Flash Fiction: My Wall

 My newest hobby has been throwing stuff at my wall. Any stuff really. 

It’s a white wall on the outside of my house with a window that looked into nowhere in particular. I’ve thrown everything I’ve had at it. 

 

Empty beer bottles. Old ceramics I got tired of. Food I don’t feel eating. Apples from a tree that’s been here longer than me. Extra plates. Colored glass. I even throw myself at it, on days when I really want to feel something. 

 

One time, after a grocery run, I decided to make a fruit salad and it eventually got mixed with some stucco. It was delicious. 

 

I thought about throwing paint, but reasoned I was never an “artistic” type, even with a preponderance of free time. Don’t have the patience for it. These days, I’ve proven myself to be more of a “throwing random crap at the wall” type of guy. Besides, it wasn’t the color of the wall that kept training my throwing arm. 

 

Every time the trash needs taking out or when the lawn needs trimming, I have to look at that wall, unchanged in the twenty-five years this house has stood. This house has under my name for eight years. I’m still paying off the mortgage, one month at a time. With a new lease on life, everything inside the house got changed up. The old furniture was thrown out and replaced with heavenly leather cushions and finely cut coffee tables. All the walls got repainted and an entire room was renovated into my new home office. The big wooden desk is my most prized possession. My constant rock in daily life, before isolation.  

 

Moving in can be a chaotic time for a new homeowner, but I assured myself to make the most of it. 

 

After all of the changes, I was happy to say I took pride in my home. What’s the point of living life in one place if you couldn’t say that? 

 

My current problem is that I’m stuck in it. And I changed everything about this house except the outside. 

 

The leather furniture has grown uncomfortable with constant use. My prized work desk feels more like a tether than a sanctuary. It’s torture going to the garage and into my car since there is nowhere to go and nothing worth getting, besides groceries and a rented movie. 

 

So seeing that wall, unchanging for all these years… It makes a guy want to experiment. Seeing crap break is also very cathartic. 

 

Is this healthy? No. 

 

Is it helping me better understand my current situation and what I can or cannot control? Of course not. 

 

But it is something to do, and as long as no one is here to judge me for it, I will keep doing it. The neighbors don’t talk to each other. There are no social engagements in the future. I still got books in case this new hobby gets stale. 

 

Doubtful that will happen though. 

 

Thank God I live alone.

Flash Fiction: An Ink Mess

  

“This… looks like a mess.” 

 

That’s what a mother, here named Andrea Parker, said to her son when he proudly showed off his latest ink drawing. Let’s call this son… Neil. 

 

Neil Orlando Parker. 

 

Now, Neil is a thirteen-year-old kid just starting high school. He’s at that age of opportunity where any kind of club or group would welcome him with open arms. During the Involvement Fair, he found a nice group of kids called the Inkers Club. It is an art club that focuses on teaching students about sketching and drawing with ink pens and practicing calligraphy. While unfamiliar to Neil, the idea of putting shapes to paper really appealed to him. So, he signed up for their newsletter. 

 

Meetings took place every Wednesday during lunch hour at a special recreation room on the east end of the school campus. Thirty students in total made up the club. The student leader Michael was assisted by a beginning art teacher Ms. Willingham, and after all of the members’ introductions, the first creative exercise began. Everyone took a blank piece of paper, a metal tip pen, and a jar of black ink. The directive: to take whatever they could imagine and put it to the page. No restrictions. No critique. Complete freedom. Complete support. 

 

Out of everything high school offered, it was the freedom that most excited Neil. The chance to let his mind run wild on a wide-open plain of white pulp with black trails of ink became such a wonderful thing. The chaotic thoughts of the mind found their home on the page to create a full illustration. 

 

It wasn’t bad, for a beginner. The main visual theme of the piece was spirals. The continuous line showed a variety of line thickness and depth, starting thick and dark black on the outside but growing thinner and lighter once the spiral reaches the center. 

 

For his first art piece, Neil chose the title “Ebony Gyres.” He found both words in a dictionary lying around the recreation room. They sounded super cool say. 

 

His fellow students were impressed. Ms. Willingham said it revealed the creative and experimental mind Neil had. The compliments got Neil buzzing. He ran home with the drawing safely tucked into his backpack, just so excited to show his mom he had a great day at school. He may have found what he wanted to do as a career. He looked forward to what his mother, his supporter in all things would say. 

 

When Andrea held “Ebony Gyres” in her hands, the reaction was not at all what he expected or what he hoped for. 

 

“This… looks like a mess.” His own mother said that. She may not have meant the way it sounded, but the effect it had on Neil is just the same. She did not understand the art, but it still hurt. 

 

The hurt won’t stop him. He does need to get better, but it’ll be for just himself. He’ll need to reread that dictionary.