A mother of twelve, Gertrude never went anywhere alone. The furthest she could go was the end of the bus line, but even then, one of the twelve often hopped aboard. Sometimes it was Charles, a failed mime, or Joanna, a butcher with forever bloodied hands. Scarlet, who organized strikes in the harbor, occasionally dragged sailors back to their two-room apartment. Gertrude recognized their look: unmoored, captive, as she was, by the wants of so many others. One day she followed the sailor back to sea. She lingered at the port, inhaling the salt, counted to twelve, and hopped aboard.
one hundred word story #38: Reminders
There are days when the universe imposes its limits. There are days when the numbers overwhelm, when the beeps at my side are bullies, when things hurt again. After ten years it should be implacable; the skin should be thick enough. But when it gets this thick, every intrusion pierces the surface, digs a little too deep. And on these days the best thing to do is sit very still and listen. Let the universe clatter with other voices, other numbers, other sorrows. When I get up, the skin, it sloughs off, leaving the hurt behind for some other day.
one hundred story #37: Imperfect
It's all so gorgeous, the grass perking up as the sun peeks over the horizon, that first brush of light across your cheeks quenching a thirst you didn't know you had. It's too much, the perfection of a morning when songbirds and antelope and jackrabbits are all out there, alive, lungs lurching and legs loping. Even though you're still here, she isn't. The worst part is that first morning after she’s gone, your eyes are heavy with her, the air parched. This need, it makes you thirsty. And still the sun, the songbirds, the antelope, the jackrabbits, are not enough.
one hundred word story #36: Social Network
Name: Gracie Johnson. Age: 22. Studies at: Western Career College. Major: Undeclared. Interested in: Men. Relationship Status: It’s Complicated – with Marisa McGee. Sex: Yes, please. Lives in: Phoenix, AZ. From: Schenectady, NY. Favorite Movies: Twilight, The Shining. Employer: Forever 21. Religious Views: Spiritual. Political Views: Pastafarian. Favorite Quotations: “All morons hate it when you call them a moron.” –J.D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye. “I am literally horny with fear.” – Sue Sylvester, Glee. About Gracie: I like cherry vanilla Coke and potbellied pigs. I have a dog named Freud (the u was accidental). I feel like I know you already.
one hundred word story #35: So nice
You don’t mind, do you? She asks, her fork hovering over my cake. Mind if I get a ride home? She asks, mouth full. My date walks by. Hey hot stuff! She shouts. Wanna dance? He glances my way. That cool? She says, not really asking. I mind their coats and wallets. When the song ends, she gestures for my chair. Bad knee, she says. You’re so nice, she says. Isn’t she nice? It isn’t until we’ve carried her up the steps to her apartment, until her door has shut behind her, that I remember her wallet. She won’t mind.
one hundred word story #34: Party Line
The unmarried woman on the block began fielding mysterious calls from a Frenchman. The party line crackled to attention. When their conversations swerved out of English, the ladies listening in assumed the worst—no one else on the block spoke French. The ladies cut each other off, some in English, some in Yiddish, sometimes saying the same thing, sometimes not. And then: a thin, restrained question. “What is my life to you—a party?” The line went silent for a full minute, quiet enough to hear glasses clinking. And then: French, less plaintive this time, followed by a gentle click.
one hundred story #32: Superwoman
This morning, while running through frost, my toe clipped the curb and I flew. I remembered my last fall—the unnatural way my wrist flung toward my heart. The way dead cells collected underneath the plaster cast. I remembered all the trips and falls, scabs and scrapes. Today I soared: arms outstretched like warnings, head cocked like a trigger. When I hit the concrete there was no thud, no smack, no break. I sat in my bruises, the sidewalk cold with morning. My muscles had been trained; instincts rewritten. I considered the rooftops, the sky, then took my running start.
one hundred word story #31: Like
one hundred word story #30: Jack-o'-lantern
Cassie puts the pumpkins next to her door, their smiles broken with missing teeth. When the witches and werewolves and Harry Potters knock on her door, Cassie’s bowl is empty. The astronauts and Wonder Women pout, refuse her boxed raisins and green apples. Hours later, her driveway is draped in toilet paper. The next morning she spots Milky Way wrappers littered around the pumpkins, their faces buttery. How could you, she starts, stops. Notices the peony looks peaked, the ground parched. Compost, she says, but when she reaches for them, the pumpkins bare their new teeth, whispering “Trick or treat.”
one hundred word story #29: current events
"Don't think I will give this to my son," the bank clerk said, propping the rifle against his boot. The son smiled and the reporter thought he knew why. The night was ripe with adrenaline. Blood spilled like good milk. They say that for hours the men chanted “keep him alive,” hoping, as some soldiers do, that blow by blow lives can be rebuilt, lies undone. But the boy was too used to loud sounds and closed doors. He imagined the new sounds, the fresh milk. The horizon was orange with a new kind of fire. They kept themselves alive.
one hundred story #28: workshop
It’s a relationship of subordination, one poet says to another. She—the speaker – expresses guilt, see, and he—the listener—demands something. Money, maybe, sex. No, says another student, what we have here is a special form of tenderness. What throws me, says the teacher, is the penguin—what’s he doing here? What do you mean, he? Asks another. The writer, the guilty one, stays quiet, her icebox hidden. They are blind to her visible parts but still they spear her to the page. She considers prostration in all its poetic forms, though her wings stay close to her chest.
one hundred story #27: perspective
We're in her bed and we're both crying, she because her fingers hurt when she plays the piano, me because I've already lost one grandmother and am afraid to lose another, and she's so small there in the bed, no makeup on, window wide open like her arms. And then: a fart, a tremendous jolt of energy that shakes us up, giggling, gets us remembering that we're both still here, lying in her bed watching the full moon grow smaller in the sky. I am still at it, alternately crying and laughing, until long after I have descended the stairs.
one hundred word story #26: bilingue
Érase una vez you understood it all, lo que decían. There was a time cuando you could eavesdrop facilmente, when riding the bus era una lección en listening. You remember el sonido of the monkeys calling roll until late at night, the smell of café con leche simmering por la estufa. You stall when you can’t think of the right word in your native tongue. You question what makes it “native.” Y sometimes the words arise in dreams, your subconscious recordando lo que you forgot. It’s a certain manera de ser. Repeat after me: que practiques. Que no te olvides.
one hundred word story #25: breathe
You can't help considering her shoes. The careful way the flowers are arranged on the counter. The recipe card pinned to the stove, those telltale loping cursive letters. And then there's that smell. What is it, cinnamon and cookie dough and starch? You walk in the house and it follows you down the hall, past the needlepoint, beyond the framed photographs of your parents and hers. You used to think it was unshakable, but you worry now, what if it, too, fades? Can you replicate it, memorize it? Did she leave a recipe? Fill your lungs. It is there somewhere.
one hundred word story #24: first day
You know it's the first day because eighteen-year-olds are driving on the bike paths and cops are escorting girls in skirts back to campus. You know it’s the first week because you can hear them chanting from your third-story office window. You get the sense that the kind of learning that’s going on isn’t the kind of learning that is written in books. You are supposed to teach them but it’s hard when you remember how important it all felt, befriending roommates and getting lost in buildings. Too many firsts. Enjoy them, you say, because you’ll only get them once.
one hundred word story #24: Survivor
Here's what you should know, she says. We like you, we really do, but you're just not pretty enough, you know? She spins me in a little circle. You've got that free spirit thing going on, which is great, but rein it in a bit. Maybe dye your hair. Wear thicker eyeliner, invest in stilettos. Change your major. Dump your boyfriend and kiss a girl while other boys watch. In my peripheral vision I can see the other girls nodding. The camera zooms in and she steps away for my confessional. Go on, says the producer. Give us our reality.
one hundred word story #23: sugar high
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Originally uploaded by Julia_h_j
Jorge has a problem: he is too ordinary. Average height, average looks, average intelligence. Boring job, bored girlfriend--hell, even the dog is over him. He tries pickup soccer, watercolor painting, French, but he still lacks a certain je ne sais quoi. Then he spots a multicolored candy bus, windows inspired by Hello Kitty. A girl with red dreadlocks beckons him inside, hands him jujubes and gummy bears. “In case you were wondering,” she points to a sign that reads “You Are Special.” He brews an above-average root beer float, sugar charging him home. Rover actually wags his tail. Voila.
one hundred word story #22: missed connections
She sat on her hands while she waited. It was impossible, the waiting. Men and women walked by, cable cars clanked, cyclists ducked through traffic. Somewhere amongst the Chinese food, the bus transfers and the countless pigeons, he was coming. She hoped he looked like his picture, hoped he liked rollerblading and science fiction. Her watch was loud with ticking. A man skidded before her on his rollerblades, looked her full in the face. “Finally,” she said.
At the dinner table several months later, she brings up the ad she answered.
“What ad?” he asks.
She decides not to answer.
For Sacramento art fans
Three of my 100-word short stories (originally written for and posted on this blog) are included in the Revel Sacramento Gay and Lesbian Center's Second Saturday art show this month. The art opening is this Saturday, August 13, at the SGLC gallery at 1927 L Street, at the corner of L and 20th.
I will be busy best-womaning at my brother's wedding, but I am excited to know that the stories ("The Cliff," "Permissions" and "Pet Store") will be printed as posters and displayed at the gallery all month. My classmate and friend David Semonchik is also exhibiting two pieces of flash fiction, and there are two other featured artists as well.
Spread the word!
one hundred word story #21: This one's true
This is the story of a smiley man and a surfer woman. He has a coconut that needs opening; she has a recipe for Hawaiian haupia. He goes Indonesia to chase waves but soon chases her back to California, back to Hawaii, then forward to Nicaragua, Spain, Italy, China, Tibet, Nepal. He becomes a teacher. She puts herself through graduate school. They both watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer. He becomes a brown belt in Hawaiian jujitsu; she a black belt in Los Angeles yoga. When they decide to marry, the smiles grow wider, the waves gnarlier, the coconuts sweeter. Ohana.
with love for my one and only brother, and his lovely wife-to-be