Your job is to write a piece of flash fiction in 200 words or less based on one of the stanzas in Joe Hall’s poem from the 2013 edition of Ping-Pong here:
POTTING SHED
“The newlyweds will only see their wives
through the grillwork.” I kiss you
behind the ear in the mesh
of your sleep, washing a cup
putting a thumb into the bowl
of a spoon, its silver ballooning reflection
All I want—“Every wife will have a ring
inscribed with the class and rank of her husband”
Seal her in a coffin, sail her down
the river where she screws a bucket off the column
half fills it from the soil pile
shakes fertilizer through her glove
unseals a waxed box
lifts out the stem, thorns, and roots
Hang up your scarf
so that you seem to be here
Place the cold rose in the soil
fill around the roots. “The blind will have
the ugliest girls untaken”
Fill the bucket to the lip
with mulch from the mulch pile
screw a bucket from the column
Hang up your coat and purse
hang them up so that you seem
to be here in this shape
a series of overlapping parabolas hatching
the space around a stool, both thumbs torn
on the beaks of the desiccated stems, that hand
that shapes of itself
copper tablets, the dreams of children
I will let you sleep
by the door, I will be quieter
Wooden board
mud baked to beads
yellow sliced into its grain
“That he is not handsome. That he is serious
and cold.” That prayer
translating into a snow hatching graph
grooves of peaks overlapping tines
knocking the pot’s bottom
dissolving rhythm
knife through tendon, hip to hip turning
counter to stove
“Every boy who has some defect will be
Excluded. Classes of cripples will be”
A prayer only
in the study of quietness, arms interlacing
to know this work is us
if we bring it to our lips
everlasting
smallest, briefest
flowering moon
let the tiny industrial roses bloom
pull the tides like a cover over
the shoulder of the shore
in the body of myself fresh from the labor
of sawing through my windpipe—let my head spill
as I touch, gingerly, the timbre fence
like false lights
as I watch from over the sink as evening descends
on our soft genitals like the hot breath
of unironic wolves
and we wash our hands and feet as best we can
Joe Hall is the author of The Devotional Poems (Black Ocean 2013), Pigafetta Is My Wife, and, with Chad Hardy, The Container Store Vols. I &II. His poems, fiction, book reviews, and essays have appeared in Gulf Coast, Octopus, Puerto Del Sol, HTMLGiant, The Colorado Review, and a digital publication with Cheryl Quimba, May I Walk Softly.
Photo Credit: Stewart Ferebee
Going First
Singing lullabies of mysteries unknown
catching fireflies in jars, and poking holes
Rolling through the weeds of father’s uncut lawn
Strolling through the park hand in hand
legs scraped on cement, bleeding out in pain
a tender touch and kiss to aid
A journal key hidden far away
Secrets kept inside, no longer wanting to play or hide
Never home, talking back, off to school
She dies, tears rush down the face
closest friend now gone,
searching through photos of untouchable souls
Longing to hear her voice calling my name
that laughter, that smile,
I think I’ll call my mom today
Before it’s too late
Before the future becomes now
while I’m young and her skin holds tight
the scent of her meals waters my mouth
A comfy hoodie from her past life
wraps my heart cooling my cold
laying in this bed, Ripper knocking at my door
I’m sick, the one to be lost to this world
marriage out of sight along with my golden locks
cut down like sycamores
a clean shaven head, with a wrap to keep warm
With mama sleeping by my side
I watch the ticking of my heart
Until it is a flat line.
Leaving him Behind
The fire crackles in the center. I look across the dancing flits of light at the forced smiles and laughter of my cousins. My heart aches, how can they smile? So I mimic the mood, blend into the atmosphere, and hide the agony of the tempest inside. The amber from their beer bottles reminds me of bonfires of my childhood. He was here then; this scene was lively with his memory. Is the moon waning or waxing?
My aunt’s stew wafts from the house above us. Aromas of past family gatherings, he was there too. His home was full today, but of what when they leave tomorrow? I leave the family ring, their affections deflected by my shield of mourning.
The next few days go by in a blur. I carry out business as usual with a vacuum instead of a heart. I empty the ashtrays and sweep away the fragrant memories of his pipe. I box the movies of my childhood with the vinyl anthems of my youth and send them to be rummaged by strangers. As the mementos disappear I long for my daddy.
I collect the photos and discard the frames, save three pj tops, and a hat. What’s left fills a small suitcase to carry home. The emptiness echoes off the walls. He was here once; we sang and laughed in this room. Evanescent echoes of him fade as the door bolts behind me.
A Warm Moment
I ‘m sitting in my cozy chair when he smiles at me. He gets up to tickle me, sending me rolling onto my side it hurts so bad. His laugh is contagiouos. His eyes beam. He’s not tied to anything worldly. We laugh and play. We dance together, fingers interwinding. I spin around and collapse onto the sofa. We have fun. I sit up, my eyes feel tired. It’s much quieter now. I walk over to my coffee pot, and poor the last bit from this morning. My kids tell me about my day. I listen intently, smiling. I take in a deep breath, savoring the warm sweet air. I close my eyes and whisper “I’m still here” . Life is really one big moment, important, but not all too serious, moment, where we do so , so many things. I fix my kids dinner , snuggle them, put them to bed and tuck myself in with a book . I wait for his warm touch. His dark green eyes. He appears on the edge of the bed. I spring up and wrap my arms tight around his neck. He grabs the guitar I keep for him and I sing along. It’s two am and I’m starting to get drowsy. He holds me as I drift off. My kids are big now and he still visits. We dance and play and have even started writing poems together. When he’s away I sometimes dance alone but when I’m lucky my kids will join me We play and we laugh. The world is so good. I take naps in my cozy chair, pulling our quilt close to my face. I smell his familiar scent. His hand caresses my face, his fingers falling down to my lips. I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck and bring him into me. We laugh, and sing, and talk about what it’s like being in love. My body is much older now. I step down on my bedroom floor and scuttle to the kitchen for my first cup. I smile as I remember my kids are coming today. I dance, but now just a little slower. I play, but it’s harder to keep my hands steady. I rest now, as my grandchildren lick their ice pops. They scoop round me and we bring the quilt up to our faces and laugh. I draw in the warm evening’s air and say a prayer of gratitude. I feel the bed move as he sits at the edge of my bed. He looks at me worried. I smile and hold out my hand. He brushes my hair back and asks if I’m ready to travel with him. His kind eyes stare into mine. I glance toward my hallway and half whisper “I love you”. It’s time for me to let go. I grasp his warm hand and we whisk away.
I’m impressed by these pieces! Together, they evocatively conjure up tones of connection, disconnection, the rhythm of moving between these two states–in a warm vibrancy of being–“A comfy hoodie from her past life”; “The fire crackles in the center. I look across the dancing flits of light at the forced smiles and laughter of my cousins.”; “We dance together, fingers interwinding. I spin around and collapse onto the sofa.”
Disconnected
Polished gold around my finger. Upper echelon front door. Is this not enough? He is lost within his mind. Lost within business deals. Conference calls. Meetings and money making. Time is of the essence when a transaction could be made. I want laughter. Lying in the grass. Thrift-store pants. Watching old movies on Friday nights. Popcorn missing our mouths. Talking about nothing. I want to know you again. I don’t want to change you. But I do. I want the puzzle pieces of your soul to lie visibly upon the rubble. I want to fix you, to repair you and put you back together so that you can see. Undress yourself from your tie and slacks. Be bare and raw, be naked to my eyes. Love is the only transaction we need, or, at least pretend that it is for me, please. Disconnected, our bed is more empty nowadays. When I lie upon our sheets, tossing and turning in our old sanctuary, I pray that you will come back to me. I pray that you will become warm and whole again. I pray that you stop clocks to teach our son how to play baseball in the front yard. I pray that you bring me roses on a random Wednesday afternoon instead of pearls on holidays. No one is perfect, no man is perfect. I know that you never will be. I loved the perfect imperfections you once had. The moon lingers into the blue dark, hovering over us. Tempted by body language. Lights gleam through the glass windows. Alas, we connect. Our stray hearts have sunken their teeth into one another. Salivating at the sight of my bare skin, he wants me. I become physically intertwined into this mess of a man. A wave of covers cloak our skin. We are lost together now, floating in the sea. I feel his body loving mine, and once more I become one with his body. Until dawn, I awake adrift from shore, deep and diluted in the back of his mind.
Plant the sky.
Wait for roots to grow,
breaking bread to share
with fingers of many souls
lacing the night with mana.
Floyce Alexander
(based on four lines in Joe Hall’s “Potting
Shed”:
flowering moon
let the tiny industrial roses bloom
pull the tides like a cover over
the shoulder of the shore.)
One More Time
“One last time.” he said. Walking along the broken cracks on the cement he kept humming the song. The night sky filled with grey clouds. Cold winds felt like shivering ice blended. Broken hearts would break like broken glass. 20 years from now, I’ll no longer see the day of light, nor will I see him again. The way the tides move in and out of the shore, the way he smiles at me, the sound of the wind when nature calls out. Blue denims, white t-shirts, white and red spotted sandals, and it fades to black. The lighthouse close to shore, bright lights that point towards the big city, where the green trees grow, white sandy beaches, clear blue skies is where home lies. Tiny beads, fireflies, the smell of fresh flowers, barefoot on the terrace, dancing with the music that frees my soul, spare me the one night alone and let me live. He speaks with a soft voice, “-you’ll be with me someday, beautiful.” As I watch the sun goes down, the glisten memories of my past, ghosts that don’t want to be seen, and secrets that don’t want to be revealed. “Alright, I’ll play it one more time.” I said.
Weighing Memory
He pulls the shoe box stuffed with faded prints and lifts the lid, this time to find movie ticket stubs, whitewashed by uncertainty, with numbers and letters visible only if examined from just the right angle. Remnants of a backyard bouquet, still smelling sweet, though withered by thirst years ago. Somewhat intact, but never the same. The life of a love lost, and the love of a life lost, contained in a cardboard box.
What a wonder it is to store such things this way. Easy access to those fleeting moments, we miss them if we blink. Pure joy, slipped between the DNR and the Hail Mary. Harmony, folded into an origami crane, and placed neatly on top. And the lid, his grief, as profound as they say it is, or more. If there’s a better way to do this, to hang onto the past, organize it, keep it at a distance, to access and incorporate it willingly into the present, it’s lost on him.
That moment
When she tells me she needs my help
With all the reluctance in my heart,
All the ache in my soul,
I agree, to help her.
But, shouldn’t she have helped me?
I told her the brutal truth
I knew it would rip her apart
I knew it would destroy her world
But I was drowning and
I fear she knew
She knew all along
And now she was asking for my help.
I hated her and loved her
I felt sorry for her
I ached for her
For her acceptance
For her protection
For her gentle touch
For her love.
She couldn’t fool me any longer
She was weak
She was a fool
A lost child, inside an adult
Lies spilling out of her mouth
Lies, of how she would protect me
Of how she would defend me
Of how she had already tried to
My hatred growing stronger,
Heavier, boiling in my stomach
I want to rip her apart
I want to take her in my arms
I want to rescue her from this Devil
But, she loved him
She chose him
Over me.
My mother will never forgive me
For letting her husband
Rape me.
Ocean of Memories
I walk along the beach on a stormy night. The ocean waves pounding on the rocks. A sky filled with wondrous clouds. Rain starts to pour. The rain covers my pain and tears. Memories come flooding back to me. Good and bad, nothing exists. The games we played, the times we shared, the children we once were and the children we do have. Those are no longer relevant. Lips caressing her with words that were once mine. Anger comes in along with the pain being suppressed down. When I look at the ocean it speaks to me in a way that no one else can. Nothing will be the same again.
Sweet Dreams Are Made of These
In and out, you breathe the air. Under the blankets I gently stare. Your favorite position on your side or an occasional hand on my thigh. Radiating warm, reddish brown skin. Across your bones it is stretched so thin. The quiet moments, the whispering sighs; the silent stars help me get through the night. A toss and turn, a little squeeze. A PERFECT puzzle connected by knees. I’ve done it plenty of times alone, mostly in the comfort of my own home. But there’s no place I’d rather be, sleeping under blankets, just you and me.
Sadness behind a smile
Sitting and thinking. He looks around his one bedroom apartment and can’t help but notice the emptiness, of this soul. No furniture, no dishes, no feelings. Has it been him? Or has it been her? He walks out his door and the first thing he does is put on a smile. Taking a step inside his door he frowns with discontent. Traveling through his mind is the dream of being with her once again. Reality hits. He wants to scream! He wants to call! No he can’t. The world can’t possibly know that he is terribly in love with her. What will they say? Will the laugh? Will the judge? He understands that he can keep it from them but he can’t keep it from himself.
She knew this day was coming. She had tried to enjoy every second, minute, and day to cherish with her forever. Every word, every smile, every joke she tried to make it last as long as she could. This day came too soon, and yet this dreaded moment seemed to stand still. Everything felt in slow motion like an unwanted dream so unreal. Through it all she could still smell her mother’s favorite perfume like roses on a beautiful spring day, which brought a sense of comfort through the pain. The sound of silence brought a sense of fear of knowing her life would never be the same. Memories of her childhood flew through her mind. All the tears she had dried, so many heartaches she had mended, and so much advice she had given. During that time it seemed more like nagging and a mother being overbearing, but now she realizes it was her mother loving and protecting her best she knew how. Never did she imagine she would lose her so soon. She was a woman to admire and respect always so strong, determined, caring woman so full or wisdom and life. Almost unrecognizable lying with her eyes closed struggling to breath so weak, so scared, but at the same time so full of peace. She watched her mother take her last breath how she wished she could turn back time, and cherish her more, and never let a day go by without telling her she loves her.
It’s 7 in the evening and I’m getting ready for our nightly ritual of going to the park and playing a game of one-on-one with you. We’ve been best friends since elementary school ever since we discovered we shared the same passion for the game. As I tighten my shoes and grab my basketball off the bed, I look towards my desk and say a silent prayer to the memorial card sitting there and head towards the front door. I open the door and there you are, the brother I never had, with that cocky grin you always wear as if you know you’re going to win. I just smile back and ask, “Ready”? You shrug like you always do and start jogging down the street me following. The park is only a few blocks away and we get there before our breathing becomes labored. As I dribble the ball onto the court, you signal for me to take the shot and you run for the rebound. I take one quick glance up towards the night sky and I close my eyes. I dribble the ball slowly and picture the basket in my mind, bending my knees slightly. I jump off the ground letting the ball roll through my fingers and wait, keeping my eyes closed to show my faith in the shot. SWISH. I do my best to mimic that cocky grin of yours and open my eyes to see the ball bouncing under the net and you gone. I continue to look at the ball as I feel a single tear emerging in the corner of my eye. I shamelessly let it fall slowly down my cheek and smile because I knew you were there for that shot, guiding it. I take one last glance up at the sky, throw a salute towards you and run towards the ball.
Trim off the creeping thyme and cut away the stacks of black roses. There’s always room for one more. Stack the coffins a little higher. They’ll make bunk beds, under flower beds, under us all. But here, look at the sweet curve of cursive indented here! Mrs. McHannihan. That’s a rich man’s, wife’s name. That’s the sort of last name with a diamond larger than my imagination buried on a single finger. Clear away wicked weeds, bite back the mole holes; fill them up if you can, with wishes and dreams sincere. May Mr. McHannihan bring a new thorn and see how clear the cobblestone lies.
Buried under all our sweat and sweet grass gone yellow is the luckiest. Mrs. McHannihan. Beautiful, surely. Loved, dearly. First name? Unknown. Who cares? Mrs. McHannihan had the last name to clear away the rows of many a browning bush; half way to her burial being buried by brush, we saw the tender message. HERE LIES MRS. MCHANNIHAN. Tears in my eyes. What label was ever more perfect wrote? For a wife, none.
Days Past
I can’t remember the last time I was this excited, or anxious probably. I haven’t seen you in almost a year, and I’ll apologize today, but when the snowball of life starts rolling down it rolls fast. I put on my nicest suit and grab the bouquet of roses that I bought on my way home from work off my bed. I still have pictures of us together all over my apartment; I pass them as I stroll to the front door and smile at the memories. We always looked great together, and no one ever denied it.
Before I know it, I’m in the car driving. Now that I’m getting close, I start getting even more antsy, and I start remembering a lot of little things, like the fact that you were driving this car around for three years before you gave it to me for school. Back then you probably never thought that it would last this long, but I’m taking great care of it. Soon I arrive, and I step out of the car, but I’m shaking a little. I walk slowly up the hill, passing countless rows of tombstones, until finally I reach yours. I’m chilled to the bone, but the wind isn’t blowing and it’s the middle of July. I always get that feeling when I read your name on the stone. I set the roses down and sit on the grass. I talk for hours just like we used to.. I really miss you, Sis, and I’ll come more often, I promise.
Wonders of Loss
I begin my day as I do everyday – the snooze button, a rushed shower as I run late, a flick of the wrist for some color on my eyelids, and then my normal routine strays. A black dress, nude pantyhose, a veil, and the assembling of my children to place them in their black clothing. Piling into the car, I turn on the song we’d always dance to in the living room, our children on our shoulders laughing, mumbling the words as best as little ones can. I think of the last time I held your hand and my heart fills, bursting in time with my eyes, yet a smile shows through as I see sad smiles on the faces of my children, too young to grip mortality and death, old enough to understand you won’t be coming home to us anymore. One day, I remind them, we will all come home to you.