MMW

markmurphywrites.com

Category: Flash Fiction

  • These Ancient Fields

    We bounced down a gravel road too far outside of town to jump out and walk back.  When the road smoothes out, I can hear the old men in the cab carrying a conversation.  Something about a water shed.  But mostly my cousin and I hold tight to the truck bed and keep our eyes squinted against the dust that catches up when we slow.  

    Our grandfather needs help tending to one of his fields, and I presume it’s more corn.  He promises to feed us and take us fishing afterwards.  There is rarely an exchange of money, but usually a hot meal.  Grandpa has six siblings, and they lived through events called dust bowl and depression.  Grandchildren are expected to help work the land with joy in their hearts.

    Working on pasture land feels good.  Pulling steel cables of barbed wire, cutting with metal shears, and towing fallen trees out of the creek.  I feel the raw strength in my developing muscles, shoring up fence line and handling heavy tools.  The sun is always beating down, but you can count on a breeze across the Kansas plains.  

    Working corn fields is a different experience.  The sun still beats down, but the stalks are high, and the fields usually sit low, closer to water.  The breeze doesn’t reach your sun-soaked body.  God made corn stalks tough too.  They need to stand up to the elements and insects, protecting the beautiful sweet corn inside each husk.  Sharp edges will cut right through your soft skin, so long pants and long sleeves are highly encouraged.  A handkerchief around the neck and leather gloves will also save you from lingering pain.  

    We turn off the gravel, settle into a soft dirt trail, and roll to a stop.  I duck and cover in the bed while the dust settles around us.  Grandpa is the first to emerge from the cab.  He chuckles to himself while walking to the tailgate, completely in his element among these ancient fields.  

    “Today, we need to clear a few rows closest to the river,” he says.  

    There’s a sideways glance between cousins.  We’re definitely down in the corn.  Grandpa uses his voice to make clearing a few rows sound simple.  In reality, my cousin and I will be bent over pulling bindweed and thistle from several acres of land.  The old men will walk through the field, speculating on the harvest still months away, and determining what sections of the pasture might need worked over again.  Once satisfied, they’ll retreat to the cab to sip hot coffee and cold water.  

    Grandpa drops the tailgate while we stretch our backs and legs.  I jump down onto the soft brown soil.  It smells familiar and welcoming, like being at home.  We’ll work all morning pulling weeds, cursing occasionally under our breath, but never complaining once to the man who brought us here.  We do it because it’s what we’re expected to do.  We do it because we respect our families who’ve done the same thing for generations before.  We do it because we love the earth and we love the man who brought us out to work these ancient fields.  

  • The Choice at High Camp

    An unsettling fog rolled over the mountains at night, turning tree branches into crystal chandeliers and freezing my windowpanes shut.  At least the snow had subsided.  I put on boots and stepped outside to check for an unobstructed flue, the fog chilling my bare legs and chest.  Clear flue, cleared to add fuel to the stove.  I wondered if even the smoke would be able to penetrate this fog?  

    I’d set out for my high camp on a mild and breezy Wednesday afternoon. The snow drifts and narrow trails were impassable this time of year with all but a snowmobile, and mine had been in pieces in the garage for the better part of two years now.  I liked snowshoeing into camp though, cold air filling my lungs, testing my legs on the winding ascent.  Besides, machines are unreliable in the freezing temperatures and wet snow.  

    A hair over three miles later and the A-frame was in site.  Plenty of game tracks on my way in, but nothing too close to the cabin.  Squirrels had nestled into the firewood shelter when they couldn’t break into the cabin.  No sign of humans tampering with the place or trying to run off with the split wood.  The start of a great long weekend.  

    As happens in the Rocky Mountain high country, a twenty-five percent chance for snow turned into a three-day dump.  I can’t say that I minded too much.  This was meant to be a retreat from the grind of work and the busy streets in town.  Hiking, reading, writing, and quiet.  The hiking mostly got replaced by shoveling, keeping a path cleared for the necessities:  The flue, the outhouse, and the firewood.  

    Now it’s a foggy Sunday morning.  I have enough rations to make the hike back down to the trailhead today, but if I stay another night, I’ll just go hungry in the morning.  The fire in the old stove is burning bright, the A-frame warm and cozy.  Choices, choices. Pack it up and set out for home at noon?  Stay stripped up here, fasting, listening for words of wisdom?  I don’t feel like getting dressed yet.  

  • Why We Go North

    I followed him down the stairs, watching his hunched shoulders and lowered head express more than words could say.  We both scanned the main floor for accessories he might have left behind.  I checked the outlets for a random cord and swept my boot under the couch, fishing for a stray magazine.  Nothing turned up, so it’s time to hit the road.  

    Dan stopped through my little backwoods hometown on his way north.  He and I had been friends for more than a decade now.  Meeting in college, egging each other into and out of bad decisions, roasting each other, laughing at our tragic relationships.  That’s partly what brought Dan here.  He was moving to Minnesota for reasons only he understood.  The air was better, the lakes were plentiful, he needed a change, he needed an adventure.  There was tragedy under it all.  

    Dan had been dating Jamie for several months, and it all seemed to be going well.  He talked about her perfectly shaped hands, manicured nails, soft touch.  I naturally laughed at his sensitivity.  It wasn’t long before he was talking about sharing his apartment.  It was in a better location, situated on a large park, an easy commute for them both.  All the practical reasons on the table, but Dan too afraid of my teasing to just say he was falling for her.  Then there was talk of engagement when it happened.  A traffic accident, and she was gone.  I went for the funeral and fled soon after.  My gut told me to spend more time with him, but my mind was too afraid of sharing the intimacy.  I just left.  

    And so Dan decided to go north.  Finding a tech job in Minneapolis was no different than finding a tech job in Dallas he said.  Air, lakes, change, and adventure were all positive and plausible alibis, though I’d argue smog and traffic in Minneapolis-Saint Paul wasn’t any better than smog and traffic in Dallas-Fort Worth.  But the process raised his shoulders and lifted his head again.  For a little while.  Until this morning.  

    Despite my general negativity and sarcastic view of life, Dan chose to come here.  He surrounded himself with my friends and family, and he received love.  My mom and sister were kind and attentive, talking with him or at him for hours. I took Dan out running and began to understand his heartache.  No part of my old self wanted to go north.  I didn’t care for long drives, and I didn’t want to take time off of work right now.  Me me me.  But then Dan came.  He showed his heart.  He accepted our support.  He was vulnerable.  He chose me.  

    I grabbed Dan by the shoulder and followed him out of the house.  It smelled of wet oak leaves as I locked the front door, and suddenly I was struck by how beautiful this day would be.  I swallowed hard and refused a tear.  As Dan started the car, I finally understood why we were going north.  

  • The Wrong Room

    The train rushes along with back-rattling turns, surfacing from Philly’s underground up to the overhead tracks of the Frankford Line.  I must ride through the gentrified suburbs of Northern Liberties and Fishtown before reaching Kensington.  I’m unfamiliar with parts this far north, at least from what I can remember.  There were plenty of nights I woke up in a parked train car, overhead lights at full tilt, sliding doors wide open, and the conductor calling, “End of the line!”

    My meetings aren’t court ordered, at least not yet.  I’m still trying to settle a DUI accusation, and the lawyer advised me to do a little voluntary AA time to smooth out the plea deal.  

    “It’s not impossible to work a deal as is.  But if you could attend a few meetings, and maybe see a counselor.  It would show good faith to the DA.”

    “I’ll do anything,” I say.

    “Listen, you have to stay completely off the police radar, too,” he says.

    “Not a problem,” I say.

    “If you keep showing up to court and providing information as soon as I ask for it, we’ll get this all worked out,” he says.

    “I just want to be done with the waiting and get on with the punishment,” I say.

    “Look bud, with your background and a little good faith, I think we can get the DA to plea down.  No promises,” he says.

    “Thank you,” I say, not really knowing what plea down means.

    The car screams to a halt, an acrid smell ever present.  It’s better than the smell during afternoon rush.  Sweat-soaked workers baked by the mid-day heat crowding each car.  Junkies slouched in the corner seats precariously guarding jars of unknown substances.  Three more stops.

    The platforms look decent up here, surrounded by buildings with modern facades.  Brightly lit restaurants and salons.  But lurching away from each station, the city tells a different tale.  Abandoned lots, boarded windows, and a rusty film covering everything in sight.

    I’ve got an address on my phone and vague directions from the AA online directory.  When meetings are in church basements or dedicated meeting halls, finding the room is usually easy.  Look for a group of smokers.  Always use the side entrance.  Don’t bother anyone not attending the meeting.  Finding a room in the city is a different story. We’re charity cases, the broken masses, and we need to stay as hidden as possible. Anonymous.  Regardless, I’m grateful for the hospitality of so many unknown people.

    Walking down the stairs onto Frankford Av, the first thing I notice is how the locals are moving.  Some are dressed to hustle, wearing high-shined knock-offs, looking for wandering outsiders like me.  But the majority are stooped, eyes fixed on their next step, covered in layers of overcoats and various head-coverings, shuffling by unnoticed.  I want to look confident, but without sticking out.  Too late.  I knew polished leather boots and crisp jeans were bad ideas.  I catch a lot of second glances, and a few thirds.

    I’m trying to keep cool while frantically scanning for addresses on doors and storefronts.  Peeling window stickers are hard to read, and every brick and concrete wall seems to have ten entrances.  2828 Frankford Avenue.  My GPS says to enter the building on the left.  I look up and spy some AA-looking dudes heading into an alcoved doorway on the left, where my phone assures me I’ll find sobriety.  I decide to follow them in.  

    There are no working lights inside.  Only the sun, which snakes through the overhead tracks, is shining through the front window.  No sign of flooring, just dusty concrete.  A cleared off countertop that could have been an old checkout to the left, a man standing behind it staring at me.  People sitting on the floor.  I don’t know what to do.  I begin making a move for the opening toward the back, which seems to lead toward a room filled with more people. Are they all lying on the floor?  My mind is spinning.  The smell is so foreign to me that I’m speechless.

    “Hey pal, what are you looking for?” the man behind the counter asks.

    “I’m here for the meeting,” I reply.

    “Not here,” he says and begins walking right at me.  I break into a heavy sweat.  “Follow me.”

    I immediately move back out into the street, where the man is leading me a couple doors down.  I can already smell the welcoming scent of burnt coffee.

    “This is the meeting room.  Don’t go back where we were.  I might not be there next time,” he says, already walking away.

    “Thank you,” I say.  I doubt the words reach him.  

    Time to regroup, take a deep breath of fresh city air.  I need to get into the room before the chairperson calls the meeting to order.  There are more unwritten rules of AA than of baseball, and walking into a meeting late is grounds for unwanted attention.  If only I could stop sweating.  

  • Push on Three

    Push push push!  Oh no.  The bar’s coming down.  Okay, try bouncing it back up with your chest.  Use the momentum.  Push push push.  Shoot.  Okay, quick rest.  Is there anybody in here who can help me?  I haven’t seen anyone in a while.  Let me just rest and try it again.  

    Stupid.  Why did you lift heavy tonight?  Why didn’t you call Brooks to come too?  Okay, that’s enough rest.  Let’s try again.  On three, push hard, like a liftoff from the rack.  Careful to keep it over my chest.  Deep breaths.  One… two… three!  Huhunnnn.  Bounce it.  Psshh.  Shoot.

    Okay, think.  “A little help.”  Maybe someone came in.  Maybe they’re around the corner.  Could they hear that?  “A little help!”  I don’t see anyone.  Don’t hear anyone.  Shoot.  Two ninety-five on the Smith machine.  No need for the rack guards.  It’s the Smith machine.  You wouldn’t ever bench this without a spotter.  Shoot!  It’s slipping toward my neck.

    Hold the bar!  Push a little.  Not too much.  You need to rest.  Only push with the left hand for now.  Breath.  Breath.  Just breath.  Options.  Lift it up.  One more try.  Or try sliding off the bench.  Move fast and maybe you can beat the bar down before it catches your neck.  Or wait.  Someone will come.  I’m not the only one who uses the gym at night.  What time do the apartment people clean this place?  Push with the right, rest the left.  “A little help!”

    I’m alone.  No one is coming.  Shoot!  The bar slid again.  Dude!  Focus.  You have to hold this thing away from your neck!  Must!  You are running out of options to push it up at this angle.  Oh man, the bar isn’t slipping, I’m sliding down the bench.  Brace my feet!  Maybe I can push and slide out before it crushes my neck?

    “Help!”  Louder, dude.  “Help!  HELP!”  Okay.  Wait a few.  Did anyone hear that?  “HELP!”  That’s not helping your grip.  Push more with your feet!  “HELP!”  I can’t hold this much longer.  Breath.  Breath.  Think.  Okay, dude.  Decision time.  Nobody’s coming.  We’re going to have to try and slide off the bench.  One big push, everything you’ve got at an upward angle.  Legs and arms.  The force will hold the bar against the machine.  You’ll quickly turn your head left and bail to the left, push hard as hell with your right arm.  

    Take a few quick breaths.  On three, push hard on the right, bail left.  Hard right push bail left.  One shot!  You’ve got this!  YOU’VE GOT THIS!  One… two… THREE!  

  • Unbelievable Backstory

    Crafting a believable backstory is the hardest part for me.  My brain refuses to make the traverse from spirited high school cheerleader turned snarky high school teacher without the words sounding forced.  It sounds like I’m trying too hard and getting lost along the way.  Sometimes getting lost creates the most beautifully unexpected stories.  

    Last night, beautifully unexpected story was not what I got.  The editor called at eight a.m. sharp.

    “How’s the story coming along?” she asked.

    “Good,” I replied.

    “I didn’t receive an email from you,” she said.

    “I didn’t send one,” I said.

    She does not respond.

    “I mean, I have a draft to send, but it’s just,” I said.

    “Your deadline was midnight,” she said.

    “I can send it by noon,” I said.

    She does not respond.

    “I’ll send it as soon as I can.  Definitely before noon,” I said.

    She does not respond.  She does end the call.

    My morning somehow seems bleaker, as if losing sleep worried about this call wasn’t enough.  But I’m stuck with an unbelievable backstory.  How did the cheerleader decide to become a teacher?  Maybe she loves being involved in school activities and the feelings of team spirit.  Boring.  Maybe she loves kids, but is nowhere near ready for kids of her own.  Cliche.  Maybe she loves young men.  Now there’s a twist.  But writing a featured article for Teachers Appreciation Week in Parent magazine about the pedophile ex-cheerleading teacher seems like a bad call.  I could let the editor decide.

    In three hours and change, I need to have this figured out.  Fifteen hundred words, give or take, depending on the length of the dialogue.  Dialogue.  Dialogue will buy me less words if I can come up with a few clever exchanges.  Desperate older male teacher offering ex-cheerleader painfully obvious advice in hopes of a connection.  Gossipy female coworker over-sharing about relationship issues during ex-cheerleader’s only free period.  I can drag those out for sure and turn ex-cheerleader into a lovably snarky high school teacher worthy of Teachers Appreciation Week praise.  Boom.  

    Now about that backstory.

  • Morning Rest

    The curtains have parted just enough to see darkness.  It’s time to rollover to the other side, give my achy shoulder a rest, cover my head with a pillow, and try to fall back asleep.  Some mornings this method works.  Sometimes, it’s useless, my mind sprinting with thoughts better left unsaid.  But I’ve promised myself to be positive this season, starting each day with at least three thoughts of gratitude before getting out of bed.  I’m grateful for my faith, keeping me focused on the most important things in life.  I’m grateful for my job, getting to do something I’m passionate about today.  I’m grateful for my health, especially today, my rest day.  I wonder who opens the gym on Thursdays, Jill or Dan?  I guess the mind wants to sprint this morning, so let’s get up and get the coffee brewing.  

    The street lamps shine through my front windows, casting a strong enough glow to wander from the bedroom to the kitchen without turning on any lights.  I forced myself to set up the coffee maker before bed last night, but never set the timer.  I don’t want to jinx the elusive chance of sleeping in.  Push the brew button, bold setting, five minutes until warm satisfaction.  

    I like to write before reading, or more importantly, before turning on the phone, television, or computer.  Clear-headedness and creativity come in the still silence of my living room.  Poem?  Short story?  Quick blog?  I pick up the pen, put it to paper, and let my thoughts take over.  This is where the sprinting part of my mind actually helps.  The less I think about what needs to be written, the more freely narrative flows in just the right way.  I like to get the main points on paper, cursive style writing is fastest, and then I’ll stop to think.  I’m not foolish enough to believe that all writing is better with paper and pen, with the time it takes to transfer everything over to the computer, and the inadvertent edits made in that translation.  So, I crack open the laptop and really let the words fly, after my mind has finished the initial free-flow and is ready to rush words onto the screen.  

    Somedays, the coffee waits for thirty minutes or more as I wrestle with the keyboard.  Today, I’m ready when the brewing is done.  My thoughts and words were on the gym, the interesting conversations we have in the wee hours of the morning.  I live for my time counseling teens everyday at school.  But listening to adults in their micro-breaks between sets is often more complex.  Probably because I’m the first human they’ve talked to that day, but maybe because I’m the only person they’ll really talk to that day.  For the regular gym rats, the people I interact with at least a few times each week, the stories feel surprisingly honest.  D.J. wants to be heard, not just seen for his hulking physique.  Dan wants to finish college debt-free, but I’m not sure he loves computer science.  Jill wants to inspire the world, and she holds the early morning desk job in order to create all afternoon.  And there’s so many more.  I simply listen.  Truly listen.  I don’t need to be heard, because sometimes, that would only hold us back, hurting us both.  

  • Morning Manager

    Dark streets fly by, barely visible through the foggy windshield.  My next apartment will definitely have a garage.  My next car will definitely have better defrost.  Or maybe if I had the time to warm up the engine?  At least I’m awake and on time today.

    Can’t believe I agreed to this morning manager position, waking up two hours earlier just to open the gym.  And for what?  A lousy two dollars per hour raise plus the extra two work hours when I open.  Worst of all, I don’t even get to see Jill anymore.  She’s so cool.  I have no idea how she’s always so perky, especially with this early morning crowd.  Like Dante Jones, D.J., who annoyingly waits for me on the curb half the mornings, as if he can’t wait in his car like all the other meatheads.  I’m not even late, yet there he his.  I’ll just ignore him.  Not today, D.J.

    These philosophy classes are killing me, but at least the professor posts his lectures online.  My notes never seem to keep up with his thoughts, so luckily I can listen to him again at work before class.  Luckily, ha ha.  It’ll be lucky if I make it through this class.  Why does a computer science degree require philosophy, anyway?  Does the university really need more of my money?  If I can work another eight hours this week, and twenty four the next two in a row, I should be able to cover all of my expenses for the rest of this semester.  Unless I want to eat.  Chinese food sounds good.

    Most of the morning crowd leaves me alone, with a few polite hellos, and the occasional request to update a membership.  The quiet helps me prepare for school.  Plus, the evening shift cleans the place before leaving, so I only have a few towels to fold. Nothing difficult.  I wonder what Jill does in here before the rest of the morning shift rolls in?  There is this one dude, Alex.  He sort of has a face that makes me want to punch him, but what a chill guy.  On the days we cross paths, he always stops bye to ask about my life.  I think he actually listens, like he might care.  He had some great advice about student loan consolidation and deferred payment.  It really saved me last semester.  I notice him getting a pretty decent workout in, even though he holds conversations with a few of the other regulars.  According to his membership profile, he lives near campus.  I should ask him what he does.  Maybe computer science is the wrong choice.

    Anyway, five hours and some change to go, then two classes this afternoon.  Philosophy and cloud computing.  A match made in heaven.  I’m pretty comfortable with AWS already, so at least I’ll get an easy A there.  And what is D.J. staring at?  Should I go ask him what his problem is?  No, it would only end up hurting us both.

  • Morning Routine

    The streets radiate a sheen from the overhead street lamps on this still cold morning.  Only a few cars lurk around in the dark, and I can’t help but wonder where they’re going.  Heading to work, or home from work?  Homeless, or wanderers?  Or are they lucky like me, destined for a morning workout session before the motivation evaporates with the frost?

    I like to open up the gym, sometimes waiting on the curb for a morning manager to unlock the front door and fire up the lights.  Jill is the chipper one, usually greeting me with a friendly hello and a quick query on how I’m feeling.  Dan is the opposite, and I’m lucky if he even acknowledges my presence, too busy being brainwashed by the earbuds jammed in his skull.  But I don’t mind either way.  The morning is my time, and no one can take it from me.

    The smell of worn metal weight trees and rubberized matting makes me feel nostalgic.  There was a time in my life when I was an athlete, good enough to play in college, too scared to go through with it.  Back then, I resented the weight room.  I’d rather be on the field, or on the mat, or hanging with the boys, or my girl.  What I wouldn’t give to have the wisdom I do now and try those years all over again.  But it’s chest and tri day.

    There are a few morning regulars, and we pass nodding glances at each other.  Most of us listen to music while we lift.  I do it more to drown out the grunting of the guy who never figured out he was scaring away any chance of connecting with someone at the gym, even though he desperately wants to.  I also listen so people won’t try to make small talk.  Except for Alex.  He’s a Monday, Wednesday, Friday kind of guy, so I typically catch him a few times a week.  He’s big and strong, but unassuming, and always has a smile on his face.  You know the kind of guy.  Privileged.  Seems like he’s never had a bad day.  I don’t want to like him, but he really looks at me when he asks how my yesterdays have been.  Then he listens, he hears me out, and he even has advice worth taking note of.  More than half the time, I don’t even think to ask about his life because he’s got me so excited about my own.  Sometimes, I think to myself how much better life might be if we all had a few Alex’s on our team.  What if we even acted like Alex?  My friends wouldn’t even know what to do if I came at them like that!  I’d love to see the look on my boy Phil’s face if I asked him about his feelings.  But it’s Thursday, and the cable pull-down machine is open.

    I notice Dan, head down at the front desk, neck at an irregular angle, screen light twinkling in his eyes.  I want to share some wisdom with him, drag him over here to the pull-down machine with me.  I realize it would only hurt us both.