The staff member looks at me, and that’s when I notice her lovely turquoise eyes. “You’ve got beautiful eyes,” I had to say.  She smiles.

Later I remark on the nurse’s eyes to another staff member who sniffs, “Probably colored contacts.”  Upon reflection, I have to agree; most likely.  But she had at least looked at me.

I am leaving the rehab center tomorrow, and during the evening prior to my release I have a dream in which I am safely seated by the rim of an extinct volcano which begins to spew objects high into the air.  There’s no fire, no lava, just the projectile ejection.  A nervously quivering  object lands kersplat near me and crawls over to sit beside me.  Why, it’s Willie the Octopus from my first story, who the volcano has physically separated from Princess Dootsy Dorf from Oceanvale!  No sooner has poor Willie landed than one of my favorite books lands in my lap.  User Illusion!  I am being bombarded by inner glories! Then, as though falling through a cloud from far above, tumbles Tulpa, an old friend from several stories once begun.  I’m thinking that’s the end of my visitors when Amber floats by, lucidly dreaming.  If I am surprised beyond words I am even more surprised and pleased to see the Oriental lady from behind the store window complete her dainty step forward, twirling her umbrella, which I can see now is a parasol.  She pauses on her way and turns to face me, and bends into a formal bow.  I slowly awaken near tears, touched.  Murphy pauses by my door. “You doing those bent foot exercises?  Looks to me like you’re falling asleep in that chair.”

“Just watching the day wane beyond my window.”   Murphy laughs and walks on by, as I continue woolgathering.   Loving a thing is somewhat like experiencing beauty, in that it fills you up. I must have been eighteen years old when I saw the figurine in a jewelry store window in Lexington, Kentucky that filled me with warmth.  It was a delicate oriental figure in a kimono, carrying an umbrella, stepping ahead with one foot raised.  I wanted it, but knew I could not afford it, so tucked it away for later recall, like today.

I remember all the stillborn creatures in the quagmire of my unpublished stories, locked into my bulging briefcase. They are my things, too, I guess, fruit of my mind instead of my womb, waiting to be delivered, but perhaps destined to be forever caught between idea and shelf.   My womb is infertile but not my mind, which still cherishes things from the past.  Things don’t leave you.

457 words

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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8 Responses to FLASH FICTION-“Going Home””

  1. jilldennison says:

    Isn’t the mind a wondrous thing? We can re-live the past, or live the days that never were but might have been.


  2. Reblogged this on petrujviljoen and commented:
    I thought this rather well done! Please click through to the original post!


  3. I love the floating feeling in this piece. Restful and full of anguish at the same time. Like life really.


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