Tagged: flash fiction

Goldilocks and the Three Americans

Once upon a time, there was a family of the smallest of sizes, but perfectly intentioned, who lived in a neighborhood-

“That’s not how it goes, Dad!”

“I’m not telling the story we read, A-; I am answering your question about the noises the cameras make.”

“Oh.”

-Whenever these smallest of sizes, but perfectly intentioned, families went out from their house—whether to school or stores or restaurants—they worried about yellow-haired girls who they had heard about when they were children-

“Goldilocks has yellow hair!”

“That’s right, A-. That’s who the noises are supposed to scare aware. You see, Goldilocks is supposed to think, ‘I don’t want to deal with whatever those bears are up to. So I’ll find a house without cameras.’”

“This house doesn’t have cameras!”

“Good eyes, A-. That’s right. If I were Goldilocks, I’d try that house first.”

“You’re not Goldilocks!”

“I know. I’m just answering your question.”

“Oh.”

“You know, A-. I don’t mind sharing with you that besides adding talking cameras to the cornucopian display of my opulent wealth, that story is why I don’t trust any Yellow-Haired women.”

“Look, Daddy!”

“Okay! What? I see a truck.”

“Goldilocks is in that truck!”

“That’s right. I didn’t finish the story.”

-And no one ever saw Goldilocks ever again. But sometimes, when the light is just right, you can see Yellow-Haired women driving white trucks. So if ever on your camera screen you see a white truck in your driveway…hide your porridge!

A Short Dream and a Long Dream

What I am calling the short dream was initially not clearly a dream; this is because it happened upon waking. But the falseness of the reality I experienced has to put it in the dream category.

I awoke, as normal, to go to the bathroom. I was at work, and as you know, in a sleeping bag. The particular bag I use is a queen size (really, just two “adam and eve” bags zipped together) and so sometimes while on the twin mattress, I can get oddly wrapped up.

Keep in mind, it’s the middle of the night. And I’m tired.

So I start yanking harder at the silky outside of the bag and unfortunately I feel it tear. I finally make it out, and, glasses-less, zoom in close—in the dark—to confirm that it’s torn. Confirmed. Then the walk to the restroom and back is unremarkable.

As I am laying down to try to resume sleeping asap, I cannot help but look forward to getting a new sleeping bag. Luckily, the excitement abated quickly and I fell asleep again.

Lo and behold, in the morning there was no damage!

Obviously, to my thinking, this dream was unflattering evidence of some kind of addiction to perfectionist shopping—which I am told afflicts nearly all of us. The remarkable part, to me, was how I really couldn’t believe the bag wasn’t torn. Crazy. Moving on.

I’ll keep the long dream’s recap short.

I had pissed off an Indian I work with (feather) and he told his pals and they were coming to kill me. I knew they were coming to kill me because a really fat mutual friend, also a pow-wow Indian, told me. And this friend wanted to help me by arming me to the teeth.

The odd thing about this dream is, like the short dream, I awoke to go potty, knew that it was a dream, wanted to know how it ended, and then fell back asleep and picked it right up again! As it continued, the main action was concentrated on the fat Indian resignedly giving me all sorts of guns as I made small (and weak) talk.

I can tell you it felt real. Like I felt sick to my stomach while I was in the dream and in the bathroom over the fact that I had caused all this nonsense. I also pulled my own weapons cache into the dream and seemed to consider opening it—I’m talking about waking up and opening the gun safe—in case it wasn’t a dream. Powerful, dreams are, no?

Well, the other key feeling the dream was causing or bringing to light was a hefty resignation alongside confusion at the fat Indian’s actions because I knew I couldn’t win. Surely he had to agree, no?

This dream pulls in a lot of disparate parts of my life. The main theme, to me, obviously comes from back in college when I told the blacks that I had been hanging around that we whites told racist jokes and then inquired about any white jokes they might have that were worth sharing. Not a happy group after that. Nor unified. The ones who could take a joke clearly stopped the ones who could not from black on white violence.

Additionally, I have an Indian co-worker, who I have, this time unintentionally—I was trying to find common ground—offended. (Religion, politics, AND immigration are to be avoided at work. Also, the fashion combo of flannel and rat tails is generally not donned by hispanics. Lesson learned.)

Lastly, I am currently reading The Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant. In them, he recounts a duel and offers his opinion that he would never let anyone known he was going to kill them—if in fact circumstances led him to conclude that he needed to kill someone. Conversely, if he ever so-offended someone that he learned they were out for his blood, he would do or say, within reason, whatever was necessary to make amends. (I think there was an implied “it could only be a misunderstanding” aspect to this.) My point being that this connects directly to the “resignation” and “sick feeling” part of my dream. Implied was that I knew that a group is unconsolable (different than an individual) and so they were surely going to get their kill—even though I knew in advance.

And obviously we’re all thinking about “do I have enough guns?” all the time. Hehe.

How about you, faithful reader? Anything odd in the head movies to recount? If so, don’t be a stranger. Post it and/or comment below.

Sleep, Sleeper

If I could change one aspect of modernity, it would be to un-invent the clock. I know, I know, it wouldn’t work. Modernity needs the clock like fish need water. But living by a clock has always felt unnatural to me. Most unnatural is the idea of waking up because of “what time” it is. Sleep, I say.

Running right alongside my fantasy is that I hate waking people up, no matter what time the clock says it is. I feel that I have done my small part in increasing happiness for my fellow man if I help keep people asleep. Specifically, I do everything in my power to keep babies, toddlers, and children asleep. This sleep benevolence of mine extends also to spouses and family members and house guests in general. If I am at work and someone is sleeping, I tip-toe away and do whatever is in my power to not wake them.

I cannot recall the last time I caused or allowed (or let pass without strong rebuke, for that matter) a sharp noise to be sounded while someone was sleeping.

I do confess there are moments where my posture towards sleep is more difficult, perhaps impossible, to maintain. When H- was small, we went to the symphony together and she would fall asleep despite the racket. At the end, I couldn’t just close the place down as she slept. So I woke her.

On Sundays, the black baptists run long as a rule. J- often finds the padded pew similar enough to a bed. I cannot just allow him to sleep as they come to the conclusion of the whole matter. Life must go on.

But I ask you, dear reader, what about when I show up to H-’s orchestra concert only to be carefully ignored by her? What if H- plans a trip to visit my parents and siblings (her grandparents and aunts and uncles) and is sure to confirm that I do not have a coordinated surprise visit in mind before boarding?

What then? Should I let H- sleep? Should my family let H- sleep?

H- is told the worst kind of lies by her mom, her mom’s parents, her step-dad, and his parents, and my parents, my siblings, and—unless I miss my mark—the entire fucking population of this great country have decided to let her sleep.

H- is living a lie.

She doesn’t know it, but she has been kidnapped.

She doesn’t know it, but her dad is robbed monthly and has been for 12+ years.

She doesn’t know it, but she would not have a roof over her head, food in her belly, or a pot to piss in, if it wasn’t for me.

She doesn’t know it, because she sleeps.

Should I wake her?

Nahhh. Let her sleep.

Sleep, Sleeper.

The Spark

I’m not saying it will ignite what seems inconceivable—a full and prolonged civil war—but I am saying it will light a proper insurrection.

The spark is going to be a widely attended and publicized funeral.

When the time comes, the funeral, and its attendant crowds, will be the event and day and time that ordinary citizens, and not-so-ordinary citizens, will violently enflame the tinderbox of MAGA vs. DNC incivility. Stay home.

Yes, I have been reading Les Misérables. Yes, I got the idea directly from it. No, I do not think the situation in America is anything like 1832 Paris. But we all can feel that more escalation and more outrageous events await.

It’s my blog. There is a thrill to making measurable predictions. Don’t steal my joy! And before you get your panties in a bunch, just admit that, sadly, you know I am right on this one.

At Bedtime, You Gotta Be Smarter Than The Toddler!

I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier.

The trick is having them lay in bed as soon as possible in the bedtime routine. That’s the trick.

I had been reading to them (the best possible thing imaginable). But we had been sitting on the floor together. Or almost together. Usually Bee-bop and Rock-steady would find their way around every corner of the room as if led by a bewitched divining rod while I read and beckoned them back to the fold. But the reading was happening and they even were memorizing the words in turns. So I was fine with it.

But then we would excitedly pray (Aaronic blessing from frame on the wall—“Favor, A-, not favorite”) and sing and then I would put them to bed. Finally, I have a little thing I say to them every night.

But if I left at this point, someone would get out of bed and the light would be on and playing would ensue.

Any parent knows this is enough to drive you crazy. Just GET IN BED!!

No more. Tonight I had a moment of clarity and put them in bed before the book. They both tried to sit up to see the pictures until…they got tired of maintaining that position. Then they laid until the page turn and then sat up and then laid down again after examining the picture.

Finally it was pray, say the thing, and then I sung any remaining pressing ideas to sleep.

Boom!

Lights out.

What an amazing dad I am. And not a moment too soon.

The White Devil

Now the serpent was more crafty than any beast of the field which Yahweh God had made…And the serpent said to the woman, “You surely will not die! For God knows that in the day you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”

“Come on!” he smiled mischievously, “Come on, just tell me. It’s not like we don’t know the nickname. I just want to know it in your language.”

“Oh, no,” the brown mohammedan said, head-shaking, embarrassed and uncomfortable. “It is not right.”

“Seriously, just tell me. How much have we shared with each other so far? I only want to know it to make people laugh. It’s not like I mean any harm to anyone. It would make me betam yetek’eburu if I could whip out that phrase when appropriate. Ehbakahin? Please?”

The mooslims are different in this respect. They are Old Testament in their belief in the power of utterances. The man wouldn’t budge.

“Oh well. Here comes another,” he said to himself. “Hey!” Pointing back down the hall towards the man he just left, the same smile still on his face, he said, “Abdi there won’t tell me how to say White Devil. How about you? I need it for purely social reasons. Please?”

Stonewalled again, and this time by a Christian no less.

That was six years ago.

Today, he knows the real meaning of White Devil. He had always assumed it had to do with brown people being more “spiritual” on the whole and white people being less “spiritual” on the whole. There also was the ever present, at least in recent centuries, technological advantages inherent to the (renowned as white) West that surely must have bedazzled outsiders into believing them to be derived from the dark arts.

Wrong on both points.

His own culture lauds literacy and learning. The greatest shame is an unexpected and unavoidable public display of illiteracy. If one can’t read, they hide that fact from everyone—and if it happens that they come to a moment when they decide to learn, upon taking that step, the choirs of the West rejoice more joyfully than the heavenly hosts when a new believer is baptized. Who, then, wouldn’t want to learn how to read?

But that is the White Devil describing itself, the White Devil marveling at its reflection in precious stones. As described by illiterate cultures, the ones who are lauded today for having “oral histories”, the White Devil is the absolutely ignorant and unfounded fear of what these cultures do not yet understand.

The truly ignorant are not the West’s unwanted newborns put outside to die by exposure like our own illiterate, no. He now sees that the truly ignorant are Adam and Eve, shortly after getting the boot from the garden. They know something is different. They know there is another power. They know they don’t have the power. And like Adam and Eve, they conclude those that do possess the power must be the enemy, the adversary, ha-satan. Or, plainly, the White Devil. And the only idea that populates the uninhabited landscape of their brain is to tell their children the story of the crafty serpent.

Today’s My Birthday

My mother-in-law is currently living with us. Five days in. Hasn’t been terrible. I have chosen the strategy of pointing out every time I do something that husbands/men/fathers typically don’t do. (She doesn’t speak English, so my wife has to translate. It’s fun.)

Just now I started to wash my favorite La Creuset pan, their 11×13 attempt. I told my wife to tell her mom that on my birthday I still do the dishes. My wife responded that she had already told her mom that this was my favorite dish and that’s why she used it to make breakfast.

I said, “Ha. Probably shouldn’t tell her the real truth. The truth that I trust no one with my stuff. The truth that I have been hurt before, and so I wash my own dishes.”

I have been hurt before, and so I wash my own dishes.

Sounds like a pretty great opening line to a novel, if you ask me.