Category: Flashfiction

Is that Woman Still Alive?

 

We were not impressed by her until she pulled out her shotgun during our impromptu visit.
“Is that woman still alive !?” Father yelled when we told him about the incident later that day. “I’d have married her if it wasn’t for your mother”, he said.
We took him along with us the next time we went to the farm, along with an assortment of firearms in the boot of the car. There was a different mood in the air this time. The fight seemed to have gone out of the place  entirely. There was no longer any palpable threat in the air, no buzzing of cicadas in the woods or screeching of birds above our heads. Everything life-affirming had gone quiet.
“Your family’s timing is impeccable”, someone said as we arrived. “She died this morning. We’re making preparations for the funeral.”
Father, feeling his volatile emotions stir in response to the statement, turned to give us an accusing look and shouted dramatically,
“If it wasn’t for your mother, I’d have been standing right there on that front porch, at my wife’s funeral !”
“How many wives’ funerals do you need to attend as a husband in one lifetime !?”
I shouted back. My siblings nodded collectively, knowing perfectly well what had happened to our mother.
Photo from Resplash by Josh Hild

Astonishingly, Hanagawa

The dark little birds hurtling from the sky sent Hiroshi scrambling towards shelter. Once safely under the bamboo shed’s roofing and conscious of the hammering overhead, he looked back. Astonishingly, Hanagawa was walking calmly down the forest path towards him. Her wide-brimmed farmer’s hat offered paltry protection and seeing her continue stubbornly, despite being knocked-off stride repeatedly by the beaked projectiles, turned Hiroshi’s blind panic into disbelief.

Was she mad? Why wasn’t she running for her life?

He knew he had not married an ordinary country girl. Since their wedding, Hiroshi had heard whispers about Hanagawa, her family and their habits. Whenever he asked for an explanation, the wagging tongues of the village would say that the peculiarities of Hanagawa’s character were typical of north country people. Then the voices would fall silent. A silence caused more by uneasiness than deference, Hiroshi always felt. Subjecting oneself to lashings by suicidal birds would only serve to lend credence to such wild rumors.

As she entered the shed, Hanagawa took off the hat, letting her hair fall loose. On seeing him staring at her, she laughed disquietingly.

“Why are you laughing? Why did you not hurry when the birds were attacking you? You might have gotten yourself blinded!”

Hanagawa’s expression changed to the kind of concerned look that always made him uneasy.

“Hiroshi-san,” she began gently, her voice carrying an undercurrent of concern,
“Birds, you said? What birds?”

Hiroshi followed her gaze back up the forest path which was littered with dozens of . . . tempting, rosy peaches. Had his eyes deceived him?

“Dear husband. Did you say that birds attacked me? Those are only ripened fruits. Be truthful. Are you seeing and hearing things again?”

Hanagawa gave Hiroshi the look again.

Photo from Unsplash.com by Masoomeh Salek

The Fistfight

In a dramatic twist, N- cornered his bitter enemy F- at the entrance to the Christmas market before starting a fistfight. Constables on duty rushed to the scene to find both men grappling one another like imitation sumo wrestlers. Instead of jumping in to separate the sizable duo, the constables argued about whether the city had already instituted rules about acceptable behavior at the markets and whether it was the responsibility of the constabulary to intervene during such altercations.

As N- and F- crashed and landed on an ever increasing number of stalls – they’d already smashed a row of trinket stalls – half-a-dozen desperate stall keepers decided to take matters into their own hand, before the fight led to financial losses for them. As they were preparing to plunge in and as the constables forged an agreement on how best to proceed, N- and F- got up off the floor, dusted themselves, eyed each other stupidly and then looked around to notice the crowd that had gathered.

The vendors and constables exchanged glances. One of the constables, to break the awkward silence, said in a loud, condescending voice, “Barring the exceptions – and there are always exceptions – this is exactly how all fights should end. By themselves.”

At which point, the half-dozen stall keepers launched themselves gleefully at the constables.

 

Photo from unsplash.com  by Daniels Joffe.