In honor of International Flash Fiction Day – June 22nd – I’m joining Flash Mob 2013. Writers around the globe will be posting short and perhaps more experimental fiction to their websites and blogs in an effort to promote and celebrate the short form of flash fiction. My flash is below, a sort of meditation on adulthood and childhood and the spaces between them. Thirty-three crayons were named and, hopefully, not harmed in the making of this little thing.
Naming Crayons, or the Edges of Denim
Somewhere between outer space and the mountain meadow survives Canary Square, a place of little consequence save for the fact that it lies under the cerulean ceiling particular to our land and rests on that raw umber which shares space with the orchid, goldenrod, and cornflower and abuts the green blue sea where the manatee rolls under the shadow of clouds. Here the timber wolf and beaver perk their ears as a small boy rings a lavender bell, calling his family to an outdoor table spread with asparagus sandwiches and pitchers of almond milk and frosty cups of pink sherbet and baskets brimming with ambrosia of plums, apricots, and melon. The final spoon’s fall signals day’s close, and the sunglow, cerise and startling and bittersweet, lends light’s last blush so that the neon carrots and atomic tangerines and handles of antique brass seen through the windows of houses gleam and shimmer before turning to copper, and the inchworm makes its slow way past the wild strawberry plants, past the old wisteria leaning nearly to touch its back, through the ferns yellowing (even now!) at newly curled edges.
From this view in an otherwise sad world, a small part of you realizes you’ve been here before.
From this view in an otherwise sad world, a small part of you remembers being here.
From this view in an otherwise sad world, a small part of you remembers this place.
From this view in an otherwise sad world, a small part of you remembers.
And the inchworm – out of sight now. And us, well – we are already on our way to forgetting.