Short-Story.Me!

The sky mocked her, daring her. Though it knew she would lose. The dare was simple, take to the sky.

Just once would be enough.

Henri craned her neck, trying to follow the path of a bird, envy rolled of her in waves, practically visible to the naked eye.

Then, in a flash, her father sored across the sky, his obsidian wings drew in the light around him, like Apollo with a black sun. How she wished she could join him.

In geometry class you were taught the importance of shapes. The different dynamics they can display when in a relationship with their colleague, math. I remember listening to the lesson and then dismissing it quickly, unfortunately. I think I might have been asleep when taught the intricate part where, by not treating the shapes with the care and respect they deserved, it would result in an imbalance in the equation. No less, a loss of equilibrium in one’s own existence.

The Hexagon just prostrates its monogamous ugly head and jumps on the upper part of my back.

Two hobos walked by the side of the road, both were thirty-five, unshaven, and wearing denim. One of them was wearing a red bandana. They were on the shoulder of the road and a truck flew by them; they made no attempt for a ride. They walked single file, the sun was beating down, and the men sweated. One of the hobos stopped and wiped his face with his shirt tail. He’d been in Vietnam and his life hadn’t gone that well since.

It used to be Smooth Boy’s Zippo, but Smooth Boy is dead. I run my thumb over the striker wheel, addicted to the friction of metal sparking flint, and pass my index finger back and forth through the flame. I like the weight and the slick cold touch of it. I imagine myself going back in time to a pre-literate civilization and having them worshiping me as the living god of fire. The flame wavers like a tired stripper going through the motions. I hold my fingertip in the heart of it until the first throb of pain makes me jerk it back. Smooth Boy was my name for him, his real name doesn’t matter.