A large woman tipped up the alleyway. She caught sight of us and quickened her step, “’Scuse me ma’am, is that your daughter? Ma’am? Is that your daughter?”
I let go of Tracy’s hand and gestured that she should follow her father inside. The approaching woman struggled for breath as she rolled up the hill. “Ma’am, that your daughter?”
She stood in front of me now. “Yes?” I asked.
“Ohh.. maybe you can help me. You’re a mother too, maybe you’ll listen to me. No one else around here wants to listen. Maybe you’ll understand.” She planted her feet wide and began to cry until the skin around her eyes and nose darkened with moisture.
“Sure, what can I do for you?”
“It’s so hard….I’m a single mother….left my kids with my neighbor, knocked on all the doors in my building but nobody wants to listen. I don’t know what to do, been walking around for three hours…went down to that church on Dupont, but nobody there, up to 42nd and Lyndale, now somebody says there’s someplace on 31st that can help me, so that’s where I’m going now. But these places are all closed. I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”
I shook my head sympathetically, “You need help finding a church on 31st?”
She choked back a sob and widened her eyes, “Ma’am, I got a three month old baby at home and she hasn’t eaten since last night. I don’t have anything to feed her. I just moved here, got out of an abusive relationship and I don’t have anything. I’m trying to get help, I’ve been calling everywhere, but they say I can’t have an appointment until Thursday.”
“Til Thursday?”
“My daughter, she uses Enfamil formula. I’m on this medication. That’s why I can’t breastfeed. They gave me some Enfamil formula and I’ve been trying to stretch it out, you know, by adding more water and all but he’s been taking care of her and using two scoops every time, feeding her every time she cries. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I keep asking him, ‘Ever think to see if her diaper’s wet? Maybe she needs to be burped?’ But now she’s out of formula and she’s been crying all day. I don’t know what to do.”
The woman stared at me, then burst once more into tearful spasms. A string of snot escaped one nostril and she reeled forward to catch it in the hem of her shirt. She pulled the turquoise garment up to her face, revealing portions of her stomach and bra, and blew her nose.
“Ma’am, she hasn’t eaten anything since last night. I’ve been givin’ her water with a little Sweet-N-Low mixed in there for flavor.”
“You say she’s crying?”
“Ma’am. I can’t wait ‘til Thursday. I went and asked at the store, said I live just around the corner, but they won’t give me store credit. My neighbors told me if she keeps crying, they’re gonna call Child Protective Services and have my kids taken away from me.” Tears continued to stream down her cheeks, fatter and wetter than I’ve ever seen them on anybody.
“Stay here a sec, will you?” I said, “Lemme see what I can do.”
I ran into the house and filled a grocery bag up with food – mixed vegetables, soups, milk and cereal. I grabbed some diapers out of my daughter’s room and said, “Al, you got any cash?” In the hallway, I found my daughter’s old stroller and rushed outside again with my arms tumbling full, fearful that somehow the woman had wandered off.
“Need a stroller?” I asked, as I flipped it open and set the bag down on the seat, “there’s some food in here and diapers, some milk…” I handed her the five-dollar bill that Al had given me.
She looked at me incredulously, her face now swollen but dry. “You can’t buy formula for that. It costs seventeen dollars at the store!”
“But the milk..?”
“Milk? You’ve gotta be kidding me. Pediatrician said it’s got to be Enfamil. So she gets all her nutrition.”
The woman straightened out her shoulders and tipped back down the alley, pushing the stroller in front of her. I could see her shaking her head all the way.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Saturday, June 24, 2006
4.0
“Oh baby, baby,” he shouts. “I want you so bad.” He leans out his car window, dragging deeply on a crumpled cigarette, pressing his fingers tightly near the filter, pinching the tobacco flat. I keep driving, looking forward.
“I’m real good. I’ll make you feel so fucking good.” His lips are cracked, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead The traffic light turns red, and I’m stuck in tandem, my car next to his bronze truck, sitting side by side like little kids holding hands. He leans towards the passenger window, towards my driver side window, and nods. I stare at the plastic grocery bag on the seat next to me. It contains a white tassel, a silly hat, a polyester graduation robe, and three semi-full packs of cigarettes. It’s 9:30 on Sunday morning. I’m going to mass for the first time. I have to; I’m Valedictorian of the Catholic Women’s college.
The man follows me as I cross the bridge. His truck speeds in front of me, then pulls to the side, slows down to get behind my car. He’s dancing around me, trying to trap me. He wants to make me feel good. I wonder if I’ll make it to mass. It would be a scandal if the Valedictorian with tangerine hair and sailor tattoos doesn’t show. I wonder if he wants to screw me or kill me. Part of me hopes he’ll tie me up so I won’t have to go, so I won’t have bear witness to God or say the Invocation at graduation.
After fifteen blocks, he pulls a U-turn. He’s off to make some other lady feel good. I’m late for the line up. Women in dark robes all hold flowers by the chapel. I pull out my robe from the plastic bag and slip it on while walking in line. I’m the Valedictorian with sailor tattoos and crappy manners. I smoke in line and throw my cigarette on the chapel steps.
I shake in the chapel, press my fingers together, count to twenty at least twenty times. Three women in white gowns slip out onto the stage, the edges of their twirling skirt brushing against the priest’s knee. The balls of their bare feet are wrapped in duct tape. They spin and hurl their bodies forward. Dancing virgins for the Lord with silver feet that grip the stone church floor. Sit, stand, sing, watch people line up to eat wafers. I have to pee the whole time.
During the graduation ceremony, I’m forced to sit on stage. I sit behind the podium so no one sees my knees shake, my feet tap, my sweaty palms brushing against the sides of my gown. The polyester isn’t absorbent so the sweat just moves around in little beads. The nun in the velvet robe says my name a lot. I have to stand up and say a prayer. My intended goal is to invoke the spirit of God. I’ve never prayed standing up or sitting down. I’ve never met the spirit of God. I say some stuff about blessing and gratitude and wisdom. I say amen for the first time in my life, at least attached to the end of a prayer. I’ve secretly practiced saying it for days, lamenting over whether or not the “A” should be nasally or soft.
The cap makes my forehead look big and shiny. My hair looks like straw, scarecrow stuffing. I’m ridiculous and wonder if the man in the truck is making someone feel good. I try to imagine what that looks like. I hear his words, “Baby, oh, Baby.”
I hear my mom’s words, too. “Baby, come home.” It’s my graduation day, thirteen years earlier. I wore a gown I borrowed from a friend’s musty basement. My brother handed me a lavender rose as I processed into a stadium filled with over 700 graduates whose names and faces I swear I never saw before. It was a sea of eyes and blue caps under the sun smothered in a thick blanket of humidity. My gown stuck to my chest. My mom didn’t come. But the principal called my name anyway, shook my hand, and handed me an empty case that said my diploma would come someday. They didn’t get my name right.
I went to my boyfriend’s graduation party. Men wore ties and women wore loose dresses. They handed him crisp envelopes and gifts neatly wrapped with shiny, happy paper. He wore his graduation hat and silky tassel. I threw mine out the window on the way to the party. The phone rang and mom’s words whimper through the phone lines. “Baby, baby come home.”
I never had a party. My graduation present was a visit from the police. My decorations were smashed car glass and an axe and an angry stepfather. I watched my mother cry and say it was a misunderstanding. The police officer heard it before. He handed her a pale blue card with the number of the local battered women’s shelter. He didn’t know I just graduated.
Someone calls my name. I walk across the stage under the bright lights. My eyes feel like they’ve been burned out from staring at the sun too long. A pleasant voice speaks of my achievements, my published stories, my awards, my perfect 4.0. I’m the Valedictorian in sailor tattoos. I’m the Valedictorian who never had a graduation party, who never got a neatly wrapped gift or smooth, pressed card.
The college president, the Dean, a trustee shakes my hand and says
congratulations. The smile like they’re so fucking proud of me, flashing slick teeth that the stage lights twinkle off of. I’ve never met them before. At least they got my name right.
I sit back down while the choir sings. I hear the man’s words again. “Baby, I’ll make you feel so good.” God, I wish someone or something ever could.
“I’m real good. I’ll make you feel so fucking good.” His lips are cracked, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead The traffic light turns red, and I’m stuck in tandem, my car next to his bronze truck, sitting side by side like little kids holding hands. He leans towards the passenger window, towards my driver side window, and nods. I stare at the plastic grocery bag on the seat next to me. It contains a white tassel, a silly hat, a polyester graduation robe, and three semi-full packs of cigarettes. It’s 9:30 on Sunday morning. I’m going to mass for the first time. I have to; I’m Valedictorian of the Catholic Women’s college.
The man follows me as I cross the bridge. His truck speeds in front of me, then pulls to the side, slows down to get behind my car. He’s dancing around me, trying to trap me. He wants to make me feel good. I wonder if I’ll make it to mass. It would be a scandal if the Valedictorian with tangerine hair and sailor tattoos doesn’t show. I wonder if he wants to screw me or kill me. Part of me hopes he’ll tie me up so I won’t have to go, so I won’t have bear witness to God or say the Invocation at graduation.
After fifteen blocks, he pulls a U-turn. He’s off to make some other lady feel good. I’m late for the line up. Women in dark robes all hold flowers by the chapel. I pull out my robe from the plastic bag and slip it on while walking in line. I’m the Valedictorian with sailor tattoos and crappy manners. I smoke in line and throw my cigarette on the chapel steps.
I shake in the chapel, press my fingers together, count to twenty at least twenty times. Three women in white gowns slip out onto the stage, the edges of their twirling skirt brushing against the priest’s knee. The balls of their bare feet are wrapped in duct tape. They spin and hurl their bodies forward. Dancing virgins for the Lord with silver feet that grip the stone church floor. Sit, stand, sing, watch people line up to eat wafers. I have to pee the whole time.
During the graduation ceremony, I’m forced to sit on stage. I sit behind the podium so no one sees my knees shake, my feet tap, my sweaty palms brushing against the sides of my gown. The polyester isn’t absorbent so the sweat just moves around in little beads. The nun in the velvet robe says my name a lot. I have to stand up and say a prayer. My intended goal is to invoke the spirit of God. I’ve never prayed standing up or sitting down. I’ve never met the spirit of God. I say some stuff about blessing and gratitude and wisdom. I say amen for the first time in my life, at least attached to the end of a prayer. I’ve secretly practiced saying it for days, lamenting over whether or not the “A” should be nasally or soft.
The cap makes my forehead look big and shiny. My hair looks like straw, scarecrow stuffing. I’m ridiculous and wonder if the man in the truck is making someone feel good. I try to imagine what that looks like. I hear his words, “Baby, oh, Baby.”
I hear my mom’s words, too. “Baby, come home.” It’s my graduation day, thirteen years earlier. I wore a gown I borrowed from a friend’s musty basement. My brother handed me a lavender rose as I processed into a stadium filled with over 700 graduates whose names and faces I swear I never saw before. It was a sea of eyes and blue caps under the sun smothered in a thick blanket of humidity. My gown stuck to my chest. My mom didn’t come. But the principal called my name anyway, shook my hand, and handed me an empty case that said my diploma would come someday. They didn’t get my name right.
I went to my boyfriend’s graduation party. Men wore ties and women wore loose dresses. They handed him crisp envelopes and gifts neatly wrapped with shiny, happy paper. He wore his graduation hat and silky tassel. I threw mine out the window on the way to the party. The phone rang and mom’s words whimper through the phone lines. “Baby, baby come home.”
I never had a party. My graduation present was a visit from the police. My decorations were smashed car glass and an axe and an angry stepfather. I watched my mother cry and say it was a misunderstanding. The police officer heard it before. He handed her a pale blue card with the number of the local battered women’s shelter. He didn’t know I just graduated.
Someone calls my name. I walk across the stage under the bright lights. My eyes feel like they’ve been burned out from staring at the sun too long. A pleasant voice speaks of my achievements, my published stories, my awards, my perfect 4.0. I’m the Valedictorian in sailor tattoos. I’m the Valedictorian who never had a graduation party, who never got a neatly wrapped gift or smooth, pressed card.
The college president, the Dean, a trustee shakes my hand and says
congratulations. The smile like they’re so fucking proud of me, flashing slick teeth that the stage lights twinkle off of. I’ve never met them before. At least they got my name right.
I sit back down while the choir sings. I hear the man’s words again. “Baby, I’ll make you feel so good.” God, I wish someone or something ever could.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Hippocampal Pathways
I had the sensation of being stiff, of having a coffee headache that crackles its way into the spine, into the bone of the head. I could feel gritty residue of the cerebellum transmitting from its plump anus sandy grains of pain into the shoulders, to the muscles. It stung behind the eyes like a grim desert, sweeping in slow motion across the orbital spheres. I was a strip of meat, set out to dry like venison on the open plain. I was alone, lonely, and utterly without purpose.
Outside the rain sounded so close, like a giant peeing on the roof.
I touched my hand just to feel the reassurance of someone’s hand on my own. I imagined that it was not my own hand. It did not feel like my own hand. It was warm and comforting and strong. I felt the tickle of a thumb upon my palm, gently scraping the indent of my lifeline.
The hand – it was warm leather, like the insides of a car traveling south on I-94. It was my grandmother’s hand on mine that night in the hospital when she knew she was dying and I thought she was being dramatic. It was my mother’s hand when I told her I was pregnant and laughed to think that I had no idea what I was doing.
It was also my hand on my daughter’s when we are standing in the elevator at my mother’s apartment building, surrounded by old people who mean well but seem creepy when they lean in close to ask her what her name is.
"It's Nordic," I tell them, but they've forgotten what that means around here.
The brain stem was cut like a head of cauliflower. The smooth stalk seems to have little in common with the rumpled contortions on top. It is thick and untroubled and holds all those pieces together.
Outside the rain sounded so close, like a giant peeing on the roof.
I touched my hand just to feel the reassurance of someone’s hand on my own. I imagined that it was not my own hand. It did not feel like my own hand. It was warm and comforting and strong. I felt the tickle of a thumb upon my palm, gently scraping the indent of my lifeline.
The hand – it was warm leather, like the insides of a car traveling south on I-94. It was my grandmother’s hand on mine that night in the hospital when she knew she was dying and I thought she was being dramatic. It was my mother’s hand when I told her I was pregnant and laughed to think that I had no idea what I was doing.
It was also my hand on my daughter’s when we are standing in the elevator at my mother’s apartment building, surrounded by old people who mean well but seem creepy when they lean in close to ask her what her name is.
"It's Nordic," I tell them, but they've forgotten what that means around here.
The brain stem was cut like a head of cauliflower. The smooth stalk seems to have little in common with the rumpled contortions on top. It is thick and untroubled and holds all those pieces together.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Minneapolis by Night
The daytime is occupied by a yawning silence. This is when history opens its great maw and swallows me up in its expanse. Pigeons land on nearby houses, preoccupied by their own flights and concerns. Cars drive by; people locked into their own chambers, their own agendas. There are people in houses, in businesses, on telephones, concerning themselves with things that at night will be forgotten. The world at this time is too big for me. I feel like a tremulous deer about to leave the safety of the forest canopy for an open field. I am afraid of the daylight and the world that emerges with it.
Evening, though, is a dark, intimate place. It is like entering a child’s fort where reality can be gently teased to the side and morsels of the imagination can finally be unpacked from a side pouch. I look to my company for that night and reach with pleasure to unpack my thoughts, to unwind them from the rags that have been protecting them. The rags, dirty and bloody from the day’s journey, are tossed to the side. Beneath them are shards of colored glass, streamers and ribbons, ancient teeth and scraps of corduroy. They catch in the light and forget how small the day had made them. They gleam and rustle in the closeness of dark. The world is small enough then to see the beauty of smallness. There is beauty in the sound of breath nearby, in the pattern of dirt on the floor, in the wall pressing up against one’s back.
I do not like to see people in the daylight. They are small then, and, against the open sky, disappoint me with their smallness. At night, their shadows are cast large across the wall. Their eyes glisten with alcohol or fatigue and they confess things they hadn’t meant to, hoping you will forget by morning. They dress in clothing that comforts them. They reflect on the past and on the vista of life as if one great rolling hill before them. At night, people have souls. In the morning, they get lost in paperwork.
Evening, though, is a dark, intimate place. It is like entering a child’s fort where reality can be gently teased to the side and morsels of the imagination can finally be unpacked from a side pouch. I look to my company for that night and reach with pleasure to unpack my thoughts, to unwind them from the rags that have been protecting them. The rags, dirty and bloody from the day’s journey, are tossed to the side. Beneath them are shards of colored glass, streamers and ribbons, ancient teeth and scraps of corduroy. They catch in the light and forget how small the day had made them. They gleam and rustle in the closeness of dark. The world is small enough then to see the beauty of smallness. There is beauty in the sound of breath nearby, in the pattern of dirt on the floor, in the wall pressing up against one’s back.
I do not like to see people in the daylight. They are small then, and, against the open sky, disappoint me with their smallness. At night, their shadows are cast large across the wall. Their eyes glisten with alcohol or fatigue and they confess things they hadn’t meant to, hoping you will forget by morning. They dress in clothing that comforts them. They reflect on the past and on the vista of life as if one great rolling hill before them. At night, people have souls. In the morning, they get lost in paperwork.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Looking for a Few Good Flashers
MN Flasher is looking to develop a team of bloggers committed to exploring the theme of Minnesota in flash form (including fiction, creative non-fiction, and plays). To keep the content of our site dynamic and interesting, bloggers must be able to contribute well-polished pieces on a regular basis. While pieces should reference some aspect of life in Minnesota, bloggers can be creative in interpreting this guideline.
All work should be previously unpublished and remains the property of the author. Flash Fiction and Creative Non-Fiction pieces should be 1000 words or less (minimum 250). Flash plays should be no more than 10 minutes in length (approximately 10 pages). Be funny. Be original. Be dramatic. Semi-erotic is ok, but blatantly pornographic is not. Horror and some violence (if tastefully done) are fine, so long as it does not assault the senses. Overly sentimental or cliched works are frowned upon.
Please, no works-in-progress, plagiarized works, or author notes about the writing process (unless it is a part of the work). A good piece of flash should be able to stand on its own legs.
To apply, please email mnflasher@hotmail.com with a bio and two of your proposed Minnesota-themed flash pieces (previously unpublished). If you are currently blogging elsewhere, send us a link to your blog.
For more information, please review our FAQ.
All work should be previously unpublished and remains the property of the author. Flash Fiction and Creative Non-Fiction pieces should be 1000 words or less (minimum 250). Flash plays should be no more than 10 minutes in length (approximately 10 pages). Be funny. Be original. Be dramatic. Semi-erotic is ok, but blatantly pornographic is not. Horror and some violence (if tastefully done) are fine, so long as it does not assault the senses. Overly sentimental or cliched works are frowned upon.
Please, no works-in-progress, plagiarized works, or author notes about the writing process (unless it is a part of the work). A good piece of flash should be able to stand on its own legs.
To apply, please email mnflasher@hotmail.com with a bio and two of your proposed Minnesota-themed flash pieces (previously unpublished). If you are currently blogging elsewhere, send us a link to your blog.
For more information, please review our FAQ.
- What kind of writing are you looking for?
- Do you pay your contributors?
- Do you allow simultaneous submissions?
- Do you accept reprints?
- Do you have reading periods?
- Do you publish poetry?
- Do you have a word limit?
- Do you accept email submissions?
- Do you provide editorial comments for submitted works?
- What rights do you request?
- How quickly do you respond to blogger applications?
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Mission
MN Flasher is an online venue for flash writing with a Minnesotan theme. We are interested in capturing the sensory impressions of Minnesota; of growing up lakeside, crunching on snow, and watching the changing face of Minneapolis' Lake Street.
MN Flasher serves as a creative complement to our sister site, MN Crawler, which aims to provide coverage of the diverse people who enrich the Minnesota community. Here, you'll find observations of and interviews with everyday people (from coffee-shop clerks to artists, activists to engineers) and the extraordinary directions they have taken with their lives
MN Flasher serves as a creative complement to our sister site, MN Crawler, which aims to provide coverage of the diverse people who enrich the Minnesota community. Here, you'll find observations of and interviews with everyday people (from coffee-shop clerks to artists, activists to engineers) and the extraordinary directions they have taken with their lives
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