Worthing Flash

Miss O’Hara looked Irish as her name and somewhat like a student-teacher I had a crush on in high school. This version usually wore a faint smile or one was on the cusp when she greeted our non-degree English 100 Class. Her engagement ring was impressive. When she was making points with that hand, I’d watch for it grabbing light to sparkle. Working the gem slowly, she could have hypnotized me.  This was my first use of the G.I. Bill. I’d done three years in the Navy. Sometimes I thought she might be about to laugh at us and our chances of ever earning a sheepskin. Her opening remarks made it clear that Conrad and Faulkner were her favorite writers. “I hope they’ll become yours.”  She was a classy dresser, and wore scarves that were probably made of silk. I’d measure her at 5-10. Her skirts fell well below her knees, always pumps with low heels. She was bustier than Helena. Her blouses were often as colorful as a jelly bean assortment. I worked at Bridge’s Supermarket on Broadw...

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We had it good?  “Batty? George? Is that you George Batterman?” The shock of recognition lifts his head skyward as he belly laughs. “Flipping Nora!” “Sarah Abbott?” We grasp each other’s arms and bounce on the spot. For five glorious minutes we are teenagers. We gabble and giggle oblivious of the staring commuters crammed in around us. “Damn, it’s my stop.” The spell is broken, he fumbles in his suit pocket for a business card, grabs his rucksack and squeezes himself through the crowd onto the platform. I stare through the sliding door window and see him mouth, “Call me.” 16.30 to Hastings I watch the Kent countryside stream past. Do I call him and tell him my truth? In that bubble we revisited a period of no fear, a lifetime ahead of no significance, each day lived in the moment. My imagination plays out in black and white. I recall the large oak tree overlooking the factory where most of the parents from the estate worked. I can feel the smooth bark ...

Done. Stick a fork in me. Dinner fork. Tuning fork. You can tune a piano, but you can’t tuna fish. One fish, two fish, red, blue. Definitely blue. Bluer than the sky and darker than death. Blue like the pills. All the pills piled up like shiny jelly beans, but tasted so bitter. It won’t be long now. And here I thought it was a job for life. Motherhood. In those first, soft, hazy (but not lazy) baby days, I did everything. It was exhausting and I was figuring it out as I went. Scared and my own mother was nowhere to be found. But I loved it. My morning started with your beautiful face and ended with your peaceful slumber. Every soggy diaper, every glop of vomit, every snotty crying jag, every soft blue-eyed tear stained look of hope directed up at me, so trusting, so completely confident that Mom would know the answer, Mom could fix it, Mom could soothe it, no matter what it was. It was the best, best, best job I ever had. When I felt like I was finally close to being qual...

They took my teeth. They may enjoy my pox. Little pleasure, had I, in the procuring of it. They took my half-crown coat—no shroud, just coarse sawdust — to keep me warm, a fine outfit. I want to be complete to meet my God. I had a winning smile, a smile that melts all hearts. Now all is left this skeletal gape, in this shallow scrape excuse for a grave, a dog could dig me up. I will rise up and drag the living to their rest. There, we can find equality in the grave. by Alan Morris