Tag Archives: fridayflash

Anomaly

“Twenty-second of March, 2003, interview with Frank Maloney on the subject of the unseen anomaly widely reported in Franklin County. Okay, Frank, go ahead.”

“Starting where Fred went out to pick up drinks, and George went with him?”

“Yes, if you would. That was two days ago, on the 20th.”

“Right. So Fred and George were heading down road 68, and they were having a bit of a disagreement.”

“Well, they were having more than a disagreement.”

“What’s that?”

“You told me they were having more than just a disagreement.”

“Right.”

“It wasn’t just that they disagreed–it was more than that.”

“Right. Whatever that means. So as they were going down the road, they were having a bit more than a disagreement. That make you happier?”

“No, I’d be happier if they were only having a disagreement, but you said that they were yelling and threatening each other.”

“Right. So in the middle of this ‘more than a disagreement’ Fred slams on his breaks because there’s something in the road, and, you know, he didn’t see it ’cause of his disagreement and more thingy.”

“And they ran into it.”

“And they ran into it, yeah. Thing is, they didn’t know what it was. They didn’t hit it too hard, but they couldn’t see it, you know, under the bumper and all. So they get out and go to take a look, and there’s nothing there.”

“But they definitely saw something.”

“Oh yeah. And they felt it kind of bump like, when they ran into it.”

“So they went searching for it under the car and behind, and on the sides of the road.”

“Right. What am I doing talking into this thing if you’ve got the whole thing down already?”

“Well, I’m recording your story, as you told it to me before.”

“So what do you need me for? Seems like you remember more than I reckon I told you.”

“No, no. I’m only trying to make sure you don’t leave anything out. I need to have the actual record of your testimony in this matter, and recording it is the easiest way.”

“Right.”

“If you really prefer, I can take your statement written out, with your signature to attest to it.”

“That’s all that happened. I already gave you what happened in this recording thing, unless you have more to put in.”

“Well, what happened after that?”

“After they didn’t find anything?”

“Yes, after they searched around.”

“They got back in the car and went to the store, like they were doing before.”

“And they didn’t see the thing again?”

“No, never seen it after that.”

“And were they arguing after they got into the car again?”

“No, they plumb forgot what they were arguing about. Couldn’t tell me when they got back. But apparently they had been pretty riled up about it before.”

“And was there a dent on the car, or any evidence that they had run into something?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Fred swore that the bumper bowed in the middle more than it used to, but I didn’t see nothing. They’ve tapped it into a few things already, so I don’t think they could tell one way or another where it came from anyhow.”

“Thank you, Frank. And just to conclude, you would certify that everything that we just said is true to your memory of what happened, as it was related to you by Fred and George when they go back?”

“Certify?”

“Well, just that everything we discussed was the truth–the way it really was.”

“Sure. I mean, it’s not like I can ask them again, since they went missing right after that, but I reckon that’s all I know about it.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re not going to ask me about them disappearing like that? One moment there talking to me, and the next moment gone?”

“No, that’s a job for Chief O’Connor and Missing Persons. I’m just looking into the anomaly they bumped into that day.”

“The officer don’t think I’m just making up the whole part about them coming back and telling me this thing about running into something?”

“I’ve got 27 separate accounts of people reporting vanishing lights on the road or the field, and several that report that it knocked over crops or made tracks before it disappeared. Many of those witnesses disappeared abruptly, for known or unknown reasons. Either there’s something going on here, or there’s a lot of copy cats making up stories. Right now I’m just gathering up as much evidence as I can.”

“So you do think I’m making it all up.”

“No, I don’t think anything right now. You seem convinced enough to me, but I’ve still got more leads to track down before I can draw any conclusions. I appreciate your time.”

“Huh. Time is all I got now, seems, since we had to close the shop, and the cops won’t let me go nowhere.”

“Well, thank you.”

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The English Paper

“By midnight moon I rose to walk, to ponder, thoughts yet sleeping, spilling in the dark; my wonder left my feet to wander on through memories discarded. Words I conjured for an audience of one demanded, so it seemed, my energies, a journey yet unstarted.”

She paused and looked up for the sparest of moments, and then scanned her paper again, licking her lips as she found where she had left off.

Bryan looked at his own paper, in front of him on the desk, as she continued. It was marked with an A, of course. Technically, he knew it was very good. Every word and phrase weighed for meaning and place. Every mark of punctuation double checked. Every paragraph harmonized to the contours of his message, the flow of ideas and patterns. He always got the A in English class.

But these words of hers hung in the air like warm notes of light. This was something entirely different. Something so far beyond his field of expression that he could only listen in wonder.

“…the worth of one, I see, is small, so many others light the way, and borrowed brilliance deals so dimly in the subtle sight of day. By darkness, maybe lost, my strength to shine is tapped and spent, I falter at the cost of worthlessness, this broken soul of mine.”

Dr. Walsh had returned to her desk, but the professor was smiling, watching her student in front of the class, watching the class to gauge the impact of the student’s paper. The side of her chin rested on the back of her fist, propped by her elbow, and she seemed to nod at the rhythm and shape of the sentences being read.

“..so forth to finish, small and strong, with might unmustered yet, unmastered, yet I’ll raise my song to raise the next a little more. With all the growth I get I’ll give the light that lifted me, and finally be the one who came before.”

She stopped and looked up, tentatively, hiding behind her paper. The room was still.

“Thank you, Leslie.” The professor’s words got her started, and Leslie moved quickly to her desk in the second row.

Leslie. He needed to meet Leslie.

Dr. Walsh pointed out some of the rhythmic, alliterative, and ideological patterns that strengthened Leslie’s piece. It had been a freeform assignment, the first of the term, to introduce ourselves to our Freshman English Professor. Dr. Walsh was clearly taken with the piece. So was Bryan.

It was the top of the hour and class was soon dismissed. Bryan took his time gathering his stuff while trying to listen to the discussion Leslie and the professor were having two desks away.

“I’m sorry to embarrass you that way, calling you up. I hope you didn’t mind too much…”

Brian hoisted his backpack up onto one shoulder and then hovered nearby as their discussion turned from Leslie’s paper to the class syllabus and future assignments.

“All right, well, I’ll see you both next week.” The professor nodded to Bryan–they had spoken at length after the previous class–and turned back to getting her own things together.

They each said, “Bye,” and Leslie started to turn toward the door.

“Could I, uh, could I get a copy of your paper?” Bryan’s face was hot.

“My paper?”

“Yeah. It was…it was really good.”

“Are you sure? I mean it was only a draft, it’s not really…”

“No, it was great. I want to read it again, to understand it better.”

“Well, I guess. Sure.”

“Thanks.” They both went out the door and headed down the short hallway to the outside. “I’m Bryan, by the way.”

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Performance

“Tommy, Tommy, you did good, just as I expected.

“I say this for you, because I like you. You are a good man. You say what you think and I like this because you know we are a practical people. We say what we mean and do what we have to.

“But still, we deal with others, and we do performance. You pull out a gun, yes, and you are ready to use it, yes? But you won’t, probably, no. You show your piece maybe how many times a week? And how many times do you actually use it? Not so many, right?

“Now this is the thing, showing it is performance. We show them what we mean by this. When you bring them here, it is performance, too. Here, in our home, we must do performance for them.

“So you come with your gun, and this is good, and this shows we are serious, which is good, because we are. And then I tell you to put it away. And this is performance, too. I say “No need for that,” but you know that you can pull it back out if you need.

“This makes people happy. This tells them we are on their side. We are on their side if they listen to us, if they do what we say. If I don’t say it, they think we’re both against them. You have a gun. I tell you to use it sometimes. They think we’re both against them.

“I tell you to put it away, and they see we’re on their side. Nothing changes, really. But is performance. We make a space, here, and they feel safer, and they talk, and maybe they do what we want. And maybe they see that we’re on their side if they talk a bit more.

“So I tell you put away, and you put away, and this is not against you. You are family, and you do right. Performance is not for you. Is for him. Yes?

“And we are here, too, in performance. Now he stands out there, and he thinks about things, and he sees how it is. We leave for a time and he thinks that maybe he should make choices. Important choices about how he leaves here.

We go back now and see what he chooses.”

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Susy McGee

“Oh, I don’t think we can go on this way,” she said as she turned from me, starting away.

“Which way?” I demanded, so softly, so proud. There was nothing I could say that wouldn’t be loud.

“Honk,” the geese honked, and they squawked and they played in the water–they honked to me, standing unmade. I bent and I picked up a small, colored rock, and I skipped it along the shore, into the flock.

On she went, farther away from me still, as she had for the last several months past until she had now, I suppose, had enough of my face, of my voice by her side and my life in her space.

With the sun down now twilight was coming on soon, so I hurried on after her into the gloom of the trees on the hillside which climbed from the shore, and I called to her, “Wait!” but she waited no more.

At the top I just saw her climb onto her bike. With her helmet on, jacket zipped, mounted catlike, she had started the Harley and tickled the throttle before I could reach her and beg her to stop. Then a backhanded wave as she rode off in style, though I’m sure I saw briefly a little sad smile–

And that’s all that I know of my Susy McGee, who outgrew her father at age 17. Just a wave and a smile it had been back then too, as she boarded the bus to her college debut. Now I sat where I stood, in the damp unkempt grass, and I looked at the road as through old, wavy glass.

I knew little of where she had been for six years, when she showed up one evening, her cheeks stained with tears. Now the summer has passed and I know little more, though perhaps now she went with her spirit restored. And maybe she’ll write, but most likely she won’t, and I’ll wonder and pray that life’s tragedies don’t cloud her judgment and keep her from spreading life’s joy, for to live is to rise above all that destroy.

It is time to let go in the night as before, while my little one seeks her own future once more. On the scorecard of parenthood all is obscured; both the past and the future remain unassured. And yet still, in the dark, I can see my porch light, leading home for a family lost in the night, and I know that she knows, when all hopes have an end, there’s a father who loves her, forever. Amen.

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