Short Fiction: The Letter

It is right that we should part; I feel that deeply in my heart.

We are so different you and me; me and you. I have loved you for so long that even my vivid imagination cannot conceive of another person, another love in my life. We are intertwined like the twisted limbs of a rampant wisteria. At times abundant in uplifting bloom and at others with ill-formed whips waving aimlessly, desperately in the breeze; trying to form a lasting connection to grow along in tandem.

To continue is probably too hopeless; too painful. Yet we look at each other and we see a person who is akin to family. Someone we loved with every breath and someone who can bring us to rage.

Short Fiction: Emotion

I saw him approaching the bus stop and envied him his air of golden assurance. From his neat haircut greying at the temples to his discreet cufflinks and polished brogues he gave off an aura of middle-aged success.

He sat in the bus shelter, placed his briefcase on his knees and slipped a photo from the front pocket.  Then his whole body language changed. His shoulders sagged and I caught a searing flash of raw pain in his eyes before he closed them. The low winter sun glinted off a tear in the corner of his eye. This he dashed away, then glanced swiftly either side to see if anyone had noticed. The chubby housewife nearby was busy trying to keep her many shopping bags from disarray. Meanwhile a teenage goth nodded into cyberspace to the pace of his blaring ipod.

Short Fiction: The Tube

She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled crookedly. Anybody watching Glenda would have noticed the immense sadness in her wide cornflower blue eyes or the droop of her thin shoulders, so at odds with the smile. Glenda knew, in fact, that she was quite invisible to the other commuters on the busy circle line tube, except for the two bearded men in dark clothing who were busy pretending not to look at her. They had been following her ever since she left her grim tower block flat at Elephant and Castle. It was clear to Glenda that they intended her to know that she was being monitored on this journey of vital importance to the sect.

Short Fiction: Thanksgiving Day Parade, 1978

“Are you going out?” Aunt Mason sang out from the kitchen. “Dinner will be ready in an hour.”

Bodie hunched his narrow shoulders and hung his head to hide the blush rising up his neck, but he kept moving toward the front door.

Uncle Royce half levered his bulk out of a protesting Laz-Y-Boy. “You answer your mother now, Boy. And no sass.”

“Yes, sir.” Bodie slowed a fraction and said, “Going to see Leesha.” Then he just darted through the door, leaving behind the rising bellow from Uncle Royce’s chair and the shocked stares of the rest of the cousins.

Short Fiction: A Walk Around the Greifensee

Jim and Sue were often seen spending time walking on the path around the lake. They could drive by car to this lake outside of Zurich in ten minutes time. A walk around the lake took them less than 3 hours. Their record was 2 hours and 37 minutes. Having lived in the U.S. many years ago, they both enjoyed the fact that here there were no billboards and while at the lake, they both agreed to turn off their cell phones so as to enjoy the serenity and the sounds of the great outdoors.

Last week a couple Jim had met at his office agreed to join them for a walk around the lake. David and Sarah had come from quite a distance and when the two couples met at the parking lot at 10 a.m. David commented on the traffic in Zurich. “It was a hard drive, getting through the city, but here we are, looking forward to spending this great Spring day with you two.”

Jim and Sue’s eyes showed surprise as they watched David and Sarah pull backpacks out of their car and hang binoculars around their necks. “You never know when you might be lucky and see something special,” was David’s comment to Jim and Sue’s not knowing what to say.

Short Fiction: A Walk in the Morning

The plane landed on the uneven asphalt runway just as the sky was turning those magnificent colors she had always associated with sunset on a coast. Pinks, oranges, yellows, blues––the variety and patterns of the colors seemed to hold the promise of adventure for the next six days in Central America.

Karen had to admit to herself that she was a little nervous: There could be sudden coastal storms or disease-carrying mosquitoes or maybe even twenty-first century pirates. But Roger and she had decided months ago that this beach would be their destination––a warm climate away from the hectic pace of their jobs. For Roger, it offered a rich variety of tropical flora and fauna to photograph. Karen planned to enjoy the sun, walks on the beach and, generally, a peaceful week with Roger.

By the third day they had a routine. Roger got up early for his first walk of the day, camera in hand, and returned for a leisurely breakfast with her. Next, they would explore a new path, returning to the cabin for lunch and afternoons on the beach sitting or lying on the warm sand.

Short Fiction: Sketches

She was lying on her back with one arm thrown over her face in the afternoon sun. An open sketch book sat empty and exposed beside her.  A pale pink Izod sweater was tossed carelessly on top of her book bag. Her bare feet twitched as the willowy stalks of grass took turns genuflecting against her skin.

‘I know another way to tickle your toes.’
She started at the sound of his voice.
‘What are you doing here?’

‘I could ask the same of you.’
‘I’m escaping.’
‘Well, I heard there are young females unattended in the commons so I thought I would offer my protection.’

‘From what’?
‘I could be a stalker who waited outside your class and silently followed you off campus to a secluded place’.

Short Fiction: A Disturbance in the Neighborhood

A disturbance in this neighborhood is nothing new, but tonight we actually woke up. We easily tolerate barking dogs, horn-tooting cars, and crying babies. These noises are forgivable. But now—since the new neighbors had moved in—new sounds disturb the familiar patina of neighborhood life.

They came quietly at first, not speaking our language and trying to fit in. But we didn’t let them. They must have felt unloved and unwanted.

One morning, loud screaming came from their kitchen window and then crying and then a big bang. What to do? Should we call the police? Should we go over and investigate—maybe even help? Typically Swiss, none of us wanted to interfere; no one ventured over. And things quieted down.

Later, in the supermarket, I saw the woman. She was hiding under a big scarf, but a blue-green bruise peeked through. I felt like holding her hand, hugging her, asking her to my house—but I didn’t. I wasn’t able to break free from my strict, socially molded corset.

—Susi Spinatsch

March 12, 2012