A.L. Brown

A 53-word story.

Photo by Blair Roberts Castagnetta on Unsplash

He’d texted a few days ago, demanding space because he was suffocating.

For years, we were inseparable. He was my high school sweetheart and dearest friend.

Now only silence.

Book review

River of Dreams: Flash Fiction Collection #1 by Jamanicus is a book of short stories that delivers, from cliffhangers to warm hugs. Twenty-one flash fiction stories, each one its own little world.

The writing is funny, irreverent, and delightfully quirky, whether you’re reading about little boys in the process of transforming, alien conspiracies, or Italian grandmothers. This author is a wonderful storyteller.

My personal favourites are Tea for Two, Billy Blue, and You ‘Were’ It Well — each one surprising in its own way and with a warmth underneath the humour that gives the collection real heart. The themes of love, loss, and longing woven through the stories sneak up on you between the laughs.

This is the perfect book for anyone who wants something a little different — original, witty, and over far too soon.

I cannot wait for Collection #2!

Olivia’s excitement about her upcoming overseas trip built up again now that her mother’s decision was final. She wrote a to-do list with two columns. One list for before she left and a shorter list for the day of departure. Each tick on the to-do list made her smile, bringing the trip one step closer to departure.

Her partner planned the holiday with precision because Olivia’s mother was going with them. It was doubtless her last trip to the country of her birth. He considered the best way for an eighty-year-old woman with mobility issues, who was not in the best of health, should travel.

They broke the long flight with a layover and booked a suite with two rooms to allow her a full day’s rest. They hired a bigger car to fit three suitcases and selected plane seats close to the bathrooms for her convenience. The travel insurance covering Olivia’s mother’s trip created another level of complexity, requiring a doctor’s certificate stating she was fit to travel. All these extras increased the cost of the trip.

In the end, the effort to accommodate Olivia’s mother was for nothing. A huge earthquake hit the region where their relatives lived. She’d spoken to her sister, who advised that relatives were sleeping in their cars at night because of the aftershocks. Under the circumstances, Olivia’s aunt did not want the responsibility for her older sister.

Olivia’s mother cancelled two days after the phone call.

It took a week for Olivia to accept her mother’s decision. Her partner kept busy trying to recoup some of the monies outlaid. On the day of departure, she ticked off tasks on her to-do list, the last item being to hide her house keys.

Their time overseas flew by with everything falling into place. The time with her relatives inspired Olivia. Their resilience allowed them to take the disaster in their stride. They went to work or school, cooked meals indoors and ate them outside, and slept in their cars. They noted the minor aftershocks and acted as if they were an everyday occurrence.

Olivia looked forward to telling her mother about her family.

They arrived home and settled back into their daily routine. On Monday morning, Olivia hunted for her house keys. She’d hid them in a secure location before their trip, but six weeks later she couldn’t remember the location. She used the spare keys so that she wouldn’t be late for work.

Over the next week, Olivia turned the whole house upside down looking for the keys. Her partner tried to keep his sniggers to himself. After a month, she gave up looking for them, claiming that if she couldn’t find them, then a burglar wouldn’t either.

Dad built it from some old wood and rope and hung it from a branch of the jacaranda tree in our backyard.

My happy place where I dreamed of life’s possibilities.

Every year, he’d adjust the ropes to suit my height.

Photo by Skylar Jia on Unsplash

We drove toward the tiny town of Rachel past the sign with ‘Welcome to Rachel, Nevada’, the small yellow caravan with the massive satellite dish, and the Little A’Le’Inn toward the other end of town and the Alien Cowpoke Gas & General Store.

By the time I drove off the highway into the gas station, the sun had sunk behind the mountains and dusk was fading. I turned off the engine. 

Tracy’s hand clutched the map we purchased in Rachel this morning. Her face set, eyes staring straight ahead through the windscreen, and mouth screwed up in concentration. She’d been like that since we got back in the car after our walk to get a better look at the Groom Lake runway.

“I’ll fill the tank, but I don’t want to drive back to Vegas on the spare tyre. They might fix it tonight.”

Tracy didn’t look at me or reply.

I went into the shop to pre-pay. After I finished filling the tank, I got back into the car.

Tracy was still sitting with the same look on her face and in the same position. “They can’t fix the tyre tonight. We’ll have to stay at the inn.”

She didn’t reply. 

I prised the map out of her hand and shook her shoulder. Something jagged fell out of her hand. I picked it up; it looked like a piece of metal.

“Tracy, come on. I know we saw something mysterious, but there’s a logical explanation for it. There’s always a logical explanation.” I tap the camera in her lap. “We’ve got it all on camera. We’ve got proof.” 

Maybe I was trying to convince myself as well.

I shook her shoulder again, hoping for a reaction. She didn’t move.

The gas station worker turned off all the lights before slamming the door behind him as he finished up for the night. He nodded at us before getting into his car and driving away.

We sat in the car in the dark. 

The sound of my ragged breathing freaked me out. I shook my head and started the car engine. “Tracy, let’s go and get something to eat and book into the inn.”

As the car moved, Tracy screamed at me to stop. 

She said in a weird, high-pitched voice. “I saw something move.”

Pointing her finger at an alien statue near the doorway of the gas station. “There! Did you see that?”

I peered out the windscreen, but I couldn’t see any movement.

Then, a sweep of multiple headlights lit up the area as SUVs drove into the gas station, blocking our car. 

Men in black suits got out, forming a perimeter around us.

A 53 word story.

Photo by Alexander Andrews on Unsplash

A low battery power warning appears on my mobile.

I call her number again

No answer.

I squeeze my phone. Angry or too busy?

My mobile rings once before it dies as someone yells we’re ready to deploy.

I pick up my pack to follow my team.

Photo by Emma Swoboda on Unsplash

In the afternoon, the alarm on the security system went off, the first disturbance in weeks. Every day the radio advised people to get out of the cities.

On the front camera, I saw a woman trailed by six children and a dog walking towards my farmhouse. I noticed they were all thin and fair-skinned, walking barefoot without flinching at the rocks on the road.

They stopped at the gate where the woman directed the little ones to stay. She and the tallest child came to my porch.

The screen door was in shadow, blurring their faces. They couldn’t see me leaning against the hallway wall. The breeze through the screen door brought me a sweet, coppery aroma.

I lifted my rifle and rested it against my shoulder.

The woman said, “I can smell coffee. Billy, knock on the door. Hello. Is anyone home?”

My hands tightened on the rifle. I remained silent.

“I’m sorry to disturb you. We’ve come to apologise. My boy picked your apples this morning. I’ve got them in my basket. They’re a bit bruised.”

I cleared my throat before I spoke, startling them. “Put them down by the door. Then go. You’re not welcome.”

“Go on, Billy, apologise.”

“I’m sorry, mister. We didn’t eat last night, and we was hungry. I only picked eight apples, one for each of us. I won’t do it again.”

Billy sounded like one of my boys when they were young, caught out in some devilry.

“OK. Put them down and go.”

The young woman squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Billy, go wait with your sisters.”

She put the basket down. “Mister, we’re harmless and hungry. I’m willing to work for food. I’m a country girl and I can do most farm chores, help out an old man.”

“Who said I was old?”

“Your son. I met him in the city when I was passing through. He told me to come here to be safe.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Maybe six months. We walked via the back roads.”

“Was he okay?”

“Yes, he was. He said you’d help us.” She took out a star medallion from her pocket to show me.

I lowered my rifle, hobbled to the screen door to look at it and at her. The medallion was his, and he’d given it to her.

My expression gave me away because she said, “The kids aren’t mine; I collected them along the way.”

Embarrassed, I looked down at the apples. “Eight apples are too much for one man.”

“If you’ve got flour and eggs, I make a mean sheet apple pie.”

I wanted to discover what else she knew about my son, so I opened the screen door. “Well, you’d best come in then.”

She beckoned to the children to follow her inside.

The youngest was last.

A 53-word story.

The stone skimmed the water once, twice and bounced five more times before sinking out of sight.

I won!

A hollow victory without you to witness it.

You would have hassled me for a rematch, telling me it was a fluke because girls can’t throw or do much else.

The words I didn’t want to hear made me cringe, my head drawing down to my shoulders. I’d hoped my sordid secret would remain hidden. Instead, my best friend and lover paraded it before the country’s most notorious gossip, the host of a national TV show.

My suspicions confirmed, I held in my rage to remain hidden.

The media would hound me for my side of the story. At best, I had 24 hours, and if I wasn’t forthcoming, they’d make up whatever they wanted.

My attention returned to the conversation about a book release. My lover’s excited voice rose as she described the pink cover of her book, making me snort in derision.

The laughter of people entering the small room off the grand ballroom covered the noise I made.

Hidden under the table, contorted to fit, I could only see long gowns and men’s shoes. I recognised all the newcomers’ voices as they greeted the two women in the room except for a smoky one.

The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I puzzled over it until the notorious gossip recounted what she’d been told.

She turned to my lover for corroboration, then talked over her. The gasps from the newcomers as they tittered over the salacious additions in this first retelling confirmed my fears.

I would have to resign; my fledgling career gone. The invitations to luxurious eighteen-hole golf course resorts and exclusive five-star restaurants would cease.

There was no hiding from the media coverage. The story would go national and then global, pushed along by the gossip.

My lover would profit from my downfall. She’d perceive my career loss as fitting revenge for having rejected her job application.

Under the table, I brought my knees up, wrapping my arms around them, resting my head in defeat on my kneecaps. The words and laughter washed over me as the life I’d fought so hard to gain trickled away.

As the laughter died down, my lover answered questions. “I didn’t comprehend what was happening. Writing about the pieces I’d witnessed made me understand the illegal actions I’d seen. We went on a few dates. It’s explained in my book.”

The voice I couldn’t identify spoke. “How clever of you to deduce all that from a few dates?” A minute ticked by with no response from my lover.

“My dear, writing your book implicates you as an accomplice in the crime.”

Everyone in the room remained silent.

I lifted my head, recognising the voice of authority.

The voice said, “This story stays in this room; it is bigger than all of you. Any leaks, I’ll link them back to you. You can go back to the ballroom now.”

My heart sped up as I unclasped my knees and waited.

A 53-word story.

The administrator took my bright yellow lemon away when I entered the exam hall.

Prohibited.

Without the lemon scent, the nausea kept rising into my throat, causing a cold sweat to roll over me.

I sat on the windowsill, my tail hanging over the edge.

The threatened rain curtailed my morning walk; denied my usual routine, I positioned myself to ensure I saw the sun in case it appeared.

Instead, the wind increased when the rain arrived, spattering drops against the window. I watched a raindrop race down the pane. My eyes followed as it traversed across the glass, consuming another in its way. The bloated drop resumed its race, landing with a plop upon the earth.

The ferocity of the storm increased, forcing raindrops to smash against the pane.

My view closed in on the bowed flowers in the garden. A lone bird on the ground is sheltering under a leaf.

My gaze intent on this interloper, I failed to notice the flash of light. The sound of thunder rattling the windowpane knocked me off the ledge, my claws extended, my fur on end, ready to battle the unknown enemy.

I am the seventh daughter, like my mother. We are a minor branch of The Family, an extended family descended from the first seven sisters.

Indoctrination begins at birth; we’re taught the Family’s motto of ‘Family First’ and the good fortune attached to The Lore of Seven.

The Lore maintains the good fortune of The Family when they respect the number seven.

The good fortune eluded my mother when she married without The Family’s approval. Denied a seat on the executive committee, running The Family business. The ban held even after my father’s death.

I was seven when my mother warned me that being born seventh was no guarantee of a seat on the committee. Those days were gone. The warning meant little to me until seven years later.

Over a seven-month period, four of my siblings died. Alise died when an industrial ladder fell on her in a freak accident. Then, three of my older siblings were in a car accident. Cera and Darta died at the scene. Elza is brain damaged and lives at home, staring into space. Francesca, closest to me in age, died from anaphylactic shock when she ate food with groundnuts at a family teenage party. She didn’t have her epi-pen with her. Everyone knew she was allergic.

My elegant mother claims the branches jockeying for power within The Family are to blame. She has become gaunt, wearing all black to mourn her daughters, saying to all that will listen; we are under attack even when other branches of The Family are suffering similar losses.

~ ~ ~

Mother organised a get-a-way to a country retreat that accommodated my disabled sister. She told us, her remaining daughters, that we were planning for the future.

The first evening after dinner, we sat outside around a firepit. There was no fire because it was a beautiful warm summer evening. Outside, there was less chance of being overheard or recorded.

She said, “No-one from the family has dared to walk away in recent history. My information source claims the target is you, Gita, as a seventh daughter. Alise pushed you out of the way and died instead. You were supposed to be in the car with your sisters, but you were ill and didn’t go. You are allergic to nuts, like Francesca.”

A chill ran down my spine, even though there was no breeze.

We watched mother open an old wooden-box and withdraw documents. “Your father left me these documents as a precaution. We discussed an escape plan before he died. Gita, we will fake your death and smuggle you overseas to your father’s family. Your task is to attain an education that will allow you to avenge the deaths of your sisters and ultimately, take over or destroy The Family business.”

She explained that she and Barbare would keep gathering information for me.

A 53 word story

“Mom?” I stage whispered, looking at the woman selected to go up and help with the disappearing act. “That’s the same lady as last year.”

“I know.”

“Don’t the other adults realise?”

“Yes, I’m sure they do.”

“That’s not magic; he’s cheating!”

and a round table

Garry helped Arty roll the old timber dining table out from behind the broken dryer into the centre of the shed, where they laid it down. “It’s perfect, Arty. But we need a stand to put it on. Seats? How many are coming?”

“Eight definite, four maybes.” Arty pointed at the filing cabinet in the far corner, saying. “We can use that.” They set up the table and then rummaged around for seating. “I’ll get the drinks and snacks.” Arty said, darting out of the shed.

When Tristan and Larry arrived, they said the shed was awesome. Arty beamed at them. “We’ve got electricity for heaters when it gets colder.”

Kay came in on her own, dumping a carry bag on the table. “I brought some snacks. You shouldn’t have to provide everything, Arty.” He acknowledged Kay’s contribution with a nod. Going to the cooler, he handed out drinks and got them to sit down. “We won’t start until eight of us are here.”

Five more boys came in, and Arty provided drinks. After they settled, he said, “We can start our meeting now.”

Arty knew the boys from school and playing sports together. Kay was new, having moved to their school a year ago. She’d signed up last year after a recruitment drive by the coach. They’d played with nine instead of eleven players due to team illness. They’d lost those matches, coming last in the comp.

Boris and Vincent arrived an hour late. “We could have met at my house.” Boris said, “We’ve got a games room with an 85-inch TV and a bar fridge. These aren’t even seats.”

Garry murmured, “You’re rich; we know. Anyway, you didn’t want a meeting.” Boris ignored him, disparaging the seats as he sat down.

“Let’s get back to our meeting,” Arty said. “Our team-name is ‘The Knights’. We’ve agreed to meet here every week during the season to talk over our last game. Boris, instead of playing goalie, we need you on the field. Your speed with the ball is the best, and Kay will play goalie.”

“No girl is taking my position. If I’m on the field, Vincent can be goalie?”

“Vincent’s never played goalie.”

“Yes, he has!”

“Boris, that’s a lie! Vincent never has,” Tristan objected. “I’m his cousin; I’d know.”

Vincent remained silent.

“I played goalie on my last team,” Kay said. Before she could continue, Boris yelled over Kay every time she tried to speak.

Out of patience, Arty stood up and slapped the table with his hand. The noise startled everyone. “Shut up, Boris. We listened to you. It’s Kay’s turn.”

A one room story

The brochure said a home-away-from-home — nineteen square metres with an ensuite, furnished with everything a senior could want. Brand new, ready to move in.

I’d call it a room with a loo.

And in order to afford this, I’d emigrated from another country to a place where I didn’t speak the language, leaving my parents and friends behind. I worked hard for a lifetime to end up living what remained of my life in a minuscule room instead of the family home I built.

I feel like I stepped off the boat all over again.

My daughter repeated, “You’re lucky because you can afford to buy a room in a modern, state-of-the-art complex. The top-floor suites with their stunning mountain views and extra luxuries are too expensive, but this is a pleasant room with all the essentials, including an ensuite.”

I thought the design aim was to provide me with the amenities that would make it easier for the staff when I couldn’t get out of bed or toilet myself anymore.

“Dad, you won’t have to drive to the GP or the podiatrist. They come here, right to your room. No grocery shopping, cooking or running around paying bills the old-fashioned way. You won’t have to worry about maintaining the garden. If something breaks, there’s a maintenance officer who will come and fix it for you. Best of all, you won’t be on your own. With Mum gone, that big house was going to be too much for you. You did the right thing in deciding to move into this facility. You can do the things you enjoy, not the things you have to do. I’ll visit every second day after work. We can go out on weekends.”

She’d trailed off, realising I wasn’t listening to her. A little while later, she left to go home to her kids.

My thoughts roiled inside me while I sat in the dark in my new home. My dinner felt like stones in my stomach, served in my room as I’d declined going to the dining room. I’d glimpsed some of the other residents passing my open door on their way to dinner.

Maybe I’d join the other inmates tomorrow night to check them out. The Green opened a few months ago. During my induction with the manager, she detailed the activities that wouldn’t be available until the facility reached capacity.

Unsettled and angry with myself because how did you see this coming when you were busy building a life? My forward-thinking ability failed me.

This would never feel like home. I said that to myself sixty-four years ago when I disembarked after six weeks at sea. Over the following years, that feeling morphed into home.

I didn’t have another sixty-four years for this feeling to melt into acceptance.

Did it matter? I was biding my time anyway; this was a waiting room only.

A 53-word story

The old man finished folding his clean laundry. An exhausted young mum slept on the bench with her sleeping toddler.

Her washer thudded to a halt.