The Orange Skirt

        Dirty clouds were slowly eclipsing the sun like mold spreading over an orange, squeezing it below the skyline of Liverpool ONE. Lucy was watching this from the doorway of Mango.
        From beyond the doorway, inside the shop, Beryl was issuing urgent-sounding whispers: “Lucy!”
        Lucy sighed and turned to follow the whispers in. She hated this shop, but if she pretended all the mannequins were real people, she could feel sorry for them instead of herself. Like, it must be hard to have only dimples in place of real eyes.
        Beryl hissed again— “Lucy!”—and motioned toward a rack of ladies’ trousers beside which she was standing. “Come on!” Beryl loved this shop, but she clearly had no time to browse just now.
        Lucy shuffled over, running her fingers down the row of trouser pockets while Beryl flailed frantically in the edge of her vision. Even though she had already heard Beryl and was already nearly upon her, it appeared that Beryl was still desperately trying to flag her down.
        “We have to find Safia,” Beryl gasped the moment Lucy reached the end of the trousers. She spun around in what was almost a leap, and looked toward the top of the escalator.
        Lucy followed her agitated gaze. “Did she go to the second floor?”
        “Well, I don’t know,” Beryl said. She turned toward Lucy. “She said she was looking for the orange skirt.”
        “Where are the skirts?”
        Beryl sighed, like a cough. “Well, I don’t know, Lucy! I don’t know where the skirts are!”
        “Oh,” Lucy said. “I thought you’d been here before.”
        Beryl sighed again, like an apology. “I have done. But they moved the skirts.”
        Lucy nodded and snuck a glance over her shoulder out into the square. Any hint of orange was gone from the sky, now just the color of darkness. Lucy really hated this shop.
        “Well,” Lucy said, “why don’t we go up and see if we can find her?” She pointed to the escalator.
        Beryl must have tried not to smile, but she really didn’t try very hard. Her escaping smirk betrayed her pleasure at Lucy’s acquiescence. “Well, come on,” Beryl said, and moved toward the escalator with more than a hint of what could only be described as a flounce.
        Each step emerged from the floor painstakingly, one after the other in careful formation, rising higher and higher, only to fall into oblivion below the next floor.
        Lucy rested her hand on the moving railing. “Do you think there’s anything under there?” She asked as they boarded.
        “What?” Beryl was still looking down at the floor they were leaving behind, as if she were starting to believe Safia might have been down there all along.
        Lucy repeated herself. Thus far they had risen four steps. “Do you think there’s anything under the escalator?”
        “Under it?”
        “Like an empty space? Or maybe a closet?” Eight steps. “Maybe someone lives under there.”
        Beryl laughed quietly down in her throat without opening her mouth.
        “What if things fall through?” Lucy continued. Fourteen steps. “Do you ever see the things washed up at the ends of escalators?”
        “No.”
        “I once saw a puddle of orange wine gums.” Just the orange ones. Odd. Twenty-one steps.
        “A puddle,” repeated Beryl as they disembarked from the escalator.
        “Twenty-three,” said Lucy.
        “What?”
        “Just the orange ones,” said Lucy.
        The two stood at the top of the escalator now, presumably looking for skirts. Lucy didn’t really know.
        “They were all at the top of the escalator by the cinema,” she said. “Like someone had picked them out and dropped them on the escalator, and they rode all the way up and got stuck.”
        Beryl seemed to have spotted something and had started walking away. Lucy wasn’t sure if she had heard her. She decided to wait by the escalator.
        Another time there had been a jumper at the top. A perfectly fine jumper, wadded up and abandoned and struggling to keep from being sucked into the abyss beneath the escalator. Once there was a jumble of plastic coffee stirrers. Once a hat. Loads of things got lost on escalators.
        “Lucy!”
        Beryl was waving at her from a table of knit hats. When Lucy didn’t move, she waved again and raised her eyebrows. Lucy shuffled over.
        “What did you go swanning off for?” Beryl asked in a hoarse whisper that erratically rose and fell in volume, as if she wasn’t sure if the second floor of Mango was a place in which one should speak quietly.
        “I didn’t.”
        “Did you find her?”
        “Her?”
        Beryl furrowed her eyebrows in a way that suggested a supreme disappointment in Lucy’s commitment to the manhunt. “Safia,” she said.
        “I’ve never met Safia. I don’t know what she looks like.”
        Beryl sighed, like disgust. “Just look for the orange skirt.”
        “Would she be waiting for us there?”
        “Well, she was looking for the orange skirt!” Beryl was getting visibly tired of explaining.
        “Just that one?”
        “She found it here earlier today, and it was the only one in her size, so she hid it. She didn’t have enough money.” Beryl shook her head at Lucy as if this should have been obvious. It wasn’t.
        “But…” Lucy wasn’t sure what she wanted to know. Something seemed off. Odd.
        Beryl waited with raised eyebrows for Lucy to continue. When she didn’t, Beryl said, “Look, you can wait here if you’re not going to help. Just tell me whether you’re going to help or not so I don’t have to look for you, too.”
        “You don’t have to look for me,” Lucy said. “I’ll just be by the orange skirt.” She wasn’t sure why she said that. Trying to make a joke, probably. She would much rather just wait by the escalator, or outside, or at home.
        Beryl furrowed her eyebrows again. Her eyebrows moved quite often. Lucy remembered that they didn’t know each other very well at all.
        “Okay,” Beryl said, and left.
        Lucy found the orange skirt, or at least an orange skirt. It was hanging from the hips of a pale, effeminate, dimple-eyed mannequin. Lucy had no idea if it was the same skirt, but she decided to wait with the mannequin for a while. Maybe Safia would wash up here like the wine gums, and Lucy could save her from getting sucked into the abyss.
        Lucy leaned against the window behind the mannequin and glanced outside before closing her eyes. Just darkness.

____________________________________________________________________________

Okay, this was definitely cheating. Definitely not flash fiction. I wrote this four or five years ago, and I just found it again and I wanted to put it somewhere.

Listen

No, wait.

You won't let me finish?

No, I don't want to hear.

Because you think you know what you're going to hear?

Yes.

You don't know.

I do. I've heard it before.

From someone else.

Yes.

Well, this is me.

So?

It could be different.

No. Just let it be.

Well--

Shh.

No, I'm--

Shh.

Really?

Please, can't we just move away from this? Pretend it didn't happen. We can keep doing what we were doing before.

You know I can't move on from this. You have to listen.

My god, you know, sometimes I don't know if you're trying to play me or a harmonica.

What does that--

Shh. Please. Put it away.

Hiding

The sun has gotten a little higher in the sky. Whichever way I turn, it burns in my peripheral, unblinking as a stage light. If I put my back to it, the flapping plastic canopy pings the light back at me. I told her we should have splurged on something a little softer, like cotton.

          At the opposite end of the aisle, the mother-of-the-bride holds a phone to her ear. The drooping daffodil in her lapel stirs in the wind. Her eyes move from side to side. She taps her foot, but the grass muffles it completely. From here, with the silence and her imperceptible distress signals, I can almost imagine that she's totally calm.

          At this end of the aisle, my mother stands up a little too suddenly. She's about to say something regrettable.

          "If anyone has seen the bride, speak now!" She faces the crowd, watching as her words settle over them and drift down into the gaps between their plastic lawn chairs.

          My aunt, still seated, takes her hand and tugs gently. Casting a final look over the spectators, my mother chortles and sits down.

          The officiant clears his throat but says nothing. Without looking at him, I know he is adjusting his tie again, brushing invisible particles from his right pant leg with his palm, rocking back on his left foot and then forward.

          I can see her hiding under the table that holds the fake ice sculpture. We've been looking at each other for almost half an hour. Only time will tell which of us will break and join the other.

The Adventures of Leon the Pirate

Once upon a time, there was a pirate named Leon. Leon had always known he wanted to be a pirate. His mother said he was born with a sword in his hand and an eye patch on his face (though he was born with both eyeballs intact). It was a lovely anecdote that she liked to tell over and over at garden parties. Leon wasn't sure he really believed it, and he wasn't at all sure that he cared.
          One day, while sailing the high seas, Leon decided to take a stroll about the deck. He laid his book down beside his deck chair and set off on a light jog. When he reached the stern, he turned around and jogged to the bow. Upon reaching the bow, he decided he was tired of strolling and sat down on the deck. He could see all the ocean before him, the waves barely moving in the faint breeze.
          'I say,' he said to no one, 'I'm not going at all quickly, am I?'
          'No,' no one replied, 'no, you are not.'
          Leon knew there was something he could do to make the ship go faster, but he couldn't quite remember what it was. He paced to and fro on the deck, until the jib sails caught his eye. The ship (which was called The Sandwich) really did have an impressive array of sails. The mizzen sails were his favorite, because 'mizzen' is a fun word to say.
          After some thought, Leon realized that since he was the captain (or at least, he was the only one on The Sandwich and must therefore be her captain) he needed a crew to make the ship go faster. A captain is not much of a captain without a crew. Leon suddenly felt very lonely indeed. He thought of what his mother used to say -- 'He really was a precious child. He was born with a sword in his hand and an eye patch upon his brow (though of course he still had his eye underneath). And so I suppose his profession comes as no surprise! Such a precious wee'un.' -- and this made him feel much better.
          Straight away he knew what he must do. Returning to his deck chair, he picked up his book (which was really a Kindle Fire) and went to Monster.com. There he posted a wanted ad for 2 - 15 crew members that could make The Sandwich go faster. After he finished the ad, he returned his book to the deck and laid back in his deck chair with a sigh of content. His mother would be proud, Leon thought. He had handled this very wisely. All he had to do now was wait.

The Man in the Moon

I met him under the blue-lit oak tree. He came walking round the corner, each step poised lightly and perfectly on the edge of the brick wall that bordered the pavement. When I saw him, he had paused, with one foot in front of the other, to turn his head upwards to the night sky. He was looking at the moon.
          His skin glowed blue-white and his features were washed out in the cold light that streamed down through the trees. I saw him lift his chin still higher, breathe in deeply the moonlight and sharp steel air. He didn't exhale. While his eyes were closed I slid down from the tree and leant on my hands, pressing them against the trunk with the small of my back. I could feel my cheeks reddening in the November air.
          When he opened his eyes, his head was already turned to see me. I smiled. He smiled back and jumped from the wall. His feet didn't make a sound as he landed, or as he walked closer until the lights of the oak tree created a blue glow on his hair and his clothes. Standing there, his face was still as white as when he stood out beneath the moon. He leaned against the tree beside me and glanced over my face before returning his gaze to the street.
         'What is this place?' He asked. His voice was quiet and clear, like soft piano notes.
          'This is Norwich,' I said. I settled further back against the trunk of the blue-lit oak tree.
          He breathed out without inhaling, a soft clipped breath. 'I like it here,' he said.
          'I do, too,' I said. 'I've always lived here.'
          He nodded, as if he already knew. 'I've meant to come down for a long time.' He looked up into the branches. 'It was because of the lights.'
          I smiled as I looked up with him. For a moment we were silent, holding our breath and gazing up together into the tiny blue lights that adorned the oak tree. They were always there, throughout the year.
          He exhaled again and turned towards me. 'Would you like to walk?'
          I paused, looking out into the town. The streets were quiet and bare. There was no one about.
          'Yes,' I said.
          That night we moved like we had forever, like we could keep walking into the night and the sun would never rise, and we would never go back to the brick wall that bordered the pavement. The moon was lost behind the trees, or maybe behind the clouds. I looked for it and couldn't find it.
          The wind brushed against our cheeks and pulled my hair back from my ears, tucked it behind my shoulders. We moved closer together. I buttoned my jacket. A group of students jostled along the pavement and I tried to pull back, to disappear beneath the trees. But he held my hand and kept me with him. They didn't even see us, and together we watched them turn the corner past the roundabout. It was quiet again. We walked.
          We never spoke along the way. Walking beside each other hand in hand, our shoulders occasionally brushing together, was enough. Speech would only have disrupted the sacred silence that enveloped us. Words would have burned our mouths on that cold night.
          I thought of the moment he had leapt from the brick wall, that weightless space when everything was still. I wished he had jumped from something higher. We walked in that moment outside of time and gravity, when we went where we wanted to go and not where we were tied by nature. Our time was short, only a moment's worth. Only one breath.
          We stood again beneath the blue lights, our fingers still curled around each other's. It was quiet and still and cold, as if no time had passed since we left. Maybe it hadn't. Looking up at the sky like he had when I first saw him, he slowly released my hand. He didn't breathe. He seemed to be waiting for something.
          I leant back against the trunk, pressing my hands once more to the bark. A moment passed before he turned his head to look at me. The moon had appeared just above him like a halo. I smiled at him. He smiled back and exhaled, but it was longer this time, almost a sigh. He had used up his allowance.
          On that night the universe had circled around to watch, until he returned to the moon and I to the blue-lit oak tree.

Brief Postponement

I can't do it tonight.

I'll have to think about it.

I tried to turn this into a story, but it felt forced.

Trying to make up something poignant doesn't work.

And furthermore, my inner creative gremlin will not let me type one block of text.

Zombie

I wasn't surprised when my laptop tried to bite me. It seemed natural, after its violent demise, for it to come back for me. What I didn't expect was its persistence. I fired a shotgun at it twice -- the first round severed the power cord and the second one missed -- and that was when I realized it was completely independent of a power source. I tried setting it on fire, but that didn't really work either. I couldn't get anything to light; the keys only melted a little before it tried to bite me again. So I ran away. Usually zombies don't move very quickly, but my laptop is a speed demon. All the reviews said so; that's why I bought it. Whenever I looked back, it was right behind me. It's tenacious, I'll give it that much.
          I decided to go to Costco. Everyone says that's the best place to go in the event of a zombie apocalypse, but it turns out no one else realized there was an apocalypse on. A Costco employee named Jennifer called security and they dragged me out. I think it must have been the blow torch.
          So now I've locked myself in a Porta Potty, and I'm listening to my laptop ramming itself against the door while I try to figure out my next move. I read a lot of online articles about how to kill a zombie, but they didn't have much information about computers. They say the brain's the important thing, so you should cut off its head or something. I would guess that taking out the battery has the same effect, but I know the battery's dead. I'd been needing to buy a replacement. Maybe the battery came back to life, too.
          Hopefully I'll figure something out soon.