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Giving Her Away
December 17, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, novels, Poetry, reading, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Wedding | by davidbdale | 4 comments
I ride the bus of small hope, surrounded by my little monkeys. Hate me if you want to, but it’s what they call themselves. They have the same dreams as we do but we’re different in one way: they don’t ridicule our dreams. Because they’re used to so little, they don’t expect much. Combine that with how little they ask and how uncomfortable we are being so stingy, and we end up giving them next to nothing. That we can live with, but when they turn around and give something to us unasked, that’s when we’re stunned and shamed. I used to buy two newspapers for my commute. Now, instead, I hold one page before me and look for the truth of their hearts and mine between the lines. The driver loves to tease them all with childish names despite their age and laughs when they tease him back. They call him Special. As for me, I’ve always been furniture, shielded by my paper, nameless as an empty seat. The blond one materializes by my side and motions for me to escort her down the aisle as if she knows I’ll understand. She waits for me to hook my arm through hers, to smile, to stand beside as the substitute father who gives her away to the grinning boy with the spotty mustache. Her faith is dizzying. She can’t have known that it would stun and shame me. But she did know I was there for her, hoping she’d need me, figurative flower in my buttonhole. I’m marrying Skanky, she tells me. See my ring? I had to ask him. Yes you are too, Skanky! This is a, my veil, I made it from a scarf. Yes you are too, Mister Skanky. We are too going on a honeymoon!
Copyright © December 17, 2006
Bobby’s Chop Shop
December 15, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, novels, Poetry, reading, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Car, Crime, Joke, Theft | by davidbdale | 3 comments
So picture this. Me, howling across the bridge in this nearly-new Buick I got minutes before from Bobby’s chop shop special order? Stolen car, windows down, Halloween wind, pinballing through traffic like I deserve this car, this life. You’ve seen it. My girl drives it now? Power everything? Fenders like cheerleader thighs? I skid sideways into the only space in line at the tolls and, shit, I’m in the Ticket Sales lane. Here’s the thing: I’ve got a screwdriver jammed in the ignition, I’ve got a Pennsy plate on the back, Jersey on the front until the paperwork should clear. I hang a dirty rag on the wiper handle to hide the ignition from the toll collector and shit myself. Who, Bobby? He’s just what you’d expect: sleeveless black Metallica tee shirt, Mister T starter set around his neck, calls me Boss, calls everybody Boss. Pulling down three four hundred grand tax free, most of it going to speedballs and paying off cops, has no actual boss. There’d be photos for the DMV, some with body parts removed to document how we “salvaged” it, others with a reset camera date and the parts put back on. Then last November a sting operation shut our Bobby boy down for good. They’d been videotaping him. Made the local news. Don’t I come to see the back of my own head on TV one night, taking the door off a Buick. Beautiful car. Wife wouldn’t drive it ‘til I made her something out of a key blank to start it with. But when I pay the toll and roll up the windows, I see backwards writing on the glass in yellow: DNUOPMI. Bobby’s little joke. I floor it away from that toll booth and start listening for sirens behind me. Funny guy.
Copyright © December 15, 2006
Very Short Novels 