Once, when she was a five, maybe six, she saw a motorcyclist hit by a car. The way his leg bent at that wrong angle, like a doll's could, and the muffled high-pitched exclamations of the driver of the car, muted by her mother's warm hands slipping over her ears – she would never forget that. Sprawled on the pavement, the motorcyclist's body was covered in flowers that had ejected out of his backpack. A bouquet one moment, and not the next. "Look away," she was told, and when she lowered her eyes there was a sprig of baby's breath at her feet, the tip touching the strap of her sandal.
She recalls this memory at the strangest times, like when she emerges from the doctor's office into full sunlight. While draining pasta for dinner. Or at two in the morning, after waking from a dream that immediately slips away. But, somehow, never when she walks past the buckets of baby's breath at the farmer's market, or when she parks next to a motorcycle in a parking lot. Funny how that goes. Funny, she thinks, how a lot of things go.
Fiction Friday is an outlet for experimentation while I slowly work on becoming a novelist. Read the rest of the stories here...