’t been inspired to write music. With graduation around the corner, sometimes I wonder if it was a terrible idea to do music. The job outlook isn’t too great. I guess I could be a teacher. Backup jobs are always teaching at some middle school, because the world will always need more teachers. People keep asking me my plans after graduation. If these stones don’t stop coming and I die from them magically, perhaps there won’t be any future.

There is this guy Brian I work with at the gas station. He’s a smoker and always knows what each regular prefers when they check out. Brian used to also be a music major but ended up as the manager of the gas station which worries me.

Working at the gas station, you see a lot of people that are reflections of the broken systems in society. You start to feel pretty terrible handing a forty-year-old man his tenth lottery ticket for the day around lunchtime. Or the woman who just bought a whole box of cigarettes.

Anyways, these stones that keep coming from my body feel like a relief.

May 14th 9:00 pm

There’s a handful of repeat customers who buy lottery tickets. They go and scratch off and come back with less money than they had and start the process all over again. They don’t even say hi at this point like some normal human would. They just go to the lottery board and point at the numbers they want me to grab.

But it turns out I handed out a winning ticket that ended up becoming $141,000. The lottery guy came in and told me. I was nervous since there were rumors I was going to receive a $1,000 tip. That would definitely help. I had a stone at the tip of my thumb, just a small one that’s all, but I could feel it was ready to pop. The guy ended up giving me 50 dollars. When he did, I gripped the money too hard and the stone popped out right into the lottery guy’s hands. We both just looked at each other.

May 20th 11:45 pm

Wow, it’s been a while since I have updated. I usually jot something down every day or two.

The problem is that I have been busy. The stones have been growing from my body at an astounding rate, and I probably look pretty ugly from them. Sammy would never take me back. I have a little bucket in the corner of my room full of them. Salem tends to keep away from them and always hisses when she gets near. I have wondered if there is some correlation to kidney stones, but the last two appointments have found no correlation. The doctors left me with no answers and a huge hospital bill, so I have decided not to go back and to deal with this problem on my own.

Maybe the stones are growing because I want them to.

I don’t smoke or anything nor have I ever bought lottery tickets, but these stones, although they might sound scary to you, are a way for me to cope sometimes. It’s almost out of compulsion, the way people pop a zit and find it satisfying. There is no pain and little blood from my scars. One time after an angry customer argued with me, I went to the bathroom to pop a stone from my elbow and it felt so good.

I guess you could say I wanted this to happen.

I want something, anything, to happen.

Amanda Parrack is an undergraduate at Missouri State University and works at the writing center as a writing consultant. She lives in Springfield and spends her free time out in nature.

After His Mother Throws Him Out, Nicky Spends the Night on the High School Roof by Kathryn Kulpa

On By steve cIn flash fictionLeave a comment

This was 1997, before everything sucked. You could wander off school grounds, or back onto them. Life was fluid. It could expand. “A FIDDLER ON A ROOF!” Nicky shouted. His tenth-grade girlfriend had been in that play. She played a grandmother in a babushka: still looked hot. And now, like he’d psychic summoned her, his old girlfriend came walking by. He gave her a hand up. They shared a smoke. Nicky watched moths masquerade as fireflies against the moon. He watched the moon turn shy and hide behind a cloud. Like his ex-girlfriend, it went away sometimes. Sometimes, it came back.

Kathryn Kulpa is the author of For Every Tower, a Princess, just released by Porkbelly Press, and A Map of Lost Places, forthcoming from Gold Line Press. Her stories can be found in Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions, BULL, Moon City Review, trampset, and other journals. Find out more at kathrynkulpa.com