As you may have noticed, the flash fiction section has been devoid of stories for the last couple of weeks. Unfortunately, the submissions have not been swamping the old inbox and so we were without. Luckily that string of silence has been broken. Read on.
The talented Trey Moore joins us again for this week’s flash fiction post. These two pieces are linked thematically here through a sense of loss and yearning and time passing. The lovely muted tone adds to the impression and leaves the reader feeling much like the narrator in “Electric Green Wings,” which manages to conflate the two (reader/narrator) by leaving off with a postcard from Esperanza.
Enjoy and after you’ve enjoyed, write your own piece and send it in. It’s Fiesta! A time when the city comes alive with color and personality. Capture some of it in flash. Submit. ¡Viva Fiesta! ¡Viva San Antonio! !Viva Flash Fiction!
“Electric Green Wings” by Trey Moore
Sing a song to the woman dreaming of Mexico, coasts of Argentina, Paris, Madrid, Istanbul. Her grip forceful, lead bites page, bending paper around the point. She draws me at the bus stop in Travis Park for a buck thirty-seven. When she was done, she closed her eyes.
“It’s part of the process to give myself in each portrait. It’s only fair. After all, I stole a little for the pencil.”
I finally get used to her talking like that and then she’s gone. A week later, I ask Janice, who was always talking to her at the bus stop.
“She’s gone to Spain. The whole world waits such talent.”
It was true. A month later, I got a postcard from Andalusia May 6, 2000:
“When I got to Madrid I was empty. The weariness of travel unwrapped me. Had I always been this empty? Exhausted I dreamt five ships sail to the stars. The next day I awoke, looked at myself anew and began to drink life again. Now, its only oranges and the hot kiss of sun.
“Little Wings” by Trey Moore
Let me tell you about the little boy who never tied his shoes, stumbling over his laces because, all he could dream about was flying. So he walked on the sides of his feet staring at the clouds and never learned to fly but broke both ankles just to spite his mother who loved him deeply. He knew this because he was painfully happy, delightfully diffident, suffering, and with this intent he killed his budding wings.
Lyle Rosdahl, a writer living in San Antonio, edits the flash fiction blog & best of in print for the Current. He created, facilitates and participates in Postcard Fiction Collaborative, a monthly flash fiction response to a photo. You can see more of his work, including photos, paintings and writing, at lylerosdahl.com.