Flash Fiction
by Thomas Pease
(200 words or less)
That’s Why We Don’t Bother to Name Them
(Runner-up, 2013 Super Shorts Contest, sponsored by The Anchorage Press.)
Merle tucked the blanket around Bernice, wearing mittens she knitted when she could still count rows and stitches. Now, Bernice strains to remember her husband’s name. Merle backed from the stable, which had held Horse 1 and Horse 2. Draught horses for logging.
“They deserve names.”
He’d shrug. “Look what my parents named me.”
Now his horse was an F-250. Through the windshield, Bernice dozed as he closed the carriage doors. His son showed him Craigslist, where he’d found a snowplow for his truck. Right in the neighborhood. They’d take a look, dicker on price. He entered the address in his “blackberry,” a notepad jammed in his pocket.
“You warm, Bernie?”
“It’s a scorcher.” Her mother’s favorite line.
He increased the heat.
Merle idled down roads once dirt and half as wide. Suburbia encroached. House numbers, mercury lights, finally, street signs. Now, streets sported names: Matterhorn, Hampstead, Seaside. History and landscape ignored.
“Googlemap,” plowboy said.
Merle knew where it was. Just beyond the creek a piece. But after each curve, he reversed to read street names. He turned into driveways with inflated Santas, angry dogs, a locked gate.
Bernice awoke. “You’re lost.”
“Apparently.” Merle pointed his horse homeward.
So I Came Back to Alaska
(Grand prize winner, 2010 Super Shorts, sponsored by The Anchorage Press.)
He’d never been Outside. Born the year Katmai blew. It went dark for days, they said. The world had ended. After three days, the revenue cutter brought word of the volcano.
He figured he’d see the world before moving on. He flew to Seattle. Security got his knife. No pay phone to call his grand nephew. He took a cab to a hotel the village postmistress booked. Closed his eyes to avoid several collisions. So many people, like salmon packed into a river. More than at his mother’s funeral. They’d traveled days to attend.
At the hotel, the last guests left items in the icebox. The clerk smiled. They were for purchase. But not at those prices.
Out walking, he searched for landmarks. Nothing appeared stationary. No island, no cape, no bluff. Buildings blocked the horizon. He stepped into a doorway, the way he tied up behind a rock to wait out fog or tide.
SeaTac felt almost familiar on the second pass. He waited in three lines to check in. People walked fast, wore contraptions like hearing aids. Some talked to themselves, the way he did, alone, hunting.
He’d see the world. So he came back to Alaska.
Changing Planes at the Seattle Airport
(Runner-up, 2010 Super Shorts, sponsored by The Anchorage Press.)
The Carhartts gave her away. They reveal little. Unless there’s too much hip, which looks like a D-10 wide track hanging over the sides of a lowboy. She filled them just right.
His eyebrows. They brought her in. That, or the Budweiser and Cuervo. Not the institutional haircut, he hoped.
“I’m Taughnee.”
He motioned to a stool.
“Headin’ north?”
“How’d you know?”
“Carhartts.”
“What he’s having. Make it another round.” She laughed, tossing blond hair. “I wear them legitimately.”
“Welder?”
“On the Slope. You?”
“Between jobs.”
“Where you been?”
“Arizona.”
“Family?”
“Two-year vacation.”
“No tan?”
“No sun on the inside.”
Her brow furrowed like corrugated steel. He focused on the TV. They’d warned about transitions.
“Nothing, really. Writing my name in the snow. Johnny Law yelled, ‘Show your hands.’ I’ve got a long name.”
“Put away for pissing in the snow?”
“My hands were hidden. They found a pocket knife. Assault with a deadly weapon. For practicing penmanship.”
“No shit?” She laughed and grabbed his shoulder. Her hand remained. “Sorry. It’s funny.”
“That’s our flight. Where’re you sitting?”
He stood. She paid.
“Next to you.” She grinned. “I like creative. Help dig my truck out in Anchorage, and I’ll take you home.”
President Palin
(Winner of the 2009 Super Shorts Contest, sponsored by The Anchorage Press.)
Golly, thanks for comin’ to our family values White House picnic. The macaroni and Jello salad is so Wasilla, which is almost on the Russian continent. Anyways, you’re helpin’ put families first by comin’ out today.
Before loadin’ up a hotdog, I’ll tell you about the inaugural balls. Gadzooks, Todd and I hadn’t partied like that since I got pregnant with Trig! And though I won’t be sellin’ Air Force One, I listed two inaugural gowns, a pair of glasses and my red pumps on eBay. Bid, baby, bid! It’s so great to watch America spend its way to recovery!
Since we’re, you know, all about family values here, I’ll introduce my family to ya. First, there’s grand baby Tripp there, who you’ll remember from the last campaign. Next, there’s McCain…then Hat Trick…then High Mark…then Cuervo, who Bristol’s holdin’ there. Abstinence is due next month. She’s Bristol’s last. (Remember that talk with God, Bristol?) Jeepers, we had to hang blue tarps in the presidential gallery there to keep peanut butter fingers off the fancy artwork, and we set mouse traps to keep Palin teenagers off Lincoln’s bed, but we’re just, you know, a normal family.
Could somebody pass the Cheezits…?
