They all think it’s part of Big Red’s costume, that giant butt. They don’t know it’s a quirk of nature: it’s real and it balloons when he’s had enough sex, shrinks to nothing when he hasn’t. Since his partner Matilda got sick, it’s been flat as a pancake. His willpower is strong. He doesn’t cheat. But he has noticed the new contortionist one tent over. Matilda noticed him noticing. “You fancy her,” she said. She wasn’t accusing him; she was hoping. She hated that he would be alone after she was gone, which would be very soon now. Big Red had promised to help her. There was nothing much left for her, and besides, she thought she heard Jesus calling her home so Big Red helped her swallow the bottle of pills. Matilda closed her eyes. That’s that, she thought─ but later she jerked awake and staggered out of bed right into a jumble of arms and legs: her man, with the contortionist coiling around him on the floor. His butt was hugely big. Matilda went back to bed to resume her dying.
What a story! There are some great lines in here, lines so evocative that they can probably act as suns to a new flash fiction solar system. Lines like these: "Everyone spoils the child, blames the clown." "How to confess that my mind is full of vicious ballet instructors who practice fencing?" Great stuff here! The narrative flow has the jerky quality of a home video, especially if it's an old home video that someone is watching as they miss someone, miss that person deeply and puzzle over what happened and especially what could have happened.
You don’t think about how it feels to perform a final act until you’re doing it, and you don’t think about how your only exposure to finales before this was as an observer, voyeur, nuisance, ticket holder. I could still feel the greasepaint drying on my lips when I saw the net below. She traced my collarbone with two fingers because even after we had played towns where no one clapped, even after we had washed our costumes in the same rusted basin as the elephants, even after we had dodged checks and stretched coins and learned to sleep through hunger pains, even after all that, we still had to make this moment beautiful. And maybe she was right to reach for something deep inside me because the man who spent his last paycheck on a red nose, and big shoes, and a car built for twenty, had nothing left in his pockets but an old deck of cards and a single unpaid debt that would be called in at the close of the curtain.
The net stretched wide, ready to swallow her whole. She bent her knees, lifted her arms, and trusted me. The last time we did this, the spotlights hit her sequins just right, a thousand tiny galaxies blooming against canvas. The last time we did this, we still believed in the act. But now—now the tent reeked of sweat and surrender. She could taste the end.
Love this prompt, you have the greatest ideas Meg! Grant’s piece is full of stunning imagery. I love the connected phrases he used throughout, like: “Our breaths next to one another. Our breaths one another.”
Here is mine:
Artificial Joy
You were the last person I expected to see at this hour, sweet girl. Standing in my doorway, the spitting image of your mother, rest her soul, the sterile white hallway behind you where madness erupts from cries of help behind its doors. You’re about the same height as the last time I saw you.
It was Take Your Daughter To Work Day. I powdered my face, clamped on my red nose, and stuffed my derriere with a beach ball, wobbling like a spider. The moment captured in the picture you hold, our fingers entwined, posing in front of the circus tents. Grinning came easier for me than you when the photographer said “say cheese”. Hopefully the audience of laughing children made you realize why I did what I did.
But who was there to make you laugh? How many of your birthdays did I miss, though I never promised to be there? You still grieved the man who couldn’t find his way back home.
I know every train stop from coast to coast, yet I don’t know which ice cream flavors you love. I’ve laced sanctuaries of balloon animals in the fanciest and dirtiest places, yet I don’t know which color is your favorite.
If you think it’s all been fun for me, here’s a thought: those of us who spend time parting the clouds for others often block the sun from ourselves; mustering artificial joy is our superpower.
Your face lights up this room, buttered by the single hanging bulb. The little boy I’ve never met, standing at your hip, yawns then breaks free. He runs wall to wall, seizes the empty bed pan for a helmet, and my cane for a lance, he fights imaginary dragons making me giggle. I say he's a natural-born entertainer, as a smile waxes and wanes through your chapped lips.
There are so many stunning lines this piece it's crazy Guy! You are so wonderful with these open ended prompts. Deeply moving. I love it this length and can also see it shorter. There are micros within micros here. Wow.
What fun, Meg and Grant! I couldn't resist...
Two Second Chances
They all think it’s part of Big Red’s costume, that giant butt. They don’t know it’s a quirk of nature: it’s real and it balloons when he’s had enough sex, shrinks to nothing when he hasn’t. Since his partner Matilda got sick, it’s been flat as a pancake. His willpower is strong. He doesn’t cheat. But he has noticed the new contortionist one tent over. Matilda noticed him noticing. “You fancy her,” she said. She wasn’t accusing him; she was hoping. She hated that he would be alone after she was gone, which would be very soon now. Big Red had promised to help her. There was nothing much left for her, and besides, she thought she heard Jesus calling her home so Big Red helped her swallow the bottle of pills. Matilda closed her eyes. That’s that, she thought─ but later she jerked awake and staggered out of bed right into a jumble of arms and legs: her man, with the contortionist coiling around him on the floor. His butt was hugely big. Matilda went back to bed to resume her dying.
Oh my gosh Cheryl! Darkly, darkly funny and weird! A new gem!
Thanks, Meg! Sometimes black humor is the way to go.
What a story! There are some great lines in here, lines so evocative that they can probably act as suns to a new flash fiction solar system. Lines like these: "Everyone spoils the child, blames the clown." "How to confess that my mind is full of vicious ballet instructors who practice fencing?" Great stuff here! The narrative flow has the jerky quality of a home video, especially if it's an old home video that someone is watching as they miss someone, miss that person deeply and puzzle over what happened and especially what could have happened.
Thanks so much, Federico! You read the story exactly as I hoped it would be read. I really appreciate your kind words.
Grant's prose was inspiring.
What Goes Up
You don’t think about how it feels to perform a final act until you’re doing it, and you don’t think about how your only exposure to finales before this was as an observer, voyeur, nuisance, ticket holder. I could still feel the greasepaint drying on my lips when I saw the net below. She traced my collarbone with two fingers because even after we had played towns where no one clapped, even after we had washed our costumes in the same rusted basin as the elephants, even after we had dodged checks and stretched coins and learned to sleep through hunger pains, even after all that, we still had to make this moment beautiful. And maybe she was right to reach for something deep inside me because the man who spent his last paycheck on a red nose, and big shoes, and a car built for twenty, had nothing left in his pockets but an old deck of cards and a single unpaid debt that would be called in at the close of the curtain.
The net stretched wide, ready to swallow her whole. She bent her knees, lifted her arms, and trusted me. The last time we did this, the spotlights hit her sequins just right, a thousand tiny galaxies blooming against canvas. The last time we did this, we still believed in the act. But now—now the tent reeked of sweat and surrender. She could taste the end.
I waited. I held steady. I felt her balance tip.
This was always a disappearing act.
Love this prompt, you have the greatest ideas Meg! Grant’s piece is full of stunning imagery. I love the connected phrases he used throughout, like: “Our breaths next to one another. Our breaths one another.”
Here is mine:
Artificial Joy
You were the last person I expected to see at this hour, sweet girl. Standing in my doorway, the spitting image of your mother, rest her soul, the sterile white hallway behind you where madness erupts from cries of help behind its doors. You’re about the same height as the last time I saw you.
It was Take Your Daughter To Work Day. I powdered my face, clamped on my red nose, and stuffed my derriere with a beach ball, wobbling like a spider. The moment captured in the picture you hold, our fingers entwined, posing in front of the circus tents. Grinning came easier for me than you when the photographer said “say cheese”. Hopefully the audience of laughing children made you realize why I did what I did.
But who was there to make you laugh? How many of your birthdays did I miss, though I never promised to be there? You still grieved the man who couldn’t find his way back home.
I know every train stop from coast to coast, yet I don’t know which ice cream flavors you love. I’ve laced sanctuaries of balloon animals in the fanciest and dirtiest places, yet I don’t know which color is your favorite.
If you think it’s all been fun for me, here’s a thought: those of us who spend time parting the clouds for others often block the sun from ourselves; mustering artificial joy is our superpower.
Your face lights up this room, buttered by the single hanging bulb. The little boy I’ve never met, standing at your hip, yawns then breaks free. He runs wall to wall, seizes the empty bed pan for a helmet, and my cane for a lance, he fights imaginary dragons making me giggle. I say he's a natural-born entertainer, as a smile waxes and wanes through your chapped lips.
There are so many stunning lines this piece it's crazy Guy! You are so wonderful with these open ended prompts. Deeply moving. I love it this length and can also see it shorter. There are micros within micros here. Wow.
Wow you made my morning, thank you so much Meg! I really love the photo prompts. And it’s such a great photo to go off of too.