Claustrophobia

by James C. Clar

It was Danielle who mentioned it first. “Is it me, or does the hallway seem narrower to you?” she asked one evening as she paused on her way into the kitchen.

David laughed. “We’ve lived here a month now and it seems the same to me.” Danielle made a face and kept walking. Still the impression clung to her like a burdock.

A few days later, she broached the topic again. They were having wine before dinner. “I can’t explain it, but the rooms seem… smaller to me somehow.”

“Listen, honey,” David said with characteristic patience, “you’ve been under a lot of stress. Moving, getting acclimated to a new job. You’re tired and on edge.” David swirled the wine in his glass. He enjoyed watching the ‘legs’ cling to the sides and dissipate.

“I’m not imagining it!” Her voice had a plaintive quality, as though she wanted to be reassured further.

By the following week, David swore he had to turn sideways to walk between their sofa and the coffee table. He never had to do that before. He made a mental note to ask Danielle if she had moved the furniture.

A couple of days later, he was brushing his teeth. He saw Danielle in the mirror. “The bathroom seems cramped,” she remarked as she put a clean towel on the rack.

David dried his hands. “The bathroom is small. We knew that when we bought the place.”

From then on, the thought seemed to haunt them. Danielle noticed things she felt certain had moved. The rug under the dining table seemed to take up more space. A framed picture on the wall appeared closer to the mantle.

David began to suspect Danielle was surreptitiously rearranging things to prove her suspicions. He found her once in the middle of the night in the living room, standing with her palm flat against the wall.

“Danielle, what are you doing?”

“I’m not sure,” she replied.

A few nights later, they argued about the whole thing. David accused her of becoming obsessed. Danielle said she felt ‘dismissed’. Once peace was restored, David noticed he could no longer stand between his dresser and the window as he often did when dressing.

Next day, David bought a tape measure. He measured the living room. Danielle watched from the doorway. The numbers matched the listing the realtor had given them.

Danielle stared at the tape measure, then at the paper in David’s hand. “I don’t believe it,” she said, turning away.

Soon, the couple remarked on how often they bumped into each other in the kitchen. Drawers seemed to take up more space when opened. Ceiling fans looked lower.

Eventually, they stopped inviting people over. They worked from home whenever possible. The thought of leaving the house for long seemed too ‘risky’.

A month later, they had enough. They checked into an extended-stay hotel. Neither went back to the house except to get clothes or necessities.

Finally, they put the house on the market. In a few weeks it sold. David and Danielle began searching for a new home. The hotel was an expense, but they enjoyed its open, airy floor plan; a feature they asked their realtor to look for.

One evening, after getting a call that their offer on a house had been accepted, they celebrated with a second bottle of wine.

This time it was David who brought it up first.

As he was drying the dishes, he said, “Danielle, did you do something to the light over the sink? It seems lower than it was. I almost bumped my head…”

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James C. Clar divides his time between Upstate New York and Honolulu, Hawaii. In addition to his contributions to Sudden Flash, his work has also appeared in The Blotter Magazine, MetaStellar Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, The Magazine of Literary Fantasy and Freedom Fiction Journal.

 

Grandfrogs

by John Brantingham

Travis is there for his grandfather, who can’t get around fast any more, there for him in the old man’s backyard when he notices that his grandfather is watching a frog waddling slowly across the backyard.

There’s a memory, something way back from that time when he might have been four years old or so and not in the surreal haze of early childhood when he knows that his grandfather caught a frog for him, gave it to him like a gift. He’s lost in that memory when he feels someone staring at him and turns to find his grandfather’s knowing face.

They’re not close enough to have a psychic connection, but his grandfather says, “I gave it to you because you were having a bad day.”

Travis can feel himself smile and blush. He’d never let the kids down at the high school see that, but it’s funny. People can just be themselves around their grandparents. “What was wrong with me?”

“Your father was deployed back to Korea, and you were scared.” His grandfather points at the frog. “The animal was there to protect you like a talisman.”

Travis gets up and takes this frog in his hands and offers it to his grandfather, who waves it off. He says, “I’ll tell you a secret. Even when I was grown up I’d go out and find frogs when I was nervous.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. I wasn’t lying to you that day. Frogs are talismans. They keep away the fear. Stick it in your jacket pocket. Feel it wiggle around and try to be anxious.” Travis does and the frog moves around, settling in and it’s true. He can feel high school slipping away, all the tests both in the classroom and out. They’re gone, replaced by the frog. His grandpa says, “I don’t have a lot of money, Travis.”

“I know that.”

He points to Travis’s pocket. “That right there is my legacy.”

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
John Brantingham is the recipient of a New York State Arts Council grant and was Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks’ first poet laureate. His work has been in hundreds of magazines and The Best Small Fictions 2016 and 2022. He has twenty-two books of poetry, nonfiction, and fiction. Check out his work at johnbrantingham.com.

 

The Whistle

by Benjamin Franklin

Just for fun, we occasionally publish vintage stories from historic authors.

When I was a child of seven years old, my friends, on a holiday, filled my pocket with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for children; and being charmed with the sound of a whistle, that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and gave all my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth; put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money; and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.

This, however, was afterwards of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind; so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, Don’t give too much for the whistle; and I saved my money.

As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle. When I saw one too ambitious of court favor, sacrificing his time in attendance on levees, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it, I have said to myself, This man gives too much for his whistle.

When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that neglect, He pays, indeed, said I, too much for his whistle.

If I knew a miser, who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth, Poor man, said I, you pay too much for your whistle. When I met with a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable improvement of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere corporeal sensations, and ruining his health in their pursuit, Mistaken man, said I, you are providing pain for yourself, instead of pleasure; you give too much for your whistle. If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, fine houses, fine furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts debts, and ends his career in a prison, Alas! say I, he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle.

When I see a beautiful sweet-tempered girl married to an ill-natured brute of a husband, What a pity, say I, that she should pay so much for a whistle! In short, I conceive that great part of the miseries of mankind are brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.

Yet I ought to have charity for these unhappy people, when I consider that, with all this wisdom of which I am boasting, there are certain things in the world so tempting, for example, the apples of King John, which happily are not to be bought; for if they were put to sale by auction, I might very easily be led to ruin myself in the purchase, and find that I had once more given too much for the whistle.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790) was an American polymath: a writer, scientist, inventor, statesman, diplomat, printer, publisher and political philosopher. Among the most influential intellectuals of his time, Franklin was one of the Founding Fathers of the United States; a drafter and signer of the Declaration of Independence; and the first postmaster general. [biography adapted from Wikipedia]

Miss Brown and Me

by Marilyn Mathis

She was seven feet tall and four feet wide, with a frown. I doubted “Miss Brown” was her real name.

I sat down in Booth Number Six, and Miss Brown sat down opposite me. She stared at me. I stared at her. We did not speak. Am I doing this right? I wondered.

I had never before been audited by the Internal Revenue Service.

As a 20-year-old college student, working part-time, I only used the short form for taxes. Really short. With a little editing I could have gotten it down to a postcard. Consequently, there were only so many mistakes I could have made. On the way to the IRS office, I had wondered if I was being audited for an arithmetic error, and whether the penalty would be severe. Receiving the letter from IRS was frightening enough. Clearly, I had committed some grievous error, maybe even a crime.

Miss Brown was still staring at me. If this was an intimidation tactic, it was working.

I remembered how my doctor always started our appointments and began, “What seems to be the problem?”

“We don’t think you’re making enough money.”

This was the last thing I expected. I turned my head and faced the wall. I was poor and had been found out.

I explained that I also received grants and loans to attend college. From my purse, I pulled my financial aid application for law school, which listed the government grants, loans and private donations I had received for the last four years to supply living expenses and tuition.

Miss Brown took the paperwork, and her fingers flew over her 10-key adding machine. She was staring at me again.

“This still isn’t very much money.”

My heart sank. Did the IRS really penalize people for not making enough money? Could I go to jail?

“Yes ma’am, I know, but it’s all I have.”

“How did you get in this situation?”

With that, the whole unfortunate true story came out: how we had to leave my father because he was beating my mother, how my mother was ill and couldn’t work, and so I came to claim her as a dependent on my tax form, starting at the age of 17. I repeated it clear-eyed, succinctly. It was a fact of my life, and I was seeking no sympathy. Certainly not here.

But Miss Brown began to cry.

They were real tears. She had to take out her handkerchief, blot her eyes and blow her nose.

Then she told me her story, a tale of woe, abandonment and betrayal. Following her lead, I found tissues and began dabbing at my eyes.

“Oh, Miss Brown, that’s just awful! I’m so sorry,” I said sincerely. She stood up and came around to my side of the booth.

Newfound sisters, we hugged each other. We promised to keep in touch. She said I didn’t have to worry about the audit. I left that office a free woman.

I’ve checked with several accountants. They have all told me no one else has ever made the IRS cry.

And I still don’t make enough money.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Marilyn Mathis has published poetry in Sylvia Literary Magazine, the blog “Live, Write, Thrive,” and New Verse News, and received third place in Ageless Authors Poetry Contest. She has received international awards for corporate writing/editing and authored magazine and newspaper features. She has edited Thriving Beyond Survival (nonfiction) by Martha Germann.

 

A Star is Born

by Marcia Yudkin

For two years, people walked around him, whether he was sleeping late on his cot at the end of a sidewalk or walking to the public toilet, a ratty jacket wrapped around his waist and a lemon held in front of his mouth, like a microphone. One day two guys threw their arms around his shoulders and steered him to their picnic area, where they too held up lemons and crooned and swayed on either side of the homeless man. Onlookers gathered. Two tattooed young women grabbed splotched mangoes from below a tree and joined in at the edges, turning the trio into an a capella quintet. They sure could sing! More listeners stopped, murmured and applauded. A cellphone video of the improvisation went online and credited Phil Bottomsly, the street sleeper, as the creative mind pulsing the performance. In the video he did seem like the leader, and though he returned afterwards to his routine, he now smiled as he walked along holding his lemon, bowing to one side and then the other, acknowledging fans.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
The author of fiction in Yankee, Writers Forum, Flash Fiction, Bright Flash Literary Review and New Stories from New England, Marcia Yudkin advocates for introverts through her newsletter, Introvert UpThink (https://www.introvertupthink.com/). Her essays have appeared in the New York Times Magazine, Ms., Next Avenue and NPR. She lives in Goshen, Massachusetts (population 960).

 

The Experimental Writer

by Robert Runté

I mostly get “not for us”, because these editors aren't up for something really fresh. Or comments about “craft”, as if there were "rules" for writing. They're all so old-fashioned. One even wrote they couldn’t make out what I was trying to say. I was astounded by that frank admission.

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Robert Runté is Senior Editor with EssentialEdits.ca and freelances at SFeditor.ca. A former professor, he has won three Aurora Awards for his literary criticism and currently reviews for the Ottawa Review of Books. His own fiction has been published over 125 times