“ BIGGEST Little STorIES” continued from page 13
Tempo
Feng Shue
By Jose Skinner
By Bill Jackson
He played Joplin right. Most people blaze through ragtime as if the Entertainer had a train to catch. But not him. He didn’t play too fast and almost no trace of swing. Instead, he settled into each syncopated beat with nothing to prove. I’d watch his left hand bounce on the keys, keeping the bassline buoyant. The melody in his right sailed on the steady pulse. So when he kissed me— finally!—I knew it’d be unhurried, giving the moment room to breathe. I listened to our mouths melting over the thump of my heartbeat. Jose Skinner is music pastor at The Bridge Church, the father of three kids who are all beautiful and brilliant, and the husband of one sweet wife whose demeanor hides her iron will. He says the inspiration for the story came from a combination of ideas: First was a Scott Joplin quote, in which Joplin said this ragtime shouldn’t be played too fast, and the second was about a housewife who finally learned to play piano.
First Date There’s always an awkward silence on the first date, especially when you’re sitting around playing 20 questions with a person you just met. “What’s your favorite color?” I turned with a pique expression, “I don’t have one.” He gasped dramatically, acting stunned. “Everyone has a favorite color!” He exclaimed. I gave a small shrug. “Mine’s yellow.” I looked at him, raising my eyebrow. “Why?” “Because it’s the color of happiness!” He grinned cheekily. “And the color of piss,” I smirked. He rolled his eyes mumbling. Needless to say, there probably won’t be a second date.
—Bill Jackson
The Simple Secret of the Plot The breakfast crowd buzzed in the background while the quintet (minus one) laughed. 14 | RN&R |
DECEMBER 24, 2014
“I like cake,” one said, “but only as a frosting delivery vehicle.” Thomas didn’t hear. He monitored the door, ready to act uninterested. But when she did arrive, he tensed, mesmerized by the violet aura surrounding her. The four became five, but the pair didn’t acknowledge one other. Although three hours ago he’d kissed her lips swollen. Nobody remarked on them, so the two pretended things weren’t different. And they weren’t. But now everything, if only secretly, was out in the open.
—Jose Skinner
Flip Me Over Paddling out through the ice on Tahoe, I aimed my board for the deepest point. When the GPS showed I had 1600 feet of water below, I fell backward, gradually sinking into the depths like a leaf detached from an autumn branch. Some of my weights fell away leaving me floating face up, neutrally buoyant below the thermocline. The cold had paralyzed me, yet left my eyes and mind functioning. Just when I began to look forward to seeing the dawn, a night fisherman’s line caught my suit and turned me over facing the blackness.
—J. Tyler Ballance
Buck and Duke were in trouble. Two years out on the range had spoiled their feelings of ease around women. They sought help in Barnes and Noble. “Buns and Nipples,” Duke had joked. Later, their State Fair Budweisers washed away everything they had learned. Buck moved toward a woman, noticing her toddler only after the words had left his mouth. “Hey, Baby,” he said, “Wadda ya say we feng some shoo-wee?” He was anxiously wondering whether he had said it right and feeling relief that she had apparently not heard him. But her husband had. B. Jackson works at Northern Nevada Adult Mental Health Services where his clients and he play with the contents of their consciousness. He wrote the 11 stories that he submitted this year about seven years ago, when he had time for such fun; since then he has married, doubled his work hours, tripled his kids, and more. He has enjoyed writing tales that toy with the boundaries of expectations.
Life After Death Harry made a mistake. It wasn’t his worst, but it was up there in his opinion. By sending Madelyn a “like” on a dating site, he found himself in a relationship, the first in the 10 years since his wife’s passing. He liked Madelyn all right. They were both 60. He appreciated her maturity and acceptance of his quirks. “Action movies? Love them. French toast every Sunday? Perfect,” she’d said. The sex was better than he’d expected. But was it worth all the guilt? Harry thought it over. Maybe he would wait to find out.
—Sue Edmondson
Road Kill So I’m driving down the street, and this squirrel is sauntering across the road like he owns the place, right? So I swerve to miss the damn thing, and I end up hitting a patch of black ice. The car fishtails and, like an idiot, I hit the accelerator instead of the brakes wondering why I keep going faster. A clash hit my ears like a tidal wave. The crunching of metal, the tinkling of glass as it shattered. Before everything went dark, I caught a short glimpse of that fucking
squirrel chattering in mockery.
—Meghan Meredith
Last Goodbyes The ship was slowly drifting away from the dock, its young occupant’s mood ranging from unreasonable optimism to cynical resignation. Some were waving their new caps to the throng on the quay, but most were silently staring back along streets to towns far away and to loved ones not to be seen again. A distant tug’s horn sounded. “They aren’t coming back, are they”. The boy made it statement rather than a question. “Not all of them,” said the old man, steadying himself on the boy’s shoulder. “Not nearly enough of them” he whispered quietly.
—Mike Gully
Untitled Choking a scream, Barbie surfaces from dreaming she is a cabbage-patch doll. Tense in the sweat-soaked sheets, she exhales the bulgy and ugly-cute memory. She rolls toward the nightstand, squinting at the clock; it’s way too early to get up. She sighs a quiet “Shit,” lays back, and turns the bedside light on anyway. Comforted
by the familiar pink, she stares at the ceiling, then runs her hands over her face―she will check for freckles in the morning. Her hand on Ken’s thigh silences his snoring. She remembers his “I do,” and is gone.
—Bill Jackson
Cassoulet Lilith—demon waitress—screaming through the swinging doors rs on leathery wings, followed by the din of Jazz and light conversation. Her command is abrupt and a seeming horde of minions follows. We take the line, exhausted but prepared to throw back another assault. The incantation has served us well many times before: “Leg of mallard, belly of pig, haricots blancs, saucisson and fig!” Dancing down the greasy tiles of the Saturday night knife fight, fending off the blaze with a dented saute… Who decided double-breasted cotton was good armor against hot oil, fire and blades?
—Scott Cinelli
Crimes and Mousedemeanors It was the biggest score Rosie the Mouse had ever been part of. Over
