A Life of Wonder

Here are two Flash Fiction Stories I recently wrote

My Roadtrip to You

I knew he had decided to end my life. And I knew the only way out was to end his. He pulled over at the rest stop to “use the can.” And when he returned, I did. And then I ran: the salt from my tears, the lights reflecting off of the cold rain, the lights dancing all over the freeway, all was a blur. 

When this bearded trucker hit the old man with his Mac truck, I said nothing. He didn’t so much as flinch. Once, driving with you, we hit a squirrel. You made me stop and bury her. You said a prayer, and you made me pray, too. “Did you see that?” he asked me about 10 minutes later. “No,” I said.

“Good.” 

“ Good.

But I did see it. And he knew I saw it. And I knew, he knew. “

Drink this,” he said handing me a flask. “The flavor, licorice with a bite like mouthwash.” “

What’s wrong, boy, never had a man’s drink?”

 He asked. 

“Not like this one.” 

I only hitched a ride on this massive Mac truck to be with you. Flying terrifies me. We both know I can’t rent a car. Not with my credit.   I thought of coming to you on horseback with roses, or in a Greyhound with seniors singing show-tunes. 

 “Can you..can you drop me at the next city,” I asked him.

 “Next what, city boy” he taunted, “you don’t like our road trip” 

“I love it, I just need to wire some money.” 

“Wire some money my ass, city boy.”

Johnny Cash broke our silence.

God I love you babe. To infinity and back, infinity and back. Wait for me babe, wait for me… 

Good Pea

He was the mostly unlikely cross-country star. He started running to runaway, away from Penny Larson, and the crew of giggling friends who whispered, “pea” under their breath; away; away from Brice, who gave his puke green, beat up, beauty of an El Camino the name “pea,” which stuck. Later it became his name. “Run pea, Run,” they teased at every event, every moment really. He wanted to tell them to “shut up,” but stuttered so badly with the “S” sound that he said nothing. Ever after placing in each and every cross country meet that seasons, after becoming the Wildcat legend, he walked hiding in his hoodie like a ghost trying not wake the living. The living. They could never understand their taunting brought him this strange, morbid pleasure. Nightly he reenacted it with the toys from his childhood. “You’re a good pea,” he’d whisper grasping the green toy solder, “a Special one,” he’d say without stuttering.