Flash Fiction #1: Ms. Chealsea

Ms. Chealsea

                "So, how's Jerry?" a short man asked nonchalantly, leaning against a brick wall.

                "Same as always, the lying bastard," a dark-haired woman muttered with a grimace, kicking up loose asphalt with her foam sandals.

                "Cheating?"

                Her laugh was full and woody, like talking over the flames of a late night bonfire. "When isn't he?"

                With a flick of his hand, the man's cigarette butt drifted to the ground where he crushed it underneath his size eleven foot; moments later, another replaced the first, scenting the air with the fine quality of unfiltered French culture. "You hate him enough to do this. Takes guts."

                She took a long draw, blowing out a perfectly rounded set of os with her red, puckered lips. "If I didn't love him so much, I wouldn't be. You should know that better than anyone, Mr. Jack."

                "Have we ourselves resorted to chilly formality? Didn't you just call the man a bastard?"

                "I did."

                "Then treat him as such," he suggested, his eyebrows raised in question.

                The woman adjusted her faded red blouse, biting the inside of her mouth until she tasted iron. "I am, Richard. That's why I'm here."

                "You'd be here regardless, wouldn't you, Chealsea."

                "The money's good for an old broad like me."

                "I hardly call thirty old, Chealsea."

                Her eyes burned with the same intensity of her hand-rolled durrie. "If you're part of the business, twelve's an old maid."

                "Plenty would pay." He gestured to each empty street, each alley, each store and home. "You should know that better than anyone, Mrs. Grey."

                "Misses. Not quite sure I like the sound of that. Been much too long." With another puff, she blew out the remainder of her straight, the ashes landing on the pocked skin of her foot. She hardly gave notice.

                "Sometimes, it is indeed better to forget…"

                Suddenly, the door behind them opened to reveal an unshaven man with sweat over his brow, the rusted door he held eerily illuminated in the streetlight. "Break's over! Get over here, Angel. You have three waiting for you over in the back, Blue Room. Emerald Coat's the host. Give 'em the special treatment."

                "Yessir." She turned back to glance at Richard once the door closed, her gaunt cheekbones pulled tight. "I don't forget," the woman began, knuckles white as she held the crusty handle to the door. "Because that's not why I'm here."

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Delving into Flash Fiction: Ms. Chealsea

Ms. Chealsea

                "So, how's Jerry?" a short man asked nonchalantly, leaning against a brick wall.

                "Same as always, the lying bastard," a dark-haired woman muttered with a grimace, kicking up loose asphalt with her foam sandals.

                "Cheating?"

                Her laugh was full and woody, like talking over the flames of a late night bonfire. "When isn't he?"

                With a flick of his hand, the man's cigarette butt drifted to the ground where he crushed it underneath his size eleven foot; moments later, another replaced the first, scenting the air with the fine quality of unfiltered French culture. "You hate him enough to do this. Takes guts."

                She took a long draw, blowing out a perfectly rounded set of os with her red, puckered lips. "If I didn't love him so much, I wouldn't be. You should know that better than anyone, Mr. Jack."

                "Have we ourselves resorted to chilly formality? Didn't you just call the man a bastard?"

                "I did."

                "Then treat him as such," he suggested, his eyebrows raised in question.

                The woman adjusted her faded red blouse, biting the inside of her mouth until she tasted iron. "I am, Richard. That's why I'm here."

                "You'd be here regardless, wouldn't you, Chealsea."

                "The money's good for an old broad like me."

                "I hardly call thirty old, Chealsea."

                Her eyes burned with the same intensity of her hand-rolled durrie. "If you're part of the business, twelve's an old maid."

                "Plenty would pay." He gestured to each empty street, each alley, each store and home. "You should know that better than anyone, Mrs. Grey."

                "Misses. Not quite sure I like the sound of that. Been much too long." With another puff, she blew out the remainder of her straight, the ashes landing on the pocked skin of her foot. She hardly gave notice.

                "Sometimes, it is indeed better to forget…"

                Suddenly, the door behind them opened to reveal an unshaven man with sweat over his brow, the rusted door he held eerily illuminated in the streetlight. "Break's over! Get over here, Angel. You have three waiting for you over in the back, Blue Room. Emerald Coat's the host. Give 'em the special treatment."

                "Yessir." She turned back to glance at Richard once the door closed, her gaunt cheekbones pulled tight. "I don't forget," the woman began, knuckles white as she held the crusty handle to the door. "Because that's not why I'm here."

Ms. Chealsea by Kayla Balda is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at Kaylakulture.blogspot.com.

"The Arrival"

"The Arrival"

Dedicated to: Grandma and Mitch, my inspiration in much more than writing
Love: Kayla

          Every year is a new adventure, a familiar escape seen through  new eyes—ones merely a year older.  Practically every year is the same ritual performed through longer and longer strides by a girl painted with older and older features. Though she has changed, she realizes with comfort that the fantasy land she has come to love hasn't. This sanctuary would always be her escape from the world of passing and failing into a land of impossibilities and fantasy.
          Once she passes through those magical pines, dusted finely with the most sumptuous of powdered sugars, she realizes her impossible journey is complete. With boots, slippers, or sometimes holed shoes, she shoots down a smooth, concrete hill with nothing but momentum and the gentle guidance of air keeping her feet planted firmly to the icy ground. When she looks back, headlights are following behind her, illuminating the white puffs of her breath. But she can only trumpet with mirth, continuing without complaint, ignoring every snowflake catching in her hair. The best is yet to come, she realizes, dashing up stairs and onto a porch. With eyes wide with amazement, she peers up at wide double doors and finally spots her target: a circular milky-white button. Once the beams of the lights cease and her fellow travelers catch up, her fingers make contact with the button and the building inhales as if preparing to perform some mammoth task. Without a second more of hesitation, the home's breath rushes out in the form of tolling bells, ancient but nostalgic.
          The teenage girl bounces on her heels, shivering under her light, frost-crisped jacket, waiting for the inhabitants of her fantasy land to open their portal and continue her adventure. After all, that year's chapter began the moment she woke up that morning, groggy from a lack of sleep and filled to the brim with anticipation. Shaking the last thought of sleep from her mind, she summons up her brightest smile as the door opens to reveal a meek woman and a towering man, both exhausted from preparations. Twirling on the tips of her toes, she lunges inside to meet the comforting warmth and engulfs the two in embraces, glossy-eyed the entire time. The smells: soup and winter and ancient woods and magic. The sights: floral tiles and dimly lit rooms and plush carpet and friendly faces. The sounds: greetings and shuffling feet and crinkling jackets and the beating of hearts.
          The love: filial and wistful and celebratory and… warm.
          This girl, she knows she's home. And even though she knows this displacement is not permanent (it never is), she realizes that this magic is everywhere: especially in her heart.