FLASH FICTION: Eduardo

Blue Ocean Panorama

I was the only survivor of flight WC350.

The lady next to me on the plane had—I’m not sure. Her eyes watered constantly. They moved constantly, too.

“I was an English teacher in the 60s. I don’t remember all of my students, of course.”

“I remember Eduardo.”

“He was quiet. Not shy. He was melancholy. A melancholy child. Is there anything more thought-provoking?”

“Eduardo was a good student. A good boy. A nervous boy. I touched his shoulder—once.”

“He wouldn’t eat with anyone. He’d take his lunchbox … and stand in a corner of the room, facing the corner.”

“One day, I came up behind him. As he stood facing the corner. I didn’t want to startle him. I looked over his shoulder.”

“And he turned around. Eduardo…”

“His heart fell down. A jar fell down. And a spoon.”

“Paste. He’d been eating paste. He’d been given paste, to eat. In his lunchbox.”

Her eyes watered onto her lap.

“You look so much—you remind me of him. You have the same way about you. Something … melancholy.”

She leaned in. Tears dropped onto my shoulder.

“What’s troubling you?”

A propeller blew through one side of the plane and out the other.

I felt drunk.

*

The news explained everything. I watched it constantly, in the hospital.

The debris field was bigger than the Red Sea.

“How did it happen?”

“How did you survive?”

“How does it feel to be the only survivor?”

I was a celebrity. Finally.

It took them a month to find the pilot.

His name was Eduardo.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

Rolli’s latest book is The Sea-Wave

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CHILDREN’S STORY: Excellent Pets

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Psst…

If you’d like to read the full illustrated text of my latest children’s story, “Excellent Pets” (from the May/June issue of Spider), you can do so right here.

NEWS: Spider

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I have a short story in the May/June issue of SPIDER, out now. It’s about what wonderful pets tigers, dinosaurs and grizzly bears make. You’ll like it.

                                                                                               

Rolli’s latest book is The Sea-Wave

Buy him a coffee.

FLASH FICTION: Somewhere Else

7

We were somewhere else. The walls. We were living, in the walls.

If I moved, my mother’s voice, her whisper, grew serious. The instant I was still, she resumed her listening.

I was uncertain why she listened. For fear of what, she would even quit breathing.

I too began to listen.

One evening…

The door. It opened. We both heard it. Then the tread, the cautious tread of someone. She was stiller, my mother, and more silent, than when she slept.

Her heartbeat. I could feel my mother’s heart, in her harm. It beat faster, as the footsteps moved closer. They were soon so close…

It quivered. My mother’s heart quivered.

Someone touched the wall. I felt her hand, my mother’s hand, slide over my mouth, and hold it. Her forehead touch my own.

Her tears filled my ear. They ran, at last, down my back.

And the wall cracked open.

                                                                                                                                                          

Rolli’s latest book is The Sea-Wave

Buy him a coffee.

 

FLASH FICTION: Adventures with Writers

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Every writer I’ve ever met was scared to death.

“What are you so terrified of?” I asked Gordon (a writer).

“The world is terrifying,” he said.

“Could you be more specific?” I asked him.

His eyes got wider.

“I could if I had some paper,” he said.

We crossed the street.

“Coffee time?” I said.

Gordon grabbed my arm.

“I would kill for a coffee,” he said.

I could tell by the way his eyes quivered that he meant it.

*

Two men live below me, in the basement suite. They don’t go anywhere. Their conversations float up through the floor vents.

“Writing,” the one said, “is dying. Fast. By the end of the month, we’ll have no idea what to chisel into its headstone.”

“Bullshit,” said the other man. “It’s dying slowly. We have a few good years left. Then a few not so good years.”

I can sometimes smell marijuana coming up through the vents.

*

A man was lying in the street. I rolled down my window.

“Where are you headed?” I asked.

It was my friend Richard. Author of Payday Poems.

“Do you need a ride?”

Richard sat up. He took off his glasses. He cleaned them on his shirt. His shirt was filthy. He slipped his glasses back on. He lay back down.

“No,” he said.

I was about to drive off when my friend sat back up. He waved his hand. I rolled the window back down.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Almost midnight,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said, lying back down.

I waited a few minutes. Then I rolled up my window and drove off.

*

Words floated up from the floor.

“I need peanuts, swim trunks, golf balls and coffee.”

“You can get all that at the bookstore. I need to go anyway.”

“What book are you getting?”

“I just need some hand lotion.”

No one said anything for over an hour.

“Why is it still 7:00?”

“I was wondering about that, too.”

I couldn’t even smell marijuana.

*

Richard’s funeral was a sad occasion. Two or three friends went. His publisher went, but left early. “I wish I could get this many people at a reading,” said the woman next to me. I laughed.

An important writer gave the eulogy. I’d never heard of him.

They passed around sandwiches, after. The woman next to me filled her purse with them. “These should last me all week,” she said. I laughed again.

*

“What are you working on these days?” I asked Gordon.

He crawled under the table.

I guess we’re all terrified. Most people bury their terror under houses and Christmas trees and wives. Not writers. They can’t afford any of those things.

“Beer o’clock?” I said, crouching down.

Gordon crawled out. He grabbed my arm.

“I would kill for a drink,” he said.

A few days later, he did.

                                                                                                                                            

Rolli’s latest book is The Sea-Wave

Buy him a coffee.