Chelsea flash fiction

Taking Flight by Ellie Larsen

I was waiting with the other parents in the corner of the parking lot when our preschoolers floated out of the school. We collectively gasped, surprised to see the whole class, twelve children, shrieking in delight, bodies lifted, each with a brand new pair of wings. I scanned the crowd for Molly, imagining her wings were a soft, buttery yellow, her favorite color. The students fluttered about, each one behaving how you’d expect them to – the two besties with matching wings holding hands and flying in a circle; Juniper, the cryer, already sitting on the ground and sobbing, his wings drooping behind him; Rigger, kicking up near the roofline, wings beating furiously, trying to make it over; and then here she was, my dear sweet Molly, hovering near my shoulder with delicate yellow wings threaded with blue and purple, reaching to hold my hand. The two teachers followed them out, practically buzzing with excitement. “The time has come,” the lead teacher Erica announced. “We didn’t expect it to happen so early in the year, but one student’s wings emerged and then soon everyone’s wings were sprouting.” “How do we take care of them?” asked the parent who questioned everything at every school meeting. “We’ve put a handout in your student’s backpack,” said Erica and both teachers held up bunches of backpacks in their hands, because the children couldn’t wear backpacks. I looked at Molly, her blue eyes at my eye level, and then beyond to where her new wings were gently working. It was a not-rainy spring day and the sun’s rays caught the wings’ shimmer, creating an iridescent aura that was breathtaking. Her wings beat a little faster and Molly lifted a few inches. We smiled at each other. “Do you like my wings, Mama?” she asked.

“I love them,” I said, and I really did. This was the reason I chose this preschool, after all. When we moved to the area we didn’t know anyone, and a parent in a park near our house recommended it. I didn’t fully agree with all of its philosophy when I checked out the website, but the wings development spoke to my heart. How I longed for my own wings when I was younger, a strong pair to lift me up and away, high into the tree canopy. Unfortunately David didn’t agree with any of it, and it became the first major discord in our parenting philosophy, a bifurcation that only grew until we decided to separate. I squeezed Molly’s hand as I wondered what David would have to say about her wings. “Look, Mama, a bird!” said Molly, letting go of my hand. She got that determined look on her face and stretched her arms up and wide. Her wings beat faster and faster, her body jerking in a zig zag as she rose to the crown of a vine maple. I held my breath as I watched her, knowing practice would smooth out the roughness, like watching her take her first steps all over again. She got to the top and reached for a little black and white chickadee. The bird flitted off and Molly’s wings stopped. She started falling and I ran forward, ready to catch her in my arms. Just as quickly, they started beating again. I felt Erica there, standing next to me, her hand on my shoulder as Molly slowly lowered herself to the ground. “Molly!” I cried. I crouched down, enveloping her. I could feel her wings vibrating through the sleeves of my fleece jacket, the structure of them more rigid than I thought they would be. “You scared me.” “The bird flew away and I fell,” said Molly. Erica was still next to us, I think she was waiting for me to say something, but when I couldn’t get the words out she gently talked to Molly about staying safe with her new wings. Erica knew all about David and me; she had to, because a different one of us might be at pickup or Molly might forget something at David’s that needed to come to school. She also knew his stance on wings. I was grateful for her talking to Molly and for her talking to David too, when the time came. I stood up and took Molly’s backpack from Erica and gave her a hug. Molly rose again as we moved to the car. My daughter was flying.

Ellie Larsen writes stories about people who (usually) live in Oregon. Ellie also lives in Oregon, just outside of Portland, with her family. She’s currently working on her first novel. 

Chelsea prose poetry

Dream About Liza Minnelli Exclamation Point by Edward Thomas-Herrera

Dream you’re watching Liza wrap up a sold-out concert at Carnegie Hall. Dream of a powerhouse performance of New York, New York. Dream there’s a post-show party at the Mocambo. Dream the Mocambo didn’t close down back in 1958. Dream Liza asks you for a ride. Dream Liza can’t drive on account of her two hip replacements make it difficult. Dream telling Liza you’d be honored to give her a lift. Dream owning a red convertible. Dream your husband getting behind the wheel because he says you drive like an old lady. Dream you don’t care what he says. Not tonight. Dream that means you get to ride in the back seat with Liza Minnelli exclamation point. Dream the route to the Mocambo snakes through the scenic high deserts of the American Southwest. Dream it’s late at night – late at night in the scenic high deserts of the American Southwest where the only thing visible to you is the unpaved road ahead, illuminated by headlights. Like the opening credits to Lost Highway. Dream Liza sticking her head out the window to feel the wind whip through her jet-black hair. Dream neither of you is wearing safety belts. Dream how great it is to be in the presence of a bona fide show biz legend like Liza. Dream she’s regaling you with funny stories about Michael York and Martin Scorsese and Chita Rivera and Peter Allen and the Pet Shop Boys. Dream she repeatedly refers to her mother as Judy Garland. Dream that’s sort of weird, but OK. Doesn’t matter. You’re with Liza Minnelli exclamation point. Dream nothing else in the universe matters. As far as you’re concerned, this is the first point in the history of mankind that anything has ever mattered. Including Jesus. Dream Liza climbs halfway out the sunroof. Dream this is a convertible with a sunroof. Dream Liza beating on the roof of the car with bejeweled hands like it’s a bongo drum. Dream Liza belting out Maybe This Time. Dream Liza just radiates pure joy. Dream Liza is pure joy in human form. Dream you want to be like Liza. Dream you want to be Liza. Dream Liza hanging out the car window like some daredevil circus act. Dream the only things keeping Liza from flying off into the high desert night are the heels of her black patent leather boots hooked around the car door handle. Dream you’re starting to worry. Dream that’s not how a septuagenarian with two hip replacements should comport herself. Dream Liza could get hurt. Dream there might just possibly be such a thing as too much pure joy. Dream the car suddenly swerves off to one side and Liza goes airborne like balloons escaping a clumsy child. Dream you shout at your husband to stop the car stop the car exclamation point exclamation point. Dream what a nightmare. Dream having to explain Liza’s accidental death to a 9-1-1 dispatcher or the police or the folks awaiting her arrival at the Mocambo or reporters from People magazine or her legion of devoted gay superfans encircling the entertain-o-sphere. Dream how you’ll never go down in history as a poet now unless it’s as the poet who was with Liza when she met her tragic demise. Dream your husband hits the brakes just as you spot Liza climbing out of a ditch, covered in dust and gravel, smiling, laughing, exuberant, singing Liza with a Z at the top of her lungs. Dream she’s Liza Minnelli exclamation point and that woman’s a goddam survivor.

 

Edward Thomas-Herrera is a native of Houston, Texas where he attended Rice University and discovered boys, alcohol, and Expressionism – not necessarily in that order. Later, he moved to Chicago, Illinois where he discovered poetry and playwriting. Edward has a very long resumé of stage credits with which he refuses to bore you, but he’s happy to inform you that his poetry has appeared in Compressed, Tofu Ink Arts Press, Beaver Magazine, and The Account. (Photo credit: Phil Dembinski)