Flash Fiction by Foster Trecost

It was Tuesday. Cardboard boxes furnished our apartment and I thought the boxes looked better than the things inside, so I left. “I’m going for a walk,” I said. I don’t know what she said.                                      

The sidewalk was crowded, but not with people. We were all trees dressed in Tuesday clothes, Tuesday coats, and Tuesday hats. I felt alone, like the only boy in the city, except I wasn’t a boy. I was a tree. I ducked in a store to buy some gum. The clerk said how much I owed, and I checked the register to make sure I understood. I paid and put the change in my pocket.

Dusk became dark and traffic jammed the streets. Headlights shot the cars in front and I imagined the beams were a single beam, like long light-skewers piercing through a car-kebab. I chewed gum and popped it rapid-fire, and wondered how it felt to be annoyed by sound.

At an intersection, I crossed with the others when the light changed. I felt like a grape and was happy to be with a bunch of grapes. Grapes are much better than trees.

I stopped to watch a man dressed as Santa. He rang a bell and I wondered if the sound helped him collect more money. I thought the sound might be annoying, like my gum. Still, I gave him the change from my pocket. A few steps later I came across a homeless man holding a cup and wished I’d waited.

A sign advertised the best Chinese food in the city, so I decided to see for myself. I decided the sign lied. I paid and went back to the homeless man and dropped my change in his cup. He said something, but his beard was thick and I couldn’t see the words.

Back at my building, she greeted me at the door and asked how I found the city. “Loud,” I joked. She laughed at my sarcasm.

“Does the bell help?” I watched her mouth. Reading lips was easy; minds were a bit more difficult.

“Bell?”

“A guy dressed like Santa was ringing a bell. Does the bell make a difference?”

“You give him anything?”

I said I did, and she said there’s my answer.

I asked if she wanted some tea. “Sounds good,” she said, and I asked if she was trying to be funny. We both laughed. When I handed over her mug, we blew ripples in the surface.

“I felt like a grape,” I said.

“When?”

“When I crossed the street.”

She smiled because she knew that was good. The tea was hot and we blew more ripples.

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Foster Trecost writes stories that are mostly made up. They tend to follow his attention span: sometimes short, and sometimes very short. Recent work has appeared in Peacock Journal, New World Writing, and Blue Fifth Review. He lives in New Orleans.