Hello from The FLARE!
These last two weeks saw posts involving conflict, connection, and disconnection. There’s short fiction of exactly one hundred words to my first article posted here, an 8-minute read on character analyses from the Jessica Jones universe.
I write a lot about personal connections and how bonds form. They’re fascinating concepts and a well of inspiration. They are also a topic that resonates. How are we pulled closer to people? How easy it is to break family ties? My recent posts are windows into a few different types of connections.
Article:
FAMILY TIES
Jessica is not renowned for her optimism. As a private investigator, she gets to see the nuance of good and evil. The ones willing to pay for information or resolution are not always the good guys. Not entirely. The world is a seedy and unfair place. Being close enough to touch it and maybe make some positive change is probably enough to get a little peace inside.
Then there’s her sister Trish.
Flash Fiction:
CONFLICT
Lou tucked his wrinkled shirt into his pants with ink-stained fingers. “Fuck, Marty! We’re not about shelling out content with no substance. We’re better than that!”
“Lou. You’re a relic.”
Lou was aghast. The magazine had shifted from the thoughtful essays of decades before, to flashy fluff pieces and more gossip.
“People are vain. We give them a mirror,” Marty said cooly. He flicked the ash off his cigarette and took a long drag, glaring at Lou from behind it.
“Besides, no one can say what really matters. Least of all you.”
The men stood stone-faced with neither letting up.
Flash Fiction:
MAGNETISM
It was relaxed here, a slice of freedom in a world where I needed to be flattered by a man’s attention. In a dimly lit Manhattan apartment on Saturday night, a dark-haired and intense beauty could size me up. No need to misconstrue. She was interested. Someone passed behind me and she gently tugged me closer by the lapel.
“Thanks. Near fatal collision there,” I said.
“Undoubtedly.”
Flash Fiction:
DISCONNECTION
When Everything Stops
It is all very specific, all very calculated. I must be at the train station by 6:30 am to get a decent parking space. Seven minutes is the most grace I can get. I’ve timed it. The train comes at 6:50 am sharp and I get on, always in the quiet car. These days I’ve decided to sit in the backward-facing seats just for practice. There could be a crowded morning and my equilibrium was thrown off that one time. That won’t happen again.
When I arrive at Penn Station, I take the E, close to the end of the train, but not the last car. It is always far too crowded. When I get off at Lexington, I hoof it to the 6 train. Comfortable shoes are a must. Were it not for the durable leather and stable cushion, I would not close the distance to make the next transfer. The ride is very brief, so sitting at this point in the journey would make me inattentive. Missing my stop would mean an appreciable delay and that would not do.
It’s all very well structured. I’m happy with how it’s been laid out. I get to the timeclock at 7:58. Always 7:58. Never late.
One morning, against my better judgment, as I must be on time, I checked my phone after some insistent buzzing. Please call me. It’s about Mom, a text from my sister read.
I stopped just outside Hunter College and ducked around the corner.
“Lisa, what’s wrong?”
“Mark, it’s Mom. She’s dead.”
There was a deafening and utterly crippling echo to her words which wrung out all my strength. The phone slipped out of my hand. I was dizzy and overtaken. Mom… gone?
My umbrella was long gone, tumbling down the sidewalk behind me. I stood there, in the rain, unable to process, unable to move. Water dripped down the back of my starched shirt, down my slacks; droplets rested on my eyelashes. I looked upward, almost searching for her among threatening storm clouds. Only the unforgiving and rapidly swirling sky met my eyes.
Suddenly I heard a small crash, like glass breaking. My phone. It lay on the pavement like a forgotten toy, scratched and irreparably cracked. I looked beyond it and across the street as people shoved their way past me. There was no pause to the almost perpetual beat of commuter feet. Inside each, a world their own, disconnected from my developing breakdown. I was a still rock with a steady flow on either side.
My arm rose almost without my permission and my sleeve drew back to reveal flashing numbers on my watch. 7:50 am. I stepped out onto the corner and looked down the street at a mere five-minute walk to my office door. Looks like I won’t be late.
Hope you enjoyed July’s reads. One month down on Substack!
Next month will begin with my only viral article on Medium. It’s about a strong tie that stretches across time: one between generations. How are you staying connected?
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