Flash Fiction

by Adam Jeffries Schwartz

Chicken or Fish

You're sitting in your chair looking at the rain when she asks,
"Chicken or fish?"

You say, "What?"

"Dinner." She says, "Chicken or fish?"

So, this is your life. You had started out with such high hopes, with late nights and burgers or pizza. Then came Chinese or Indian. There were problems, a brief sushi-fusion interlude. Now, it's chicken or fish.

"Is there a third option?" you ask.

She says, "No. There are no new foods--only new restaurants."

You think about this. It's disappointing but probably true. You say, "Fish."

She says, "Excellent choice," as she disappears into the kitchen.

Suddenly, you miss her.

---

The Blessed Virgin of Consolation

Tonight in a square near my house a man was singing.

It was an organized event, he was also playing a synthesizer.

There was a crowd and on the wall of the church were projected the lyrics:
God loves you or something like that.

Boys, younger than five, were playing soccer--badly.

Old people were sitting on benches--as they do.

People were standing and listening; they were not swaying, nor singing, nor doing very much of anything but listening.

This was not the way I usually go from my house to the square. But for a while I stood and listened also. I read the words projected onto the side of the church:
God loves you or something like that.

And for the moment they seemed true and I felt much better.

---

Stoner Dad

My stoner dad is crumpled on the sofa. I walk past him, pick up his ashtray and dump the ashes on his face.

I'm just kidding.

Stoner Dad speaks, "You're going out?"

"Yeah, Dad, I'm going to school."

"Again? You're going to school again? Don't you get it, again?"

"Yeah, Dad, clocked it. I'll remember this moment always. See you later."

"When are you coming back?"

"Later, Dad."

Stoner Dad raises himself, like Lazarus, takes a joint from the ashtray and lights it. "You notice you always say later but you never say when?"

My knapsack is destroying my shoulder, "Dad, you want coffee?"

Stoner Dad inhales ponderously. This could take a while. I put my knapsack on the floor. "You're not coming back, you're leaving me."

"Nice Dad. Nice. Nice way to start the day. Some people have eggs. Eggs. Scrambled, poached, over easy. Maybe even toast."

He bellows at me as he shuffles into the kitchen, "Leave cigarettes."

I take out cigarettes, put some on the bureau. I hoist up my knapsack and see a goodbye note in their place and think, soon, someday soon. I close the door and run down the stairs, jumping on the landings.

---

Paloma Picasso's Shoulder

Paloma Picasso has very white skin. She is also tall. She is not tall for just a woman, but tall for anyone.

Tonight, at Christies in New York at a party in her honor, she is attempting to look like a Grecian statue. One very white, very tall shoulder is exposed.

I'm a waiter, also tall, and I keep knocking into said Grecian shoulder with my silver tray. Five, six times (I lose count) my tray hits her shoulder.

Each time she stares at me briefly, mute. She has black expressionless eyes.

If she did speak then I'd apologize.

I'd say, "I'm sorry. I'm a bad, bad waiter."

And she would understand. We would understand each other. But she doesn't say anything, so I walk away silently.

The Author

Adam Jeffries Schwartz is a writer and a traveler. His work is pending publication in Descant Magazine (Canada), Petit Journal (Mexico), and in the anthology Walking Higher (USA). Online he has stories in Kaleidowhirl, Magazine Shiver and Ghoti Magazine. His book reviews pop up once a month at Little Sisters Bookstore. He graduated from Vassar College. This year he's traveling in Latin America.