In this post, I am writing two 250-word micro fiction pieces. In the first piece, I am using a line from Gloria Anzaldua's poem, El sonavabitche, to inspire a story. Here is Anzaldua's line: "I see that wide cavernous look of the hunted." In the second piece, I craft a story based off of one of my own tweets: "Reminded of Pop's cement backyard. Figs branched the concrete wall. Kid jumps to catch plumps. Tree passed away b4 Pop. Forever reminded. "
So I am driving the Jersey turnpike to Spanky’s house for his Flying Fish tasting and he had all the exits and told me I could get off on any one I wished and that sounded good to me though I knew the exits would give out before I would and the rattle of my driver-side mirror interrupted my visions of beer bottles lined up on Spanky’s tiny bar…almost as neat and orderly as the seven other beer dudes happy to be away from their wives except the that Spanky’s pregnant wife hadn’t left and perched herself next to another wife on the living room couch to watch as we inspected each label and frothy heads and noted the hops and other junk you’re supposed to do at these things and everyone was so insightful but one droopy-eyed guy touched me in the wrong way so the beer in me made him leave the room to smoke cigars outside in the cold where my old-old friends could say I was “dick” and return to talk about teaching in Spain but I translated into English what bullshit he was performing and there was the time I stood up for Spanky in Chicago when he was as wrong as his silence…so I am driving and I look in my mirror now dangling and when I see the wide cavernous look of the hunted, I pull over on the icy highway, step out of the car, and rip off the mirror.
I Made My Bed
The skin reminded of Pop's cement backyard. Cracked and white and shadowed by a growth that didn’t belong. Goosebumps were the tiny figs that branched over the concrete wall. I’m forever the kid who jumped to catch plumps of sweetness that never seemed within my reach. With each day that blew through and rattled the fragile twigs inside us, between us, beyond us, I suffered the passing of a tree I once knew. Poison fruit die here now. Gorged with purple decay. Before Pop left me, he said, “You must be gentle with the fig even if she plays hard to get; she is a woman too—even if she doesn’t look like one. You need to nurture her or she will rot from your hands. But even in death, she is beautiful. Any man can learn to love her as he has loved the tree. Fig and tree and man and woman—they are one.” He told me how when I someday married, he would chop down the tree and use the wood to build us a bed. So many days I long to be a boy again when the sunlight splayed through the leaves and warmed me and I knew the dangling fruit waited for me alone. All I had to do was be patient. Gentle. That in my hands all was safe. Now my palms are stained. Forever reminded.
I am a writing instructor who blogs on this site to reflect on my teaching, writing, and research.