On the Hunt for Tales

amidst the urban jungle of Brooklyn

Greetings friends,

I’ve been interested in flash fiction lately. I’ve posted some here and here. For those of you who don’t know, flash fiction is a brief narrative, i.e. short, short stories. A sort of cross between a poem and a short story, with a concise structure that demands brevity while offering a complete narrative. A single moment or theme on the island of time that reaches beyond the moment. An opening into eternity. Not unlike a photograph.

The recommended word count for flash fiction typically ranges from 300 to 1,000 words. However, some flash stories can be as few as six words.

"For Sale: Baby shoes. Never Worn." - Attributed to Ernest Hemingway.

So… I prowled the mean streets of my borough the other day, contemplating the prompt Kathy Fish offered on her Stack:
Write three paragraphs. Begin each paragraph with the same phrase. No longer than 300 words.

I wanted a story to come to me, pass through me as if I were a mere conduit of divine whispers, the way Bob Dylan was for Like a Rolling Stone. But Freddy reminded me that I’m not Bob Dylan and that I’m too lazy, too controlling, and not creative enough to deal with the constraints of flash fiction.

And so I rode the train to godforsaken neighborhoods and listened to the sounds pulsating through the veins of the streets, the laughter echoing from brownstone stoops, the sizzle of street vendors cooking up delicacies from around the world, the artists crafting masterpieces on street corners, hoping to prove Freddy wrong.

There are lots of stories out there waiting to be unearthed — stories of resilience, survival, hopes, dreams, despair, and death. I’ll get to all of them eventually, if not in this life, then in the next one.

Meanwhile, this is what I came up with, so far.

He knows it's time to wake up even before he's fully awake. The mattress suddenly feels weightless under the bones of his spine. But it’s the smell of Mexican dark roast wafting from the kitchen that stirs him into consciousness. He can no longer tolerate the divine brew, but he still loves the way she prepares it -- praying over the beans first, then manually grinding them, then watching the water boil in the cezve until the dark elixir spills over its brim onto the white stovetop.

He knows all the tenets of mindfulness, having meditated for over three decades. The “being in the moment and seeing the world in a grain of sand” thing sounded good when he was younger, mainly as a distraction or an excuse not to do the work that mattered. But now, at 89, the pain in his gums, the hurting joints, and the clogged arteries make the art of noticing a luxury he can no longer afford.

He knows he will have to die someday and is almost ready to accept it. But she, ten years younger, started taking piano lessons in January, practicing every day, as if melodies and harmonies could protect her from the cruelty of time. Leaving her here alone would be an act of cowardice. So, he shuffles into the kitchen and stands behind her, silently, smelling her hair and watching the water boil in the long-handled pot.

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’Til next time
ak

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