Short Fiction

The Dollar Dance

by SuniD

The exterior of the Community Building was still undergoing renovations, but the inside had been transformed into a glowing reception hall. White lights were wrapped around banisters and draped in the darkest corners, so the honored guests were surrounded by makeshift starlight.

“Never would’ve thought of orange and purple,” said Trina on my left. “The white tuxes were a nice touch, though, don’t ya think?”

“Too much white,” is what I said. Plus, the white dress was a joke. Jessica lost her virginity in eighth grade, is what I wanted to add.

“At a wedding? Never.”

I wrapped my hand a little tighter around the red plastic cup that contained my real friend: liquid courage, bubbly comforter.

“What did you think of the ceremony? I didn’t know what side to sit on. I picked bride, since I’ve known Jess longer, but I got stuck in a back row ‘cause the place was packed.” Trina was already giddy from keg beer and her smile engulfed her flushed face. “It was on the left. Is that the bride side?”

“Yeah.” I remembered having the same sort of dilemma. My heart had said bride, but when the usher asked, my mouth had said, groom. Trina’s small talk got away from me during the brief recollection so I blurted out, “I love that the pastor called her, ‘Jennifer,’” to change the subject.

Poetry

Sustenance

by SuniD

 

Little chickens broil

and the peace simmers

like a part-time chef

who enjoys the rush

because the dull moments allow

him time to think

about home spun meals.

The line-cook toils,

getting thinner,

because he doesn’t get

the people who grow lush

and fat over the noon hour.

He’ll never miss the stink

of fast food meats.

A broth base boils

ready for a thickener

such as corn starch or flour

or another mush

that cools and sets

so the soup will settle in a sick

stomach easily.

Short Fiction

Schooled Proper
by SuniD

This place I hear about, Old School Pool, hosts a tourney on Mondays, and its only five bones to enter. Everyday players, hustlers, and the like put up their dough once a week. The more people show, the bigger the kitty. The hall has a rep for a couple a reasons. Down the block from the train station, up the street from everyone’s dealer, it sits on a bad corner of south Tenth. Plus, they say bikers park there. Don’t get me wrong, bikers got attitude to match mine, but you got to approach ‘em the right way, and walking into their bar uninvited is never the way. I do it anyway.

Right off the bat, before I hit the door, this guy decides he’s taking me home. Talks about my cue case and how he might just have to play this week, shows me his belt buckle, a creepy vulture, figures. At least I know this is the spot. “Where’s the pisser?” I ask, before he shows me his other tattoo. I back away, spin at the door and break right.

No shame in walking straight to the bathroom in a new bar. Stalls tell you everything you need to know, intimate shit. I’m relieved to see skillful stuff magically marked and engraved on the door in front of me. Real wood grain, and someone took time to carve an elaborate female with a knot for a nipple. In the hand of the porcelain goddess rests a bold sharpie statement: Find what you love. Love what you find.

Flash Fiction

Mr. Nicks Skips Town
by SuniD

D.L. Nicks plays hopscotch with the system since his dad died and his mom bailed. He started skippin' along when he got pinched for a now-and-later at Quick Shop on Spencer and Ninth. He asked the older foster kids to buy it first. He checked the payphone for a quarter second. The phone-book was gone and already-been-chewed gum jammed up the slot. “Fair” was not in that boy's vocabulary. Nothing ever was fair for him. That's why he needed that candy. He nabbed a green one, unwrapped it going out the door, and barely had any saliva built up before the clerk with hair pins and squinted eyes slapped him on the back of the head and knocked the sour-apple right out of him. He was five.

Poetry

Uncertainty
by SuniD

itching
swelling
muscles dying
creeping and crawling
growing old is
growing mold
expiration
experimentation
lumpy milk
rotting and curdling
turning soft is
tasting stale
discomfort
itching

First appeared in:
Ely, Howard. Timeless Voices: The International Library of Poetry. Owings Mills, MD: International Library of Poetry, 2006. Print.

Non-Fiction

Domestic Creatures

by SuniD

I want a puppy, a golden lab, to match me. She will be a bitch, as protective of my house and home as I am. She will be named, “Jedadiah,” because “Jed” is a good name for a dog, one syllable, easily recognizable. Family and close friends will know to call her “Edie,” when they come in the house, so that she won’t bite them. My future husband will have to like dogs because I will love her more than him.

I will train Jed brilliantly, beginning at seven weeks, old enough to be weaned but still amused by her tail. By the time I finish, Jed will get the paper, my slippers, and cold cans of beer. She will sit, shake, lie down, play dead, kennel up, belly up, dance and retrieve lost sporting goods. She will strut proudly at my heel, her short blonde hair highlighting my own strawberry locks. Her leashes will be numerous, accessories for my many jackets and coats. My puppy will be an extension of me.

Short Fiction

Fast Food Play Land

by SuniD

Cars inched forward, bumper to bumper, past a screaming speakerphone and toward the first window, where the drivers offered up bills and picked through pocket change in exchange for fast food. Steaming paper bags were thrust through a second window. Meals claiming value and happiness were divvied among the passengers.

A man in a blue Prius snatched his meal out of the drive-thru window and squealed out of the lot, causing a little blonde boy, who was lunching in the adjoining courtyard, to look up.

“Charlie, finish eating,” Mina said to the boy from across the table.

Charlie sat on the red bench, kicking his legs and licking ketchup off the back of his hand. An empty hamburger bun, with a particle of melted cheese clinging to the top, sat uneaten in front of him. He slurped the last of his drink through a straw and asked, “Mommy, can I be done?”

Mina, with eyes half-closed and cheeks full of food, waved the toddler away. Her eyes popped open and she swallowed quickly before hollering, “Wait!” Deserting her sandwich, Mina ran after her skipping son and shouted, “Give me your socks and shoes.”

“They go there,” Charlie said and pointed to a row of cubbyholes containing the footwear of children already inside the jungle gym.

“I’ll take them,” Mina said, beckoning with both hands.

Charlie sat on the warm concrete and pulled hard at his laces, creating knots, which Mina stooped to untie.

“And we’re not staying long,” she said, waving a stiff finger at the boy. She secured the spotless sneakers under one arm and returned to the table, and her lunch

Poetry

For The Taking

by SuniD

There is heaviness to time;

urgency about words.

I obsess

and constantly review,

embracing the weight

of retaining shrewd lessons.

Gauche stumbling will lessen.

Bleeding heels bruise over time.

I weigh

The reception of words.

Write, read, review

and again obsess.

Obsessively

excavating obscure lessons.

Familiarizing through review,

I murder time.

Demolish words;

feathery paper weights.

Faultless syntactical phrases weigh

on my graphite tongue. Obsessed

with formless words

and untaught lessons,

I make time

and potential future review.

My book review

plunges like anvil weight

through the quagmire of wasted time.

The correspondent obsesses

over yoga lessons,

not words.

Words

connote historic review

of cultural lessons.

Fragile minds bore the weight

of a scholar obsessed,

adding substance through time.

Non-Fiction

What Fits

by SuniD

The concert in Memorial Park was regenerating, something I hadn’t done in years. The lethargic adults hoarded blanket space. While the children who outnumbered them played chase on grass trails, which emerged spontaneously between groups of grown-ups.

The music was popular in my childhood. Stuff dad used to blast in the Volkswagen bug while we spun snow cookies. I took my nine-year-old son down front to fully experience the atmosphere of the thing. I remembered singing and dancing the same “Locomotion” with my mother and brother at about the same age. Though I doubt my brother would admit knowing the words today.

Fireworks filled the air with electricity before groupies could even think of clearing the stage gear. Children sat wide-eyed, tangled in free glow strings, thanks to our sponsors. We were absorbing the explosive display, burning it into our retinas and memories, when two ghosts from my junior high days tapped me on the back.

Last time I saw Jimbo, he was falling backward into an original Adam’s Family pinball machine at the Skate-A-Long. The head, like all sensitive spots, bleeds a lot. Jim got six stitches in his head from my playful push, but I moved out of town before making amends. We had only known each other about a year, but something about small town bonding sticks.

I barely pushed him, but he was on roller skates. Inline skates were still a big deal in the early nineties, so you couldn’t rent them. The current generation, my son included, can’t visualize the wheels forming a square. In a world where skates braked in the front, Jim fell backward. I don’t even remember what smart-assed remark provoked me.

The adult version of Jim shrugged and said, “Shit happens when you’re skating.” Now there’s barely a scar to remember me by.