This Human Condition: A Collection of Flash and Micro Fiction

by Petal Pusher Press

  * * * * *

  Locked In – Mary Jo Schneider

  When she realized the scream was coming from her own mouth, it shocked her. It sounded as though it had come from a wounded animal, nothing like herself. She fell back against the stairs, fighting to keep her balance so she could get away. “Shut up! SHUT UP,” he said fiercely, pressing against her. He grabbed her hair hard and slammed her head against the step. She felt the cold metal strip, the rubber tread, and the burn on her skin.

  “I’m pregnant,” she said, trying to pull away. But he held on tightly.

  “Let me see,” he answered, pulling himself up; towering over her as she tried to move in any direction. She was locked in under his left hand.

  He had followed her off the bus a block and a half away. He’d seemed innocent enough sitting across from her; head leaning against the window at the back; eyes closed. As she stepped off the lower tread, she noticed him from her peripheral vision. He pulled himself up using the metal pole and moved quickly to slip out just before the doors closed. Was he following her? She tried glancing back unobtrusively and felt the adrenaline as it ran through her. He seemed to hang back. She walked faster, trying to hum a song in her mind. Laura Nyro yes that was good, “Amber was the color…winter was the…” How did it go again? “Luie, you got a thing about you…” She sang it ever so softly trying to comfort herself and stepped up her pace to move more quickly than he, but she could still hear his step on the pavement behind her. She looked back again to see how far away he was—still about twenty-five feet back. She must have imagined it. He probably wasn’t following her.

  As she neared Buena Vista Avenue, which was neither pleasant, nor a view, she calmed because home was in sight. She could finally get off the Steele Avenue block, where she could get onto her own street and finally through her own apartment door. She walked as confidently and quickly as she could up the sidewalk. Relief. She moved to open the door and suddenly he was there right behind her so close she could feel his body and his breath against her neck. “Don’t scream,” he said his voice low and tense sounding. His hand closed over her own on the doorknob, and he pushed her in. Her face felt hot, and behind her eyes the nerve endings throbbed. He pushed her up against the mailboxes. She tried to pull away and got up two steps, but he pushed her down on her back, so hard she could hear the smack of her bones.

  “But I am pregnant,” she said again. She sounded almost like a little girl to herself. It did no good to try to pull away.

  He pulled her skirt up to look. “I won’t hurt you,” he said and started to unbuckle his black belt, the one holding up his blue workpants. His black leather jacket made a scrunching noise contrasted against the sound of his zipper coming down.

  “NO. NO,” she said and screamed out again.

  “I said SHUT UP!” He tried holding her mouth and unzipping his pants at the same time. She slipped out from under a little and tried to get up on her elbow. She managed to pull herself up one step, scraping her elbow through her jacket, and pounded her fist on the apartment door of the first level. She felt stunned that he allowed her to pound and pound; suddenly he jumped off her like she was a hot burner, turned, and ran out the front door. She got up as fast as she could and ran up the steps crying hysterically. Her face burned and her body shook so hard her teeth clattered in her mouth. She banged on her own door, “Help me!”The tears slid down her face and dripped onto her jacket.

  Where was he? Why hadn’t he come out to help her? Finally her husband opened the door, a towel wrapped around him, another in his hand drying the ends of his dripping wet hair. Steam came from behind him, seeping out from the bathroom. “Where were you??!” She screamed it.

  “In the shower. What happened?” She couldn’t figure out what he was thinking.

  “A man followed me off the bus. He tried to …he tried to…” she sat down on the rocking chair and put her head in her hands and the tears came down, hot against her searing skin. “He tried to rape me.”

  “Where is he?” He started out the door, no shoes, no clothes, just clad in his towel.

  “Gone!”

  He came around to face her in the chair and looked down at her exposed legs, covered in black tights. “Why did you wear that short skirt?” He asked her as though she had started it all. “You shouldn’t wear dresses that short.”

  “What?” She stopped in mid-cry and stared at him.

  “I said you just shouldn’t wear dresses that short.”

  * * * * *

  Passing Goodbyes – Jayme Whitfield

  He stood there, waiting for the light to change, checking first his watch, then his MP3 player. He was beautiful, chiseled muscles highlighted by a sheen of sweat, tank top revealing more than it hid, brown eyes rimmed with dark, sensual lashes.

  I imagined that he approached me and we spoke, hit it off, made plans. We went out for coffee, had dinner, went to the movies, spent a weekend in the Poconos. We loved, fully and deeply, attentive and passionate. He was promoted and we celebrated, then moved in together. I changed jobs and we both worked too much. We lost sight of our dreams, our future, ourselves, each other. Coming in one afternoon, he found me on the couch, tears and tissues telling him what I couldn’t. Empty closets and little goodbyes throughout the house, he had to get out, to run.

  And so we were back, him standing across from me at the stoplight, checking his pulse, eager to move on. Me, on my way to meet you for dinner, wondering how to tell you it was over. Us, two strangers passing in the late afternoon sunlight, a lifetime of what-ifs unsaid between us.

  * * * * *

  ANGER

  Anybody can become angry, that is easy; but to be angry with the right person, and to the right degree, and at the right time, and for the right purpose, and in the right way, that is not within everybody’s power, that is not easy.

  Aristotle

  * * * * *

  Heartless – Stacy Reckard

  Force me from my home, shatter my dreams, butcher my heart, snuff out my soul, please, feel free. It’s not like I’ll do anything about it. I am weak, a coward, a lost little girl who has looked to you for guidance for the past decade. Trust and admiration, respect and my deepest love, given freely, only to be betrayed and defeated by the one I held most dear.

  I clung to every small shred of hope you gave, hung on your every kind word no matter how few and far between, only to be crushed anyway. How could you use the word “love” so often, only to take it all back so quickly? Is that even possible? Stop loving someone overnight? I wish I could do that like you did. Oh, the bliss of not having a conscience. To be able to destroy another human being without a second thought. What a lovely feeling it must be, so cold and empty, heartless and cruel.

  Time will heal, memories will fade, new dreams will soon take the place of the ones I had with you. I left the house today. Went for lunch with a friend. It was nice to feel human again. I shaved my legs, curled my hair and wore make-up for the first time since I last saw you. Outwardly I made it a point to look like I’d recovered nicely, but inside I’m still dying. I’ll go out again this weekend, in my best outfit, with perfect hair and make-up, because sooner or later I’ll start to feel again, and if I look good, maybe I’ll feel good too.

  * * * * *

  Raw – Jayme Whitfield

  Your disapproval washes over me, my words silenced by your glare, effective as duct tape. Censure wraps its icy fingers around my chest, piercing, squeezing, deadly. Air rushes past my lips, desperate to escape the sudden heat welling up within me, its telltale burn suffusing my skin. I hate this outward display, the flush of my skin, the sweat on my brow.

  I had no doubt that you would see it.

  “You should be ashamed!”

  Your words strike me, their sharp edges flaying my soul. My fists clench and tears threaten to rain down, shimmering amongst my lashes. In hushed t
ones, my eyes trained on the floor in a desperate attempt to disguise my hate, I answer you.

  “I am not ashamed.” No, it isn’t shame that fuels my blush, but pure, white-hot anger.

  Silence hangs thickly between us, broken only by the far away sounds of the others in the room. A chair scrapes the floor; someone muffles a cough. Those who still surround us have all averted their eyes, their newly purchased volumes clutched to their chests protectively, as if they’re afraid you will steal them. Perhaps they think you’ll burn them, right here in the middle of the book store. I notice that the crowd has thinned significantly. Many of the customers have fled to the safety of the stacks. The small chime over the door rings and I turn in time to see the exodus of those who’d been at the back of the line.

  The fire of my anger begins to sputter. I’ve never liked being mad and can’t sustain it for very long. I know this stand-off needs to end, but I can’t see a way to shake your hate-filled focus. You are like a wild dog on a bone. Your nostrils flare and your lips part, a fleck of spittle dropping from their corner as you prepare to speak again.

  “Sir, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  I look up in surprise at this unknown voice. Had someone called the police? How had this officer materialized beside you, his hand resting gently on your forearm, his voice tender understanding clad with sheets of steel? My eyes are wide as I watch him escort you out, pausing by the door to retrieve your picket sign before sending you on your way.

  A glance over your shoulder tells me I haven’t seen the last of you.

  “Wow! That guy was a total nut-job. Are you okay?” This voice comes from the crowd- a young man, a college student by the looks of him.

  I’m shaken, but I laugh it off.

  “I’m fine…I’m fine. I guess he didn’t like my book…”

  My words trail off into the rumbling laughter of the remaining customers, who, in a showing of amazing resilience, put the unpleasant incident behind them and begin once again to hold out their books for my suddenly shaky signature.

  * * * * *

  GUILT

  The greatest incitement to guilt is the hope of sinning with impunity

  Marcus Tullius Cicero

  * * * * *

  Everything Happens For A Reason – Rebecca Coffey

  In this alternate reality, Carl Jung has a rural route, which is good. The transition from Zurich 1905 to Connecticut 2010 has left his stomach too upset for him to drive in traffic. And even if he doesn’t toss cookies, his judgment is iffy, given his general impatience with his rich wife. Life.

  “Another day of excursions, dear? Too busy to mythologize the garbage?” Emma had asked this morning.

  “Nag, nag, nag,” Carl had thought. “Like I’m hiking the Alps again.”

  He wasn’t. He isn’t. Now he is creating alternate realities, reaching for self-knowledge. He is inviting his unconscious to intrude into his conscious world, letting what is inside of him re-create what is outside of him. It’s what he has just done, and that explains why, at this very moment, he is not a leading early 20th century psychiatrist. Instead he is an early 21st century school bus driver. He is in Connecticut. It is autumn.

  “I can go with this flow,” Carl smiles as he wipes away the fog that his coffee is depositing on the bus’s windshield.

  The sky is drizzling a cool rain. Through the windshield, Carl sees trees glow with color; beauty and kindness are everywhere. But then, wouldn’t you know, he watches as something goes wrong. Damn. The remaining green leaves on one tree’s lower branches start getting smothered by evil red ones in the branches higher up. In an animalistic impulse to shed useless weight in advance of battle, Carl tosses his coffee cup out the window. This, evidently, is the kind of reality where children needing a ride to school need protection from more than rain.

  “Everything happens for a reason,” Carl thinks as he navigates his empty bus towards the first driveway on his route. A lone child trembles at her mother’s side. Sally Greenhoe, the little darling says her name is as she climbs the bus’s stairs. She wears a plain white dress under her slicker. Her blonde hair is tied back in a virgin-blue ribbon. She is pretty; the girls who want extra protection often are.

  Once the bus door has closed again, Carl feels no need to drive right away. He grins for the full minute she takes to settle into the middle seat on the bus’s back bench. He savors every tiny gesture. She waves to her mom, wriggles free of her book bag, brushes off her skirt. She places a red apple on her lap. That fruit is so big, so luscious and unspoiled, it could be the first apple ever, the best apple, the very apple that God intended Carl Jung himself to eat. Or so Carl thinks.

  Sally’s mother knocks on the door of the bus, wanting to ask whether anything is wrong. Carl winks at her conspiratorially; she, no doubt, is a manifestation of his usual Swiss concern for timeliness. When he shifts the bus into gear, the transmission makes a startling, deep growl; the gears of fate are moving profoundly.

  Driving, and looking to his left, he sees a boy at the end of his driveway. Timmy Holland. Carl doesn’t stop, and he doesn’t stop for Amy Zuckerman, either.

  With their mothers shouting at him, Carl rounds a tricky curve, and then swerves abruptly to avoid colliding with other children and mothers, who begin shouting, some belligerently. Some chase him.

  Sure now that Little Sally Greenhoe was the only innocent needing extra protection, Carl accelerates to a noisy intersection that is an external representation of his bad temper. That intersection marks the end of the rural route. Crossing it without pausing, he leaves everyone in pursuit to the mercy of oncoming traffic.

  Carl Jung runs four stoplights before pulling into the drive-through lane of the Perfick Fish-’N’-Chips, where he orders fried scallops to share with Little Sally. She can’t eat even a bite. She is crying too hard.

  “Mommy,” is all she can say.

  “Nag, nag, nag,” Carl thinks.

  But, you know? Her tears are a manifestation of his sorrow.

  So, gently urging her to “Suit yourself,” and leaving a few scallops on top of her lunchbox, Carl returns to the driver’s seat. He shifts the bus into first gear again, and once again fate rumbles momentously. Carl decides to take Sally someplace where he can keep her safe not only from rain and trees, but from everything. Her crying. Her mother. His driving, heh.

  He takes a map out of the glove compartment, unfolds it, reads it. And as he reads, a lone, golden leaf floats onto the bus’s wet windshield, landing just out of reach of the left wiper. There is no escaping its presence or its stare. Wind, a manifestation of the collective male urge to effect speedy, horrible, irreversible change, fails to send it tumbling onto asphalt.

  Still crying, Little Sally has begun banging on the rear window of the bus. Strangers are gesturing to her instructions on how to open the emergency exit. Other strangers dial cell phones. Hearing a siren, Carl drives toward the exit of the Perfick Fish-’N’-Chips’ lot. Only now he drives carefully. Sally’s school is down the road, a few miles to the left. With the wet leaf still plastered where he’d rather it not be, he turns left, going only when and where the leaf lets him.

  When he pulls into the school parking lot and opens the bus door, Sally grabs her red apple and runs for her life. It starts raining like hellfire, and the leaf is pummeled out of existence. Carl hears a second police siren. He hears a third. His stomach starts complaining. Maybe a transition to another reality is starting. Maybe he’s feeling queasy from the scallops. Maybe he is a scallop, and the scallop is him.

  Carl Jung hopes that he’s headed back to Zurich, and that when he gets there he will still be famous. That and that his wife will still be rich, even if she is Emma.

  * * * * *

  3 A.M. – Rachel Wall

  It’s three in the morning and I’ve just hung up with you. My tears are still drying on my cheeks, and though they no longer fall I ache for you
. I am torn in two directions; the first is to love you even more for having shared with me the things you’ve left unsaid until now…especially the guilt you’ve felt yet haven’t spoken of - guilt that rightfully should belong to no one save me. The second is the urge to wrap you tightly in my arms and hold you until my love overcomes all of your pain.

  The knowledge that you suffered those hurts and aches made me weep quietly as we spoke. In the dark I closed my eyes and imagined my hand sweeping across your soul, pulling with it all of your sadness like so many cobwebs. I wanted to heal you. I wanted you to be at peace. Knowing that I cannot take away your pain, no matter how much I may want to, is almost too much. Knowing that you’ll try to be stoic, pretend nothing affects you, pretend that you’re okay, is worse.

  As hard as it was for me to do, I told you the truth tonight. I don’t deserve happiness, and happiness is what you give me. I feel so unworthy of you - and so completely unworthy of your love.

  I know that I shouldn’t love you, shouldn’t want to be with you - and yet the thought of walking away from you…my God…just to write it is too painful even to contemplate. I wish I could hold up my feelings in some tangible way like a painting or a photograph and show you how I felt when you quietly whispered to me of those things you shouldn’t think about… of holding my hand…of me cooking for you as you sit at the table and wait for your plate or of watching a movie with me, curled up on the couch arm in arm. I think of those things too, and my shame is there - always…and it’s always the reason I keep those feelings locked inside of me. Shame is the reason why I don’t tell you about the thoughts I have of spending the day in the woods with you beneath a canopy of leaves, of making love to you in a place that is ours and ours alone. I don’t tell you because I shouldn’t want those things with you. I shouldn’t desire you, I shouldn’t ache for the feel of my palm against yours.