Flash Fiction Story #1

So, I decided to do a flash fiction story for a blog. For those of you that don't know what it is, it is a story created from a prompt that gives you a certain time limit. 

This is the prompt:

It’s garbage day and you put your trash on the curb, but when you return home from work, it’s still there (though everyone else’s garbage has been taken away). The next week, it happens again–and again the following week. Why is the trash collector snubbing you? Write a scene explaining why he’s skipping your garbage and how you figured it out.

And here is my story:

I knew he was no ordinary garbage man. An evil, horrible man like that with such a grotesque expression on his face easily suggested his picture in the dictionary under "goblin" or "ogre." A man so malignant to others that he often caused them to blow a blood vessel or cause an instantaneous nose bleed. No ordinary man, indeed. At least, not to me.

I'm a simple person. I live halfway down the block on Cherry Street amid the wonderful houses that resemble Full House's type of city. I'm pretty decent about making sure my waste doesn't go straight to the environment, so I didn't quite understand how he could shun me so. Several days a week, I would peer out my window like a recluse/hermit watching the people with whom he refuses to associate. The garbage man would appear, take the neighbor's garbage, take one look at my garbage can, and drive away, giving me a shrewd stare from his beady little eyes until he reached the next house. This war between the garbage collector and I was unbeknownst to me, until I saw him purposely drive away from my garbage. As I'm sure, his motivations come from that evil little imagination of his. He probably imagines me as a cruel lord from a distant land trying to steal his ring. Yes, I know that sounds a little Lord of the Rings-ish, but he truly reminds me of Golem in uniform.

One day, I decided to confront him about it. I was tired of sneaking my garbage over to the dumpster at work or asking the neighbors to include it with theirs. As usual, he came around the corner, and from a distance, I could see his impeccably black eyes staring at me in their usual scoffing manner. Slowly, he reached each house, and, finally, he came to the neighbors' house. I was waiting for him in my nice fluffy bathrobe with the morning paper in my hand. 

"Nice to see you again, Ron," I said to him with a smirk.

"Uh... Yeah... Nice to see you too."

"How long has it been? At least a few weeks now, since I last talked to you."

"Yeah. It's been pretty hectic," he replied in his gravelly voice. I could just hear him in my mind saying, "Those hobbits are tricksy, precious." Fortunately, I'm relatively sure he couldn't read my mind.

"It has been several weeks. Well, I've got to go now. Lots of trash to pick up." He gave me his evil stare and climbed back up into his truck. Hunched over the wheel, he shifted the truck into gear and totally bypassed my house. Lazy, good-for-nothing...! Excuse my purposely invisible language.

The next week I confronted him again. Again, he made small talk and left my filthy garbage waiting on the street. Finally, I decided to take action.

While he was picking up the trash at a house farther down the lane, I snuck up behind his truck. He was preoccupied with dumping the garbage into the truck, so I climbed into the truck and stole his favorite charm: the bobbing hula girl that sat on his dashboard. I quickly made my escape right before he got back in the truck and snuck back to my house like the Grinch on Christmas. It wasn't long before he suspected me. While I waited to talk to him one day, he came driving around the corner like a speed racer on crack. He slid the car into a parked position and came marching up to where I was standing with an impetulent glare on his face.

"What did you do with Rita?"

"Oh, nothing. She is just hanging out with LeRoy." (My dog.)

"Give her back to me now!" He was breathing heavily.

"Only if you promise to tell me why you have been avoiding my garbage. There is nothing wrong with it so far as I can tell." I stared back at him with my lip pouted.

He immediately shied away. "It's nothing. Just give me Rita back!" he said in a shaky voice.

"If you tell me first, I'll give you Rita."

"If you give me Rita first, I'll tell you."

"How about we trade? While I'm giving you back Rita, you can say what it is that is bothering you about my garbage. Deal?"

"Fine. Deal," he said with exasperation.

"Okay. One... Two... Three!"

"IT'S YOUR GARBAGE BAGS!" he blurted out.

"What?"

"I don't like how you tie your garbage bags."

"Yet you seem to pick up everyone else's. Doesn't everyone tie them differently?"

He paused for a moment. "Well, yes, they do, but your knots are particularly annoying. I don't like them one bit."

Suddenly, I started laughing. It developed into hysterical laughter, crying involved.

"What is so funny?" Ron asked curiously.

I replied between fits of laughter, "It's just that... isn't it... a little... STRANGE that you... are a garbage collector... and you're obsessive compulsive?"

He stared at me for a few seconds as it sunk in, and he began to laugh too. "I guess you're right."

We had a good laugh together, and he showed me how he wanted me to tie my garbage bags, and we've been good friends ever since.

My Short Story... "The Love Poem"

Here is my short story... I hope you enjoy it! :)

I was conceived from hatred and love. The moment of my conception was a blurry one, images of my mother and father, dimness, and angry words.

            “How could you? I can’t believe…”

            “ I told you once before, but you must not have been listening…”

            “We can work through this…”

            “No. I’m tired of trying to ‘work through this’…”

 

            I have tried over and over again to remember my life before I was created. All I can recall are flashes of my mother’s thoughts: the blank look on my father’s face, my father’s proposal to my mother, a younger version of my mother. In order to understand my mother’s thoughts, I have been trying to analyze those small fragments of her mind that so cruelly escape completion…

 

            “Oh, Victor, there you are. I have been searching for you everywhere!”

            I worry about him so much sometimes. Why can’t he just stay in one spot?

            “Sorry. I was over by the punch bowl. Could we step outside for a moment?”

            I say that we can, and we exit the party life for a moment. As we walk through the extravagant patio doors, a gust of cold wind hits me. I shiver, and Victor offers his coat to me. I graciously take it and absorb our surroundings. We are walking through forest, quiet except for the nocturnal sounds of nature. I can see a dark pond, where the serene waters are like black glass, undisturbed. Resignedly, I stare at my reflection. I am tall, somewhat graceful, with my hair swept back into a low messy bun. The red dress I chose sweeps low but emphasizes my figure. Also reflected in the small bottomless pool is Victor’s face. Half of his face is shrouded in darkness, while the other half is framed sternly with dark brown eyebrows lingering over chocolate eyes. Victor has always seemed a little stern, despite his playboy appearance. Finally, I look up to the sky. The stars are spread across the sky as if diamonds were dropped against the achromatic earth that bore them.  

            “Rosalie, I want to ask you a question.”

            My heart has stopped beating. I know what’s coming, and I know exactly what I’m going to say. Victor’s dark brown eyes give his question away.

            “We have been dating for several years now, and I know that you are the only one for me in this world. My whole life has been nothing until you came into it. Rosalie, will you marry me?”

            I have never been so full of joy! I can’t believe he’s asked me to marry him! We’ve only been dating for three years, but I love this man more than my own life.

            “Yes! Of course I’ll marry you!”

            We embrace each other and start walking back toward the country house. I love him so much! Oh! And I need to start thinking about the ceremony. The wedding will have roses, doves…

 

            I find myself in the hands of a stranger. He has picked me up off the sidewalk and is reading me slowly. I can see the pain in his face; he doesn’t appreciate me like my mother did. But, then again, no one has really appreciated me, especially not my father…

 

 

            “Victor, this is a lovely dinner.”

            We have finally gotten a reservation at this wonderful little restaurant on the corner of Daniela Avenue. A very refined restaurant, it serves the most delicious food anyone can imagine. The table is covered in a white cloth, with two slim candles set up on either side of the table. There is wine and bread, and it is wonderful. I’m so surprised he took me here! Just when I thought our relationship was on the ropes.

            “Thank you so much for this Victor,” I say as I cut my filet mignon. “It must have taken a huge effort to get a reservation here!”

            “It was no problem,” Victor replies. He seems so withdrawn these days. I wonder what is bothering him.

            We continue to eat in silence. I want to say something to keep the conversation going, and I can see that he doesn’t wish to speak to me. Now, I’m truly starting to get worried and a little angry. Why can’t he just be honest with me? I have been completely honest with him, and he can’t return the favor?

            “Victor, I need to…”

            “I’m going to the bathroom,” he interrupts me.

            While Victor is in the bathroom, I can feel my poetic side slowly coming out. I don’t have any paper, so I quickly grab the wine list. The back is blank. Perfect.

            Victor comes out much later, and I finish my poem just in time. He is taking a seat, and I am ready to show him my poem in the hopes that it will provoke him to speak to me.

            “Victor, I want to show you this poem I wrote.”

            There is complete silence. He knows I haven’t written a poem in years. I wait for him to give me an answer.

            “Rosalie, I’m having an affair.”

            “Oh.”

            “I told you once before, but you must not have been listening.”

            “When? When did you tell me?” How did I miss this?

            “I told you when you were feeling ill last month. You just stared at me like you didn’t comprehend.”

            “I was very out of it when I was ill because of my medication. We can work through this, though. I know a great counselor that my friend went to see when her relationship was deteriorating. Surely we can go too.” I answered. Victor was giving me his blank stare, as he was accustomed to giving these days.

            “No. I’m tired of trying to ‘work through this.’ I have been fighting with myself this whole time over whom I love more and if this is moral. I’m leaving you. I still love you, but not the same way.”

            I can’t believe he took me to this wonderful place to leave me.

            “I wrote you this poem to see if you would tell me your problem, but since you already told it to me, I might as well give it to you.” I put the poem on the table in front of him and leave.

 

            Father read me after she left. His face showed no emotion as he looked over the bitter words she had written, even though the last line gave away her true sentiments towards him.           

            The man has thrown me away. It seems that I will never be good enough for people because I bring pain to them and because I’m essentially a tool of hatred. In some ways, I’m a masterpiece for the heartbroken.  I say what they all want to say, demonstrate the true resentment of their lots in life.

            However, when my mother was younger, she wasn’t full of pain and her heart wasn’t broken. She was full of the life, strength, and vigor of youth.

 

            “Rosalie, let’s go!”

            I really want to go with them. I love volleyball, and this is the perfect opportunity to take a break from my studies. Poetry is hard stuff! I wonder why I decided to become a poet, but I don’t know, so I give up. College is hard, and I like to party more than study. But there is always this side of me that interferes and says, ‘Let’s put down, into words, this feeling.” I wonder if I’m normal sometimes for thinking that. I seem normal enough, to me anyway. I’m tall and athletic, but I just don’t fit the jock mold. I tend to think, unlike most of the stereotypical athletes.

            “Rosalie, hurry up! We don’t have all day!”

            “I’m coming!”  I scream from my room. They’re lingering in the hallway. Why are friends so great? I let them get away with being impatient and so much more, and yet, I still consider them the most reliable people I know. Oh, well. Time to have some fun.

            “Wait up, guys!”

 

            Isn’t that a great memory?  I can almost feel the warmth of it out here on the cold street. I like to visualize it over and over again. It is amazing how people can feel that way.

            Sometimes, I think I feel a link with my mother. The last time I “linked” with her, I sensed a touch of forgiveness. From thoughts I received through the connection, it looked like she was going to take him back. He was begging her to take him back because he had realized his love for her.

            I can still picture his face when I was conceived into this world from the ideas and thoughts of my mother. I came from the passionate flames of hatred and love, and back into them I shall go. But, before I leave, I will give you the chance to read my mother’s compassionate words: 

You’re a fool and an asshole to treat me this way. 

I’ve completely adored you from the very first day. 

Now I can’t get a word. My heart’s breaking in two.

 My soul and life perforated. And that’s due to you.

Give me a clue, a hint, some sign

What’s caused you to repel, retreat and resign?

I love you.

Christmas Preparations

When I came back from break, I was psyched to put up Christmas decorations. My mom had bought me a three foot plastic Christmas tree and lights and ornaments to decorate it. I arrived to find my roomie armed with a Christmas lava lamp and little sticky decorations to stick on our mirrors and microwave. We were off on our Christmas journey to festoon our dorm room with wonderful decorations. I pulled out the Christmas tree and set it up to its regal height while my roommate showed me the special optical effects her red lava lamp. She then set to wrapping the Christmas lights around the lifeless evergreen, and I came over to aid her in encircling the tree with the last of the lights. Perched on the limbs, the lights seemed to float effortlessly, seemingly not touching the tree. Afterwards, she pulled out the sticky Christmas window decorations and split them up between her, me, and the microwave. Like a professional runner, Maris must have had a record time in speed when it came to decorating the microwave. She placed a red and white hat on the microwave first, then a red oval nose, and a white mustache and beard to accompany the rest of the facial structures. The small black eyes were last, and, once it was complete, it resembled the finest miniature, bodyless, black Santa anyone could imagine. Our microwave is black, and since the manufacturers didn't provide skin for Santa, he took on the ebony hue of our appliance. Santa couldn't remain alone though, so we added holly and miniature Christmas trees to his place of residence. With the rest of the decorations, we created winter wonderlands from our mirrors. Maris's was a land of red bells, bright green-leaved and red-berried holly, and Christmas trees of various tints of green. Mine, on the other hand, contained a nation of green Christmas trees, holly, and blood red candy canes lined up across the sides of my mirror. Unfortunately, we didn't have metal hangers to put up the ornaments due to my own forgetfulness, so no ornaments adorn the tree. However, we have a wonderful handmade star with our names on it that was made by Michelle from down the floor. Its sharp orange outline and soft yellows make it the ultimate star, one that seems to resemble a person in its qualities. Christmas music is resounding around the room, compliments of Maris's iPod. If we only had gingerbread cookies and more presents under our Christmas tree, this would be a perfect Christmas!

The Christmas tree is set, and I am always thinking of ways to set up the rest of the room. I can imagine silvery tinsel enveloping our bed rails and a Christmas blanket draped across our futon, bright multicolored lights surrounding the doorframe and a wreath made of false poinsettia leaves and dark green holly leaves. The nice part about Christmas is the ability to keep decorating!

Tough... My Favorite Short Story

     My favorite short story was Jhumpa Lahiri's Interpreter of Maladies. In high school, we read this story, and when we discussed it and analyzed it, I got a better understanding of the complexity of the story. It amazes me how much she did with this story, how intricate and deep it is with so few details. Poems amaze me too, but that's not the point. The perspective was an interesting choice. Because we see the Das family's troubles played out through another person's thoughts, the author gives us a subjective view, an outside view that is judgmental and critical as we ourselves can be to others. Another interesting technique was the inclusion of the monkeys. They played a vital role in keeping the story moving forward, especially towards the end, when they beat Bobby with sticks. Through their actions, we see a true, unexpected side of the Das family: love. After hearing Mrs. Das's explanation of her "one afternoon stand" and seeing her apathy towards her family, the audience questions her attachment to her family, i.e. why is she still with her family if she hates them so much? She shows her affection by treating Bobby, and the rest of the family helps him and comforts him. 

       Also, I liked the choice of characters. Mr. Kapasi is a man who is smart enough to be a politician but has fallen on difficult circumstances, leaving him with a worse life than he had hoped. This enables Mr. Das, a high school science teacher, to consider Mr. Kapasi on the same level as him. By insinuating that he is as smart as him, Mr. Das is demeaning Mr. Kapasi, but it allows us to see the differences in their lives that led the smarter man to be poor and the dumber man to become rich. We also see a change in Mr. Kapasi towards the end of the story. Instead of revealing a dark secret to Bobby about his origin and conception (which would be morally right to Mr. Kapasi), he refrains and decides to view the family as they are in the one instance of compassion in the whole story. This makes the audience happy, even though Mrs. Das's secret is still a secret, and the audience wants to tell Bobby and Mr. Das. Mrs. Das is also interesting. I have always found it odd that people can be so self-absorbed and wonder why they are in so much self-inflicted pain. She did not call it her "guilt" but instead called what she felt "pain." How can she know so little about herself when she is so absorbed in it?

Overall, I don't really think there is anything Lahiri can do to improve it. It seems to me that she has achieved a perfect story already. Any more or less could ruin the whole story and the purpose it serves.