It’s a wonder to be let down when we’re sad and let up when filled with joy. Heavy is something we can definitely measure. Greater the grief, higher the number on the scale, while lightness is harder to grasp. The greater the joy, the more elusive, unmeasurable, fleeting. Our feelings of joy seems to evaporate while our grief adheres to gravity, weighing on our shoulders. Lovers, hang on to your joy. May it last and fill you up like a balloon that you tie onto a child’s wrist.
Lucas holds my face in his small hands and tells me I’m his best friend, his sweet heart and his everything. He tells me he has hearts and flowers for me everyday. Always, always be with me, he says. And at night he tells me never to leave him, to always lay next to him. He tells me he had a bad dream that he was alone, trapped in a chocolate factory, of all places. Chocolate is his favorite thing, and still he emphasized that I wasn’t there. I hear this now, and I realize he’s had these feelings for a long time. Probably since he was born. This fear of abandonment or fear of being alone. He’s three and now able to articulate his thoughts very well, and he tells me he doesn’t want me to leave his bedside.
I think about those early days and months when all I ever wanted was to get away.
Now I let him sleep in our bed, wedged in between my husband and myself in our crowded queen mattress with two cats. I stay with him at night until he falls asleep. And when he calls me in his sleep, I run to him, so he knows he isn’t alone, not for a second. And in the morning, he can always have his glass of chocolate milk.
There’s a pencil in someone’s neck. Read what happens next in my flash fiction story under 800 words.
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Hey you! Thanks for visiting. If you’re a bit of a surrealist like me, check out my new published flash fiction story under eight hundred words. I’d appreciate any comments.
Click to read ‘Old Jimmy.’
Today, I terrorized my kitten. Max is 7 months old and knows by now “no” means, “NO!” He continues to chew on my potted cacti. Knocks them over spilling dirt and roots all over my window sill and floor. Today… twice he knocks them over even after a spray in the face with a water bottle (which my husband and I thought would be a fair training tactic but rather leaves a trail of slippery water on my concrete floor.) Sigh… I don’t think it works. Or he just doesn’t give a rats ass. That’s it.
Hey there! If you have a few minutes to spare please take a moment to read my surreal short fiction under 600 words. It will literally take you two minutes. Leave me a comment here… good or bad, I don’t mind. :) Thanks so much!