Month: September 2020

The morning after Steve Lando discovered he was going to be a father, he and Teddy Nguyen drove Highway 2 through Gold Bar and Index up to Steven’s Pass to go snowboarding. The weather was dry until they hit Skykomish, when sleet started to fall, which slowly turned into a thick wet snow as they made their way further up the mountain.

Teddy rolled down his window to flick ash from a cigarette. The truck tires spun for a quick moment on the snow before catching. They were halfway through listening to Van Halen’s “Running with the Devil” when Teddy turned down the music and screamed. Teddy could do a good David Lee Roth animal howl, though there were very few people who could appreciate it.

Teddy turned down the music. “Lando, you’re bumming me out. I can feel your vibes. They’re gross.” He changed lanes to pass a Suburban that was going twenty through the packed snow.

“Relax,” said Steve. He turned the music back up. He worried about what a person should listen to around a child and at what volume. He didn’t know what one did with a child. He’d never even held one.

“Get it together, motherfucker,” yelled Teddy over the music. “Today we ride. Park and pow!” He slapped the wheel with his palm.

Steve hadn’t mentioned the pregnancy to Teddy, or anyone else. When his girlfriend Mona had told him the news, they’d stayed up late talking. The only way he could describe the conversation was that it felt like a phone interview, with all the silent pauses, the awkwardness. It was tough to put to words feelings you didn’t recognize. He’d managed it by being polite and asking questions, and letting Mona do most the talking, which she’d seemed grateful to do, or at least willing. After he left her apartment, all he could think to do was lift weights, so he went to 24 Hour Fitness and worked out until he could barely move.

They parked along the side of the road a quarter mile away and slowly trudged toward the slopes in their boots, snow piled up high and dirty beside the road. They planned to meet up with their friend Barney, who taught lessons in the morning and worked the afternoon shift at the Jupiter Express chairlift, which ran up nearly fifteen hundred vertical feet in four minutes. After spending most of the morning in the backcountry on the far side of the mountain, they found Barney at the chairlift and got in line.

The lift attendant wore a beard tied into braids and was eating popcorn from a bag. Steve could smell the butter, which reminded him of movie nights when he was a child. He wondered how old a child had to be to watch movies.

It was their turn to get on the lift. The three of them hustled up to the red line and waited for the chair to swoop around and pick them up. A single got in next to them to fill out the fourth seat, a boy in skis and a parka that had a patch of the Nordic cross on the breast. Steve wondered how old he was but didn’t ask, because when he was a kid he’d always wished he was older, and admitting his actual age was always a letdown.

They all sat down and the chair rushed them up the mountain, lifting them through the tree line. Out past the lifts was a steep face covered in the scattered lumps and depressions of a mogul run. To the sides were evergreen trees laced with snow. Steve watched two skiers traverse the cat trails snaking between the trees. How long before you could teach a kid to snowboard?

“The air up here is like a drug,” said Teddy.

“I took Sudafed last night,” said the boy. “I had a cold but now it’s gone.”

“Well here’s something for you,” said Teddy. “Hockey players used to take handfuls of Sudafed before games, to give them energy. That’s because the same drugs that are in Sudafed are also in meth. Do you know what meth is?”

“Let’s not talk about meth,” said Steve.

“They keep the meth Sudafed behind the counter now,” said Barney, pulling one of his gloves tight. “They have to see your I.D. if you want to buy it. And they’ll only sell you that one package.”

“I play hockey,” said the boy.

“I almost forgot,” said Teddy. He took off his glove and dug around in his pocket. He handed what looked like tightly-wrapped candies to each of them, including the boy. “Mentholatum cough drops,” he said. The boy looked nervous. “They’re fine. They’re cough drops. Suck on them for a few seconds then open your mouth to the cold. It’ll feel like ice fairies are dancing inside.”

Steve removed his gloves and slid them into his pockets and unwrapped the lozenge. It was marbled white, slightly translucent, like the ice covering the lake of the winter cabin he’d visit once a year with his family, the lake he’d learned to skate on, and then hockey, with Teddy. He popped the lozenge into his mouth and sucked. He opened his mouth and felt the sharp cold. But there was also a warmth in his stomach and neck: this would be a trick a father would show a child.

Ross McMeekin’s stories have appeared in Virginia Quarterly Review, Redivider, Tin House Flash Fiction Fridays, and X-R-A-Y. His debut novel, The Hummingbirds (Skyhorse), came out in 2018.

In those small, empty hours, you find your hand putting the milk bottle in the oven, the cornflakes in the cupboard under the sink. 

A cat flashes its eyes at you from the top of the back garden fence and you know, through the window, that it sees. It sees the soul is out of you. There’s nothing inside your skin. It’s the time of the night when you could do anything. 

Slumped on the kitchen stool, you look at your fingers like they belong to something else.

The soul has to wash back in, on the shush of the dawn, when the oily sky spreads its pink and blue. Until then the streets run in dark threads from your gate. 

Your son sleeps in the room above. His soul is also out to play at this time of night. His head is filled with dreams of dark water; cold sharks sliding past his skin, red and yellow fish. There’s a diver ahead in a thick suit that covers everything but the hands, which are his dad’s.

You can’t dream anymore, because you can’t sleep. Your fingers are too cold to feel, and the cornflakes are left soggy on the counter, as your bare feet move towards the back door.  

Later, you will retrace your steps, wash up your bowl, make your son’s breakfast. Until then it’s just your toes on wet grit, ivy growing in chaos down the black alley, the glowing eyes of animals, the unshakeable chill. 

Lucy Smith is a flash fiction, prose poem, and short story writer from North West England, currently based in Cardiff, Wales, where she has completed an MA in Creative Writing, two artist residencies, and co-written an audio story. She is the creator of Talking Ink, a podcast in association with Seren Books, showcasing flash fiction writers and poets and featuring music from local artists. Her fiction has been published by Palm-Sized Press and won awards from Legend Press and Lancaster University. Find out more on her website: lucysmithwriter.wordpress.com Continue reading “Seeping by Lucy Smith” →

One late August afternoon, Roger Ruiz sat on a bench atop a hill that overlooked his former high school. He was wearing a white Sonics jersey, which is significant to the story because it is always nice to remember the Sonics and because in a few moments, the jersey would be covered with dirt and trace amounts of ash.

He was smoking a cigarette and was mildly concerned that this would be the one that sent him over the threshold into addiction. But more than this, his thoughts were on Mr. Garza, his former teacher who he had seen earlier in the day at the grocery store. Roger had put a loaf of rye bread in front of his face to avoid being seen. He loved Mr. Garza and was not sure why he did it. The reflexive act disturbed him enough to go atop the hill to smoke and contemplate and reflect.

Roger dropped his cigarette and made an attempt to put it out but his foot missed the still-smoldering butt. Oblivious to his mistake, he reached for another cigarette. The brown grass that had been burnt from the hot Seattle summer caught quickly. A fire about the size of the palm of a hand sprung from the earth. Startled, Roger stood up from the bench but rose too quickly and clumsily, causing him to trip. The fire grew to two palms.

Now on his back, he needed to act quickly. He aimed his body for the fire. He rolled over the flames and successfully put it out. His waxy Sonics jersey was now covered with dirt and trace amounts of ash. Everything was under control but he fled the scene, zipping down the hill towards his former school.

Later while on a jog, Mr. Garza ran slowly up to where Roger had recently been. He noticed a strange patch on the slanted face of the hill. A clean circle of dirt exposed around a blackened perimeter of barbecued grass. He patted the back of his head. The spot reminded him of his balding hair. He finished his run.

Rain poured heavy in Seattle that September. The grass on the hill greened much quicker than most years. The burnt patch began to heal, to grow.

One weekend that fall, Mr. Garza bought a Sonics hat at the mall. He took the tag off and placed it on his head immediately. The hat made him feel much better about his appearance. As he was heading back to his car he noticed Roger shopping at another store but didn’t move to say hello, thinking back to the time weeks before when he had seen him hiding behind a loaf of bread. As he remembered this, he saw Roger smiling and coming his way.

“Hey Mr. Garza!” Roger said. The two shook hands.

D.H. Valdez teaches Social Studies at his former high school. He holds a Master’s Degree in Teaching from the University of Washington. He and his wife Holly grew up together in Seattle and continue to live in the city. They are avid sports fans and desperately await the return of the Sonics. Valdez has previously been published in Lunch Ticket, Flash Fiction Magazine, and The Citron Review.