FLASH FICTION

Ear Tufts

Betty Louise sat in the window of the new house holding a baby on each arm, watching the old woman next door stick her tongue into the old man’s ear.  They sat together in the backyard swing, oblivious to her stares.  She wondered if he had hair growing out of his ears like most old men.  She couldn’t see well enough to tell.  Howard didn’t have hair in his ears, did he?  When did the hair start growing?  Was it after male menopause?  What was male menopause, anyway? 

Stacy started whimpering and Betty Louise adjusted her hip.  Then Louisie Jr howled and she jiggled the other side of her body.  The old woman next door laughed so hard she screamed.  Her face crumpled and her eyes disappeared.  Betty Louise wondered what was so funny.  She didn’t remember ever seeing old people having so much fun.  For one thing, they rode motorcycles.  Old people weren’t supposed to do that, were they?  And they were always kissing and grabbing each other’s breasts and crotches.  He had breasts.  Small ones, to be sure, especially compared to her milk-swollen teats.

Betty Louise jostled Stacy and Louisie Jr. and wondered if she should be disapproving or not.  Would she want to stick her tongue in Howard’s ears when she was 68 or 72 or however old those two were?  Would he keep his ears clean? 

Louisie Jr. grabbed Betty Louise’s breasts and tried to cram them in her mouth, red gingham and all.  “Can I have some?” whispered a low voice and a strong hand wrapped around the remaining portions of her breasts.  It was Howard, sneaking up on her.  She peered into his ear.  One hair sprang from the little pointy part.  She shoved her tongue in deep.  The one hair didn’t slow her down a bit.  Maybe sometime those old people would watch Stacy and Louisie Jr.  She needed time alone with Howard to feel his ear tufts grow.

Mary Stebbins

March 2005 available

The Ward

I make a perfect omelet, utterly perfect.  I want to show my mother.  She would appreciate it.  But she wouldn’t like this crash pad, she’d flip out.  I look around.  People are lying and sitting on mattresses on the floor, naked, half naked or mostly dressed, staring into space.  The scene looks like something from an exposé of a mental ward in some third world country.  The “residents” are totally wasted.

As I watch, Bill crawls over piles of mattresses and sticks his finger in Marsha’s twat and starts twiddling.  Marsha doesn’t appear to notice.  Marsha is naked and Bill is the only one in the room completely dressed.  It’s his place; perhaps he wants to look responsible.

I collected the eggs from the dumpster behind the Forsythe-Street Groceteria, 11 of them cracked, smashed and oozing into the box.  The twelfth was shattered on the bottom of the dumpster where I couldn’t reach it.  I found limp broccoli and a half-rotted onion.  A hunk of mushy potato and a ripped pepperoni pack with maybe 5 pieces of pepperoni left inside.  I stuck everything in Peter’s shirt (what a mess) and took it back to the crash pad and dredged out the shells.  Tossed it in a pan I found in the alley yesterday and cranked up the flame, staring into its blueness.  When I smell scorching, I come out of the blue—oh blue, sweet blue—to admire the omelet and wish for my mother.

No dishes or silverware here--so I plunge into the pan like an animal, burning my hands and mouth.  But I can’t eat much; cramps shrink my stomach.  I rip the rest in pieces and stick the pan on the floor.  “Food,” I holler.  No one budges.  “FOOD!”  I scream, so loud my throat hurts.

Bill continues twiddling Marsha, who lies so still I think she’s dead.  Peter, Penny, Christian and Simon crawl toward the plate of food.  Penny gets there first and crams half in her mouth.  Then Christian gets a hunk.  They each snatch some, but Penny gobbles the most.

Penny is a dyke and a heroin addict.  Everyone here is strung out on something.  Coke, Methedrine, heroin, uppers, downers and everything in-between.  With me, it’s acid.  I deal in order to buy but give away so much I barely break even.  Or don't.  I’m as messed as the rest, have no idea how I got here.  Perhaps Peter brought me.  I seem to recall him before this.  I was on the streets begging.  It’s cold in alleys and doorways in winter.  I had no coat.  The cold was sharp and bitter as my fingers and toes, then feet and hands went numb.  The hurting moved upward gradually, but the parts left behind stopped hurting.

Suddenly Marsha arches her back screams and gurgles.  I think Bill is strangling her, but then realize she’s having an orgasm.  Bill walks off sniffing his fingers and Marsha lies still again.  Her eyes flutter and close.  This is Bill’s place.  He pays the rent, lets the rest of us stay here.  Gets money selling drugs.  He’s older than everyone else.  A lot older.

Penny crawls over and touches my breast through Peter’s slimy half-opened shirt.  “Caitlynn,” she whispers.  She strokes, searches for my nipple.  Finds it and rolls it between her fingers.  Reaches for the buttons on my button-fly jeans.  I back off and look for Peter.  He’s out on the fire escape in his boxers, smoking a roach.  Penny’s okay, but I don’t want to have sex with her.  Unlike some of the others, I’m inclined toward partnership.  Heterosexual partnership.  I crawl out onto the fire escape and Peter hands me the roach—there’s hardly anything but papers left, but I take a toke.  It burns my throat.  I puke over the railing.  There goes my omelet.  I’ve been sick a lot lately. Getting skinny.

I feel another burning, a sharp pain, and a gush.  I’m bleeding, down there, from the crotch.  Bleeding hard and fast.  I bolt back through the window, tripping over Simon, Eric and Christian.  Stumble into the bathroom, leaving a trail of blood.  Sit on the toilet, lock the door, close my eyes.  The world is pouring out of me.  “Cait,” Peter hollers, “Open the door!”  I don’t.  I’m lost in a wash of pain.

Pain and blood.  More blood.  Niagara.  I think there can’t be that much blood inside me, but it keeps coming.  A banging.  Loud.  The door comes off and two men rush in.  I fight, scream, bite.  They order me to come out.  They are wearing uniforms.  The blood police.  When I won’t cooperate, when I keep biting, they wrap me in a blanket and put something over my face.  Something sweet. 

In a huge room full of beds with legs, Bellevue charity ward, they say, the blood police ask where my parents are.  I say I have none, that I’m an orphan.  I cringe when I say this and hope my mother won’t be struck down.

Peter, Eric and Christian come to give blood so I can have a transfusion.  Usually, they sell it for drug money, so this is a big sacrifice.  I thank them.  Some time has passed, they tell me, but it doesn’t seem like it.  It’s tomorrow.  Or the blood was yesterday.  Or something.  When I get out I might go home.  To my mother.  I don’t tell them that.

After they leave, I think I remember them saying I had been pregnant, and now I am empty.  A girl.  Did I ask if they were sure it was a girl?  Did they say yes?  I name her Darcy Caitlynn, after myself, turned backwards.  A little girl, perhaps, flickered and is gone. 

Mary Stebbins

March 2005 Available