FLASH FICTION & POEMS

Things That Stick in my Mind

I like writing these short vignettes when I'm in between projects, or when I see something that I can't get out of my head. I wrote this when I took my daughter to track practice. As I sat in the bleachers and worked on my novel, I couldn't help notice one girl.

RED HIGH TOPS

She always wears the same thing. Red shirt or hoodie, denim jacket, tight stretch jeans and red high tops. Her hair is scraped into a top knot and she carries a purple and black backpack with a paisley design in the center. She sits with one or two girls - I never noticed if they’re the same girls or not. I’ve only noticed her.
She sits in the bleachers by the walkway to the track and talks to everyone who walks by. Really loudly. At first I thought she was just hanging out - it’s a short walk from the high school and why not hang in the bleachers and watch your friends practice running? But that’s not it. I think she wants to run. Did I mention she’s heavy? She is. Heavy as in “it’s not easy to walk very far without breathing hard.” Chubby like it’s impossible to take a step without her inner thighs rubbing against each other.
And yet she sits and watches, with a comment for nearly everyone who walks or runs by. And now for the second day I’ve heard her talking to the coaches. As they walk by, twice now, she approaches the chainlink fence that divides the bleachers from the red cushioned track and says something to them. I never hear what she’s saying since her back is to me, but I hear their response. “Yes but you have to get a physical. Go do it! Why don’t you do it? You need a physical though.”
Is she afraid she will be terrible? That people will laugh? Does the idea of even trying to find shorts that fit make her decide not to try? Then why does she put it in her face five days a week? Will she do it one day?
I see her showing up one afternoon, clad in a pair of cut off old sweatpants and those same red high tops. Her hair is in the topknot and she digs in the purple backpack and pulls out a grubby, crumpled piece of paper. She trudges over to the coaches, who are running warm-up stretches and thrusts it at them. “Here,” she’ll say. “Your damn physical.” The coaches will be stunned and a little nervous. What will she be able to do? Will she hurt herself?
She will self-consciously plop herself down on the grassy field and lean forward, trying to reach her toes. She’ll ignore some of the stares and snap “What are you lookin’ at?” to others. She’ll do what she can and then when they all take off, she’ll stand up and start walking the track. After a minute she’ll start jogging. She’ll be out of breath and it will hurt but she’ll start jogging faster and a little faster and then she’ll run. She’ll run as if she’s running from every insult, every problem, every conflict in her life. And she’ll be smiling for the first time in what feels like forever.

*********************

THE ONE

The ball sails through the air,
Finding its way to a pair of outstretched hands.
It spins away, bounces, snatched from the ground
By another.
Her blonde ponytail bounces as she dribbles down the court
Looking ahead and to the sides,
Finding someone who wants it as badly she does.
She pulls it in, turns her body and fakes a toss,
Then throws to the other side.
The ball arcs across the court,
And she runs to the basket, ready.
Claps her hands, calls for it, dodging away from
the defense, wanting to score, wanting to be
The one.
She’s open and the ball flies into her hands,
Opportunity.
She shoots, banking it off the backboard and
Swish!
Two points, just net.
High fives from her team,
And a smile flits across her face.
She tucks a stray piece of hair back in her blue elastic headband,
And starts running down court,
To defend against someone else
Who wants to do what she does
So well.

SUMMER GIRLS

They press their bodies longingly into the door of the pickup. Packed into black spandex workout pants just a bit too small, they ooze desire. No Vogue models - hell, not even models for Wal-Mart - they are the picture of young yearning. Behind the wheel sits the guy wearing the inevitable tractor cap. He’s grinning, the edges of an elaborate tattoo peeking out below the sleeve of his white t-shirt.
They toss their hair - dyed black or blonde with streaks - and push their chests out. You can almost hear their sighs. They are the dreams, the yearning for love. Touching, moving sinuously, snaking their bodies around the edge of the open door and with a hand on one hip, leaning against the frame of the car. They pull out a cigarette and wait for the light from a work-roughened hand. One hand cups his and they draw the flame closer. A deep inhale, exhale to the side and a lazy smile. The night lengthens, sun set and twilight comes. It gets cooler and streetlights flash on. Beer cans are popped open, flasks pour into half empty Coke cans. A decision has to be made: in the car? Move to a park? Two by two, they disappear into the night. The questions are answered for some - a night of half-drunken groping or maybe even a real connection that might lead to a phone call the next day. For the ones left behind by the pick-ups, a slow sagging of posture, a tighter smile and a lowering of eyes, hunching of shoulders.
The last two left remember a really important date they have - can’t possibly stay any longer. Gotta run. See ya tomorrow, maybe. They walk away into the night, the yearning all inside now. Maybe tomorrow night.