And now for something completely different. Here's a piece of flash fiction, a short short story. (Flash fiction is usually less than 1,000 words long; this one is less than 600.)
Note to the poetry class in Thessaloniki: If you read this, think about how it is similar to and different from a poem.
The Last Days of Pompeii
Company’s coming, and I set about my appointed tasks. The first is to clean the dining room table, so I grab a paper towel and some Pledge, spraying and wiping the table until it shines. I turn away, proud that I have cleaned and polished in one easy step when I hear my wife say from the kitchen, where she is busy making her famous coq au vin,
“Honey, you missed a spot.”
I turn back to see that, indeed, she is right. The whole table is covered with a thin film of dust, becoming thicker by the moment and threatening to become a layer- or even a coating. I realize a paper towel is inadequate, wrestle the vacuum cleaner out of the front closet, and plug it in - ready to witness Hoover’s patented Cyclonic Action at work, but someone has reversed the motor, and the vacuum spews out a week’s worth of dirt in a cloud that begins to spin and swirl around the room. The vacuum’s off switch has vanished, and a Kansas farmhand appears at the open dining room window, his coat clutched close to his throat.
“There’s a storm blowin’ up,” he hollers through a cupped hand. “A whopper!” He stumbles off, struggling against the wind. I reach for the golf umbrella in the closet to protect our guests, but all I can find is a tiny Totes. The automatic release button is broken.
“Honey, don’t open an umbrella in the house,” my wife says, slicing some Shiitake mushrooms.
I can hardly hear her and certainly can’t see her through the dust-blizzard. The loud sputter of a sick engine fills my ears. A gaunt, grizzled man emerges from the dirty fog. It’s Henry Fonda and behind him, crammed into a decrepit car, the whole Joad family. We pose for a Dorothea Lange photograph; then Henry leans toward me and whispers in my ear, “Man will not merely endure: he will prevail.”
I am about to tell him Faulkner said that, not Steinbeck, when he clambers onto the battered jalopy and heads toward Beverly Hills. I wave farewell for a while and then face the darkness made visible. There is a faint rapping, tapping at the chamber door.
“Honey, can you get that?” my wife asks. “I’m in the middle of a raspberry vinaigrette reduction.”
“Sure,” I reply. The wind begins to howl. I’m up to my knees now in sand, not dust. I hear the theme from Lawrence of Arabia. A dim figure approaches, walking on the surface of the sand without sinking. I don’t recognize my father at first; he has lost so much weight since the funeral.
“Lung cancer’s not so bad once you get used to it.” He coughs a couple times and then hands me a cigar. “It’s from the Big Guy,” he says and continues on his way toward what had once been the dining room. I notice he’s dressed as Fidel Castro.
The rapping now becomes a thunderous knocking.
“Knock, knock, knock,” I mutter, making my way to the door. I’m now on some sort of conveyor belt, headed the wrong way. I walk faster to stay in place. The door begins to bulge and splinter, like a cartoon door. Finally it bursts open and a shaft of golden light illuminates the slate foyer. I hear seraphim and cherubim singing Hosannas and a white-haired man in glowing raiment floats across the threshold.
“Honey, did you put out the brie?” my wife calls from some other world.
Note to the poetry class in Thessaloniki: If you read this, think about how it is similar to and different from a poem.
The Last Days of Pompeii
Company’s coming, and I set about my appointed tasks. The first is to clean the dining room table, so I grab a paper towel and some Pledge, spraying and wiping the table until it shines. I turn away, proud that I have cleaned and polished in one easy step when I hear my wife say from the kitchen, where she is busy making her famous coq au vin,
“Honey, you missed a spot.”
I turn back to see that, indeed, she is right. The whole table is covered with a thin film of dust, becoming thicker by the moment and threatening to become a layer- or even a coating. I realize a paper towel is inadequate, wrestle the vacuum cleaner out of the front closet, and plug it in - ready to witness Hoover’s patented Cyclonic Action at work, but someone has reversed the motor, and the vacuum spews out a week’s worth of dirt in a cloud that begins to spin and swirl around the room. The vacuum’s off switch has vanished, and a Kansas farmhand appears at the open dining room window, his coat clutched close to his throat.
“There’s a storm blowin’ up,” he hollers through a cupped hand. “A whopper!” He stumbles off, struggling against the wind. I reach for the golf umbrella in the closet to protect our guests, but all I can find is a tiny Totes. The automatic release button is broken.
“Honey, don’t open an umbrella in the house,” my wife says, slicing some Shiitake mushrooms.
I can hardly hear her and certainly can’t see her through the dust-blizzard. The loud sputter of a sick engine fills my ears. A gaunt, grizzled man emerges from the dirty fog. It’s Henry Fonda and behind him, crammed into a decrepit car, the whole Joad family. We pose for a Dorothea Lange photograph; then Henry leans toward me and whispers in my ear, “Man will not merely endure: he will prevail.”
I am about to tell him Faulkner said that, not Steinbeck, when he clambers onto the battered jalopy and heads toward Beverly Hills. I wave farewell for a while and then face the darkness made visible. There is a faint rapping, tapping at the chamber door.
“Honey, can you get that?” my wife asks. “I’m in the middle of a raspberry vinaigrette reduction.”
“Sure,” I reply. The wind begins to howl. I’m up to my knees now in sand, not dust. I hear the theme from Lawrence of Arabia. A dim figure approaches, walking on the surface of the sand without sinking. I don’t recognize my father at first; he has lost so much weight since the funeral.
“Lung cancer’s not so bad once you get used to it.” He coughs a couple times and then hands me a cigar. “It’s from the Big Guy,” he says and continues on his way toward what had once been the dining room. I notice he’s dressed as Fidel Castro.
The rapping now becomes a thunderous knocking.
“Knock, knock, knock,” I mutter, making my way to the door. I’m now on some sort of conveyor belt, headed the wrong way. I walk faster to stay in place. The door begins to bulge and splinter, like a cartoon door. Finally it bursts open and a shaft of golden light illuminates the slate foyer. I hear seraphim and cherubim singing Hosannas and a white-haired man in glowing raiment floats across the threshold.
“Honey, did you put out the brie?” my wife calls from some other world.
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