My intense intents indent the bubbles
of possibles, at times a severe pop
reports a part of the future is dropped,
or its dilatory delivery
retreats with reproach from my untimely
approach, hissing away escapadely.

As Winter gradually ekes away and spring’s renewal approaches, it’s a good time to reflect on life cycles, and in particular, aging.

“Recognized” by Michael Keshigian reflects on the nature of aging. Literally.

In “Old Clyde and Mrs. Hill,” a short prose piece, David Sapp recalls elderly neighbors from childhood.

“The Blurring of Edges” by David Sapp traces the changes in thinking from youth to maturity.

“The Garden of Ramanatom” by Thomas Dorsett is a lyrical look at how nature’s life cycles mimic our own.

The goal, for each new year, is to learn from our past so that we do not repeat our mistakes. Our contributors this week gaze into the past, future and present, helping us navigate a new path.

“Yet Another Year” by Bibhu Padhi looks backward — and forward — with a mix of hope and trepidation.

“The World As It Could Be” by Nathan Large imagines a dystopian future.

“Against Black Riders from the Desert” by Henry Goldkamp contemplates the nature of existence over a round of drinks.

They lay on the hood of Joe’s car, Joe and Tom, and stared at the cloudy sky.  Shapes rolled past overhead, spirals and angles of white, words written across the dawning blue.  They read what the sky had to say, content for a time just to lie still.

After a while, Tom spoke up.  The dreams were troubling him again.  Joe was the only one who would even listen.  If Tom didn’t say something, he would burst; if he said something to the wrong person, they’d label him crazy.

“I had more dreams, Joe.”

“Why am I not surprised?  Weird ones, like usual?”

“Not that weird.  Just different.  Almost the same as real life, but with some things changed.”

“That’s what you usually say.  But you have some strange ideas about what’s weird.”

“That’s just it.  It don’t seem weird at all, in the dreams.  Like what’s there is normal, and what’s here is strange.”

“Well, that’s how dreams are.  You have to wake up to know the difference.”

“I dunno.  I wonder sometimes.”

“Wonder what?  Life’s a dream?  I’ve heard that before.”

“No, no, like this life is the dream, and what we see when we’re asleep is the real world.”

Joe laughed.  Not a mean laugh, not a sad humoring laugh, but a real chuckle of good humor.  He was used to his strange friend and didn’t take Tom’s crazy thoughts as anything more than rambling talk.  Still, he sometimes wondered if he was helping by listening or just encouraging more craziness.

He replied, “Lots of people said that before, too.  There’s songs about it.  But that’s it, just words and songs.  You’re real.  I’m real.  Right here is real.  That’s all you need to know.  Anything else will just get you lost in your head.”

Tom wouldn’t be quieted this time.  He went on, “But… think about it.  What if what seems real is all fake… and what I dream is real… or at least, it used to be?  What if we were all put into a dream?  Or else things all got changed around while we were sleeping, and what used to be true isn’t anymore, except when we sleep and remember it again?”

Now Joe got serious.  He rolled onto his side to look at his friend.  “Tom, you’re gonna hurt yourself.  Just look at the clouds and calm down.  Are you afraid of sleeping?  Are the dreams bothering you that much?”

“No!  They don’t bother me at all.  It’s waking up that bothers me.  Listen to me, Joe.  Just think about it.  Doesn’t anything seem strange to you, sometimes, when you’re awake?  Like, it ought to be different?”

“Well, sure.  Lots of things.  I get mad about my job… or about laws that don’t seem right…”

“I’m not talking about being mad.  I mean like, something is really basically wrong.”

“Oh, that’s just being depressed.  You need a doctor, maybe.”

“I’m not depressed!  I’m concerned.  I mean, for example, take sleep itself.  What if people didn’t have to go inside when it got light out?  What if we slept at night and stayed up all day?”

“Some people do, if their jobs need them…”

“I don’t mean some people.  I mean, everyone.  Or almost everyone.  What if the sunlight wasn’t dangerous?  What if we were even scared of the dark, instead?”

“Come on, Tom.  That can’t be real.  The sun’s been deadly since forever.”

“But it isn’t, in my dreams.  I walk around in the light, and it don’t hurt.  It’s not even frightening.  And what about the clouds?  What if they were just puffs and streaks and balls, not symbols and words?  What if we didn’t have to obey the messages written up there?”

“Now look here, Tom.  Don’t go questioning the clouds.  That really will get you in trouble.”

“But what if it didn’t?  I mean, don’t you ever wonder anything, Joe?  Don’t you dream?  I’ve seen it: people ignoring the sky and doing whatever they pleased.  I mean, you work at the hospital nursery, right?  What if people weren’t made by giant slugs?  What if we could make our own babies, like, inside our bodies?  What if we started out as little humans… that could grow up into bigger humans?”

Joe sat up, shaking his head.  “I’m not listening to this anymore.  You may not want to sleep, but I need to get home to bed.  It’s almost dawn.”

Tom growled in frustration.  “You weren’t listening in the first place.  And I do want to sleep.  I want to see more.  You’re the one who’s afraid.  You just do your job, tend the slugs, obey the clouds, and don’t ask questions.  Well, someday I’ll find people who believe me.  We’ll find out what’s real and what isn’t.”

“Whatever.  Get in the car.  I’m tired of this crap.”

“Screw you.  I’ll fly home by myself.”

The cold wind was unexpected. After all, it was the middle of July, and this was the Caribbean. The church of Los Corales was cemented into the side of a mango-covered mountain just west of Santiago. It was not nestled like most mountainside churches; rather, it was cemented. A new building for an old generation. White painted cement, a slate porch, and frosted white doors. Around the church, there were a few strikingly new houses owned by returning Americans, and a bodega that filled at eleven in the morning and was empty again soon after. 

On that day it was raining. A heavy downpour that tinged on the new tin roof like angles playing marbles. The rain had brought the cold wind, and it swirled through the packed church through every open window. But no one seemed the notice. The abuelas continued to fan themselves. The teenage girls adjusted their white H&M dresses bought by their American cousins, and their American cousins were counting the days before they could go home and only go to church on Christmas. But abuela was watching now. The cousins exchanged glances and continued reciting prayers they only half-remembered.

The real action was not in the church, but on the porch. A group of primos were gathered, snapchatting and teasing each other. It was too crowded inside, they reasoned, so they might as well stay outside. An old uncle stood by the door and every once and awhile would send them a disapproving look, but it was only half-meant. The whole family had not come home for a long time.

The rain picked up, but there was no attempt to close the windows. No move to close the door. The priest remained at the altar, praying, the abuelas continued fanning, the girls checked their makeup in the window reflection, and the boys were now discussing quadding on the porch. The wind whirled around Los Corales, a church cemented into the mountainside.

To him it was always about the next dream. One night we got to hang out and all my friends were jealous but we talked a lot about dreams mostly about his but before we were going to kiss goodnight, I remembered a dream. I think it was him. Then I understood next when he said, “See ya, next dream later.”

This flash fiction project was born from a meditative state. There was no planning involved. As an exercise, Natalie began creating ideas from her typewriter on note cards. The words served as a way to capture ideas that were flowing from her brain. The ideas were just meant for reference and inspiration. As they sat collecting dust, Gen rescued them and gave them visuals. Each card is made the day it is posted. The purpose of this exercise is to consistently post work to inspire the creators and their audience. The Flash Fiction Project can be found online: daily updates (http://flashfictionok.tumblr.com/) and the archive (http://genevieveokupniak.com/flashfiction/).

Sorry about the bed being out of order. That guy, the one with the fur and paws, he refused to move much. He stared at me, his look calling me an idiot for making something look nice just to mess it up again later.

This flash fiction project was born from a meditative state. There was no planning involved. As an exercise, Natalie began creating ideas from her typewriter on note cards. The words served as a way to capture ideas that were flowing from her brain. The ideas were just meant for reference and inspiration. As they sat collecting dust, Gen rescued them and gave them visuals. Each card is made the day it is posted. The purpose of this exercise is to consistently post work to inspire the creators and their audience. The Flash Fiction Project can be found online: daily updates (http://flashfictionok.tumblr.com/) and the archive (http://genevieveokupniak.com/flashfiction/).

Next time you think about going on a visit to your aunts house please dont forget to bring that damn cat. She thinks she can just leave it at this house but she is terribly wrong. Mom gave her this stupid fur ball when they first moved to the suburbs. I have no part in this and strongly suggest that this thing just go away. Thank you.

This flash fiction project was born from a meditative state. There was no planning involved. As an exercise, Natalie began creating ideas from her typewriter on note cards. The words served as a way to capture ideas that were flowing from her brain. The ideas were just meant for reference and inspiration. As they sat collecting dust, Gen rescued them and gave them visuals. Each card is made the day it is posted. The purpose of this exercise is to consistently post work to inspire the creators and their audience. The Flash Fiction Project can be found online: daily updates (http://flashfictionok.tumblr.com/) and the archive (http://genevieveokupniak.com/flashfiction/).

“It smells like a real book.”
There aren’t such things as real books any more. There are just e-books. You know. those. Uh. Internet books. Oh wait you don’t have a computer. You sent me this paper typewritten. Well I believe this is why we exchan excuse me, I meant to say, I believe this is why we exchange our business. Typewriters. We both love the type. We are both writers.

This flash fiction project was born from a meditative state. There was no planning involved. As an exercise, Natalie began creating ideas from her typewriter on note cards. The words served as a way to capture ideas that were flowing from her brain. The ideas were just meant for reference and inspiration. As they sat collecting dust, Gen rescued them and gave them visuals. Each card is made the day it is posted. The purpose of this exercise is to consistently post work to inspire the creators and their audience. The Flash Fiction Project can be found online: daily updates (http://flashfictionok.tumblr.com/) and the archive (http://genevieveokupniak.com/flashfiction/).

karma sense
This is just a small dose of the religion they all followed. I was born on the Titanic. He was born on the beaches of Normandy, the day our pop died. Where’s the good out of the hard past lives. It makes no karma sense. We are supposed to have some good coming our way. I guess it just takes a little while for them to catch up on all of the paper work. Who knows. I could be on my second/third/fourth life.

This flash fiction project was born from a meditative state. There was no planning involved. As an exercise, Natalie began creating ideas from her typewriter on note cards. The words served as a way to capture ideas that were flowing from her brain. The ideas were just meant for reference and inspiration. As they sat collecting dust, Gen rescued them and gave them visuals. Each card is made the day it is posted. The purpose of this exercise is to consistently post work to inspire the creators and their audience. The Flash Fiction Project can be found online: daily updates (http://flashfictionok.tumblr.com/) and the archive (http://genevieveokupniak.com/flashfiction/).