Special Gifts

Shoshauna Shy

 

 

 By Sharon Waller Knutson

Shoshauna Shy, poet and fiction writer, shares micro fiction pieces for the holidays.

“I walked through the portal of poetry to write micro and flash fiction,” Shoshauna says.

‘Both genres feed off of one another because they both require the same distillation process, right down to each syllable.

“Sometimes a particular flash fiction piece is not working, so I write it as a poem, and vice versa. I like having that fluidity.

“I can be working on four stories and seven poems at any given time.”


BANANA BREAD
    
It seems excessive to stop off at Barrique’s for a slice of banana bread when your mother-in-law baked a rhubarb pie, and that’s sitting on your kitchen counter this very instant. It even strikes you as woefully expensive considering that you worked fifteen minutes today to earn something that will take you less than three minutes to eat.
 
But the truth is this purchase from a barista whose red curls frizz in the July heat buys you the memory of the very first slice of banana bread you ever tasted at the age of five on Denny Chader’s porch in Glen Dean, Kentucky. Floorboards under your callused feet, and his mom in a rick-rack apron putting it on a napkin for you, her hand warm upon your shoulder. One of the first happy moments in your life. Plus this purchase buys you the opportunity to occupy a chair by the plate glass window and listen to Vivaldi over an intercom, violins spreading a sense of contentment through you as if nobody is shooting anybody anywhere right now; no referees are getting punched into comas by soccer fans; no one sought medical help in vain and lies in a desert tent, dying alone.  

And here at this seat where late afternoon sun pours in like caramel, you get to eavesdrop on a trio of middle-aged women in Spandex at the next table as they exchange X-rated confessions. Their peals of laughter are as refreshing as a cucumber-scented steam bath at a spa. You can’t help but smile at them
.
So, really, how frivolous was it to surrender two dollars and fifty cents for this inch-thick block of bread?


OVER THE VALLEY
AND
THROUGH THE WOODS

What is that word to describe what you and your husband-of-thirty-some years feel when your daughter’s boyfriend claims, from the back seat of your car, the reason he doesn’t want to live with your daughter anymore is because it gets terribly awkward when he brings another woman home? Continuing to live in the same house is out of the question now, he says, and even living separately in adjacent houses won’t work.
.
    Your daughter smiles shyly, his hand clasped in her lap. She has other lovers herself– two of them, in fact. This is something you found out at breakfast. Bringing them home when her boyfriend lives with her has become problematic for her too.

    Various words gallop through your mind as you hear all this while the four of you are on the highway to Grandma’s house, driving to heirloom silver, to a portrait of paint-by-numbers-Jesus, to a freshly baked apple pie sitting on a tablecloth waiting to be served. Is it hell–is it hell no–is it help-less? Yes, helpless. That’s the word, alright.


GOT YOU, BABE

He was only joking when he said it. Although Amy laughed out loud, in hindsight Jack saw that lovemaking session as a pivotal turning point between them. Amy didn’t laugh after that.

    Her affectionate touches fell away, then the drives out Chester Road when the seasons changed. Since receiving the huge inheritance, lots of appointments with brokers weren’t the only reason she had less time for him. Eventually, Amy stopped answering his texts altogether.

    Why, oh, why, when swimming in her bed that time, had he–satiated, giddy–confessed to quitting his job because I got me a sugar mama?


WE WISH YOU A MERRY

“Thanks–but I can’t!” Marta smiled at Nancy. “Gotta date with my boys!”

Scott and Andrew spending Christmas Day with their dad. Marta would Skype; that was the deal. Meanwhile, she was determined to boycott Nancy’s “pity potluck” for-those-without-family. She was newly-anointed “Ex,” but still a mom, for chrissake!

“Mom” for 31.5 seconds that afternoon when her sons appeared onscreen long enough to thank her for the books she sent before scampering away with skateboards from Santa.

“You OK?” Dan appeared, lifting an eyebrow and a glass of wine.

“Gotta go!” Marta waved. “Party invite!” And she clicked him off.


THE OPTIMIST
 
Derek wanted the holidays with his son’s family. Too soon to include Bethany, he said.

    Bethany dipped her head. Of course, I understand.

    Derek didn’t call after Christmas. Bethany called him.

    Derek explained cousins showed up from Montreal. We all went to my brother’s cabin.  He was still there, as a matter of fact. Sorry I didn’t call. Derek claimed she was a lady who deserved somebody who kept his word.

    Bethany brightened. Derek regretted falling short this time, but would do better; she could tell. Already she was looking forward to hearing from him soon. He promised, didn’t he?

PEPPERMINT FLANNEL

    Someone in a denim jacket and jeans stands on my doorstep in the snow. His hair silvering, his face far thinner, his shoulders less broad than I remember–but he’s my father. I haven’t seen him since Christmas Eve thirty years ago when I was a second grader, and Mom threw him and his saxophone out of the house.

    The sounds of traffic beyond the front gate fall away as we stare at one another. I am seven again wearing striped pajamas with sticky rubber feet wanting to cannonball into his arms. And never let go.

Previously published by Friday Flash Fiction


HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS

    On one side of me, Kendra and hubby’s porch cluttered with hiking boots of all sizes and pans of freshly-baked cookies cooling on sleds. Through lit windows, I see grandchildren clustered in pajamas.
    On my other side, Sheila. Got the TV blaring from can-see-to-can’t-see. Her son stayed in Sandusky, his excuse a tight work schedule. Daughter wouldn’t fly in from Toronto even though Sheila sent a ticket.
    And then there’s me: sons spending the week with their dad. I get fifteen minutes FaceTime Xmas Eve.
    If it weren’t for Sheila balancing things out, I’d hate Kendra to bits.

Previously published by Friday Flash Fiction


JOY TO THE WORLD

All you can hope for is that this is the worst meal you’ll ever face: broccoli buried in cold soba noodles scooped with your lower lip from a take-out carton while sitting in a car hounded by a blizzard facing the interstate in North Dakota. You have to blow on both wrists to stay warm although the engine is running, and the heater’s on full blast. You wear the pair of blue jeans and suéde jacket he forgot when he packed and left with his ex, and your mother is boycotting all your texts. Somewhere else it is Christmas Eve.

Previously published by A Quiet Courage


TIN ROOF

    Mom says if I want to go to Pensacola, Florida this winter, we got to get more child support out of my dad. I got to get him to like me more, she says.
    “How will I know when he likes me more?” I’m watching for his Oldsmobile Cutlass.
    “He’ll laugh a lot, maybe even hug you.”
Mom insists I wear the velveteen dress she bought for my seventh birthday. “Make him want to hug you, Peanut. Can you do that?”
    My dad’s car smells like cigarettes and wet dogs, although he doesn’t have one. I tell him what I’ve learned about Florida. Maybe thinking about coconuts will make him happy. I tell a porpoise joke. He snorts a bit. I count that as a laugh. I inch closer in case he wants to put his arm around me.
    At Blicky’s Dairy Bar, I don’t smush my French fries into the ketchup gob, even though I want to. And I manage not to interrupt while he complains about his landlord.
    We’re having tin roof sundaes, and I’m bringing up porpoises again when he cuts me off to take a call. I overhear a lady’s voice going a mile a minute, and he’s turned away from me, shoulders hunched, murmuring things back to her. His sundae, whipped cream and all, turns to soup before he hangs up. “One of them nuisance calls,” he shrugs at me in explanation.
    We pull up to the curb back at my house. “Fun being with you, Dad,” I say, holding my arms out for a hug.
    He winks at me. “Stay out of trouble, OK?”
     I push on the door, reach the snowbank, and pull my knee socks back up. The Cutlass zooms away. It gets smaller and smaller, just like Pensacola.


Previously published by Bath Flash Fiction Award Anthology Volume VII


TEARS

    All that weeping and sobbing Mom did in the taxi to Heathrow after saying good-bye to Dad, gulping and hiding behind a curtain of hair, hand clutching Kleenex. I thought she was broken up about leaving him for another month. Until she said in November, no, Dad’s not coming home from London; no, not for Christmas neither. Those calls from Mr. Hartrey, more and more of them; her giggles as they spoke. Then I knew that taxi cab sorrow was not because she didn’t want to leave my dad–but because she did. And he had finally let her go.

To read more about Shoshauna:

https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/search?q=Shoshauna+shy