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Phiction111 Collection

Short-short fiction: 1 photo + 11 sentences

By Mark Smith

March 21^st, 2020

Self-interview: The story behind Phiction111

Me: First, thank you for sitting with me to talk about Phiction111.

Also Me: How could I refuse? Besides, I felt like you would be fair.

Me: Exactly. So, enough chit-chat. You've stated that Phiction111 is "1 Photograph + 11 Sentences." How did you arrive at this formula?

Also Me: I love to take photographs. And to write fiction, particularly flash fiction. So why not combine the two?

Me: But most flash fiction stories are maybe 2,000 to 3,000 words. These are...

Also Me: ...much shorter - a tenth of that length, and very dense. Each sentence has to work hard. So the slower you can read them, the better.

Me: But why 11 sentences? Why not 12, or 15?

Also Me: Because "Phiction one-eleven" sounds better than "Phiction one-twelve", or Phiction one-fifteen." Wouldn't you agree?

Me: Of course I agree. Now about the photos: did you take them before, or after, you wrote the stories?

Also Me: Yes.

Me: Yes what?

Also Me: Sometimes the photo came first and I wrote a story to it. For example, that was the case with "Twister" and "Setback." Other times the story popped out and I needed a photo to speak to it - as with "First Christmas" and "Gangs of New Haven."

Me: I see. So the purpose of having the photos is...

Also Me: To add context, to be evocative. The photos have to add value.

Me: I know the answer to this, but I'll ask anyway: Which was your first Phiction111 story?

Also Me: My first was "Clothing Makes the Man." Which BTW was story first, photo second.

Me: A good way to start. And, of these stories, which was the hardest to write?

Also Me: I would say "Past Life Transgressions." A lot to convey, in so little space.

Me: Yes, well, I did notice that some of the sentences in that story ARE pretty long.

Also Me: Let's see you try to pack that much story into 11 sentences.

Me: Well, maybe I will. Any last comments for us?

Also Me: What do you mean, "us?" There's no one else here.

Me: That's what interviewers typically say at the end. It assumes that more than one person is reading or listening. You don't have to take it literally.

Also Me: I'm a writer. I take everything literally.

Me: Tell me about it.

###

71:17

Grandfather and granddaughter gazed down at their model train set. Side by side they stood in the small apartment, living room long ago converted into a workshop, furniture cleared to the walls, extension cords snaking across the floor, lamp shades off for maximum light.

A sidelong glance, a slow nod, and with the flip of a red switch the locomotive sounded its whistle and moved slowly out of the station.

This was their town, perfect in every way, church steeple and playground, drug store and barber shop, painstakingly constructed, placed, populated.

With its load of lumber and livestock the train passed the freshly mown ball field and rolled alongside a row of new homes, lawns manicured, shiny automobiles in each driveway, families shouting and waving from the sidewalk.

The man and girl watched intently; he, 71, with baggy overalls and slippers, engineer’s hat and final-stage Alzheimer's, not noticing the black freight car she’d added that morning. She, rail-thin, lip ring, ponytail dyed red, now 17 and already painted into a dark and desperate corner.

Model citizens crowded the town square; town dignitaries joked among themselves on a makeshift stage. Issuing a white puff of smoke, the train crossed the covered bridge and rounded the final turn.

Grandfather, swaying slightly, hearing the crowd, blissful in the belief that his wife of a half century, gone these past eight years, would soon be stepping onto the platform with a wave. Granddaughter, architect of this bright and unattainable world, knowing that their train would never reach that platform, tightly grasped his hand.

Calling All Dogs

I paced back and forth in the backyard, my mind reeling. The President had just made an emergency announcement: Scientists had discovered a small planet inhabited solely by dogs! And for some time, this new planet had been transmitting powerful, high-frequency signals — not yet decoded by man — aimed at Earth dogs!

The President asked all Americans to remain calm, saying that the effect on humans was unclear. However, he strongly advised that dog owners closely observe their canines for strange behavior.

This was all making sense now, I thought. Rufus HAD seemed preoccupied lately, as if in a world of his own. And I’d seen him observing me from behind furniture or through a window, as if spying on me!

My backyard reverie was broken by the sound of Rufus calling me from the back door. Finally, dinnertime! I lifted my leg on the azaleas and ran into the house.

Past Life Transgressions

Eyes closed, breathing deeply, Maria felt the injection take hold, and just as before she was transported to a scene from one of her past lives: A masked ball at a mansion outside Paris in Napoleonic France, 1808.

On previous visits she’d been distracted by the ball’s elaborate costumes, the music, the incredible opulence — but tonight she was determined to finally learn a fundamental insight into her very being.

With only a few precious minutes before the drug wore off, Maria moved quickly across the ballroom, invisible to the hundreds of party-goers. She reached the foot of the wide, curving staircase, and glancing up was greeted by a startling vision: Her previous-life incarnation — identifiable by a golden aura, one of the drug’s effects — was hurrying down the stairs toward her! Maria stared in amazement as the young woman approached to within inches; although wearing just the faintest hint of a satisfied smile, her neck was flushed a deep pink and she was breathing heavily. And though trying to conceal it, the left sleeve of her dress was badly torn, as if from a violent struggle upstairs.

Fighting an overwhelming desire to reach out and touch this young Frenchwoman, Maria let her pass, then burst up the staircase and down the hallway, bypassing the bedchambers she’d searched in prior sessions. Reaching the last door she slowly turned the ornate handle and entered; at first the darkened room revealed nothing, but as her eyes adjusted she saw what she’d been expecting: A man lay on the floor near the window, the jeweled handle of a knife protruding through the silk sash of his costume! She crept towards the body, but just as it was sinking in that she'd been a murderess in a previous life, she felt the drug wearing off, bringing her back to the present day.

Maria blinked, stood and moved to her bedroom mirror, absently waving a brush through her hair, inspecting her sweater for lint. She gave her reflection an exaggerated smile, took two deep breaths, then walked downstairs to make her daughters that batch of cookies she’d promised.

Twister

I don’t remember everthang about it, to tell the honest to Gods truth. We’d heard it might hit the next county over, then the damn thing shifted and come straight for us, come so fast we didn’t have time to do nothin’ but run from the wheat field into the house, get in the bathtub like they say to, me and Louise coverin’ up our boy Jimmy, all huddled up and hunkered down and prayin’ hard. Twister took our roof and peeled it back like a tin can and then ripped it clean off and flang it out into the north forty like a two b’ four, and we got sucked out and sent up, well me and Lou did anyways. Lou, she ended up in the front yard, whupped up pretty good but her heart a’ gold’s still beatin’ strong. Jimmy, he’s our little guy — he just turned two — he somehow crawled outta that bathroom, run down the hall and under our bed or somethin’ like that ‘cuz he barely had a scratch on ‘im, just a coupla bruises an’ a good bump on his head. Now me, I waren’t so lucky. After that damn roof lifted off I suddenly found myself way up over the house looking down at it, that’s how almighty strong that twister wind is, big guy like me being 25 feet in the air, up there spinnin’ around with clothes and curtains and all manner of domestic household items, not to mention our old retriever Tip, who like any good dog seemed to be enjoyin’ hisself a new adventure. Well, Fate had just previously taken our tractor up yonder too and smashed it back down in the backyard and it was nothin’ but a heapa jagged metal pieces when I landed on it and that was that, I was deader ‘n hell on impact and nothin’ you could do. Lou and them had the funeral last week and attendance was good, as they say. I just wanted to come back and see how the cleanin’ up’s goin’, and to see how Jimmy’s gettin’ along. It ain’t right, that boy growin’ up without his daddy an’ all, but I’m gonna be here lookin’ out for him that’s for sure, and I think he’s gonna be alright.

Gangs of New Haven

James McCade tossed and turned, finally flicking on the light by his bed. It was nearly midnight and he couldn’t get his mind off the young hoodlums in his neighborhood: Clark “Beaver” Binghamton, infamous for his oversized front teeth — and his knuckle sandwiches. Sammy van Voo, who would steal his grandma’s walker to melt it down for pocket money. Sherman “Herman” Costello, resembling a young Frankenstein in looks and brutish behavior. Then there was Bobby Magurky, as good with a baseball bat as he was with the girls. And the ever-shifty Horton Hooling, a specialist in the five-finger discount. And last but not least, Phil “Big Wad” Waldinsky, whose — “JIMMY!” his mother yelled through the door. “Get to sleep! Summer’s over — you’ve got school tomorrow!”

Jimmy “The Blade” McCade smiled and turned off his light, knowing that he had the coolest friends in town. And that eighth grade was going to be the best year yet.

String Theory of Popular Culture

This is a test. Below are 11 sentences, each one stringing together famous—and obscure—people, places, songs, and objects from popular culture in the past 100-ish years. See if you can identify all the connections; if you can, you are probably me. Each sentence is longer and more difficult to decipher than the last. Some creative license has been taken; after all, this is Phiction111. Hint: Be prepared to move both forward and backward in each sentence to solve it (the first one below is solved for you).

#1: Boy George Michael Jackson Five, Dave Clark, Marcia. (Answer: Boy George, George Michael, Michael Jackson, the Jackson Five, the Dave Clark Five, and Marcia Clark (of O.J. trial fame.)

#2: Rosemary’s Baby Ruth, George Herman Munster, Eddie Vedder.

#3: Burma Shave Ice, Vanilla Sky King, Coretta Scott, Sir Walter Payton Manning, Eli.

#4: Sheila E. Howard Hunt, Sea, Baltic Avenue of the Americas Sweet Heart of Darkness Darkness.

#5: Liston, Sonny and Cher River, Hudson, Rock, Chris Isaac Newton Gingrich Who Stole Christmas, White, Barry Gibb.

#6: Ralph Waldo Emerson Lake and Palmer, Arnold, Benedict, ex-Pope John Lennon SisterSledge, Percy Faith Hill, Harold, F. Truman Show, Glen Campbell Soup, Goat’s Head of State, Kent, Clark, Dick, Tricky.

#7: Darin, Bobby, Ricci Don't Lose That Number 9/11, Oceans, Seven-ty Seven Sunset Strip, Las Vegas, Viva la Vida Locamotion, Do The Wall, Berlin, Irving, Washington, George, Curious, (Yellow) I Am the Walrus.

#8: Don't trust anyone over 30 Days in the Hole, with Love, Courtney Cox, Brian Keith, Moon, Did We Really Land on The Hall of the Mountain King Biscuit Flower Hour of Power, Tower of Mice and Men, Mad as Hell, Richard Burton, Timothy Leary.

#9: Shorts, Bermuda Triangle, the Golden State of New Jersey, Patterson, Floyd, Pink Flamingo Hotel, Morrison, Jim, Lord of the Rings, Olympic Games People Play that Funky Music White Boy in the Bubble Gum Music Man, Burning, is Mississippi, Duncan, Isadora.

#10: RuPaul, Sir Elton John Holmes, Larry King, Billie Jean, Jazzin for Blue, Tangled Up In the Heat of the Night Moves, All the Righteous Brothers, Joyce, James, Jesse Colin Young Frankenstein, Bride of Mice and Men at Work Out, Brazilian Butt Sisters, Lennon, Sean Bean, Mr. Mister Ed Sullivan, Gilbert O’Hare, Tortoise and the Deer Hunter Thompson Twins, Glimmer.

#11: Glam Rock Opera Tommy James Brown Sugar Ray Charles Barkley, Matt Dillon, Marshall Tucker Band, The Little Prince, the Artist Formerly Known As You Like It, Cousin My American (Pie), Idol, Billy Jack White Album, The Edge of Night of the Living Dead Head, Edith Wharton College of Musical Knowledge is Power to the People, Village of the Damned Yankees, New York Minute by Minute Rice, Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin Luther King George Harrison Ford Mustang Ranch, Ponderosa Pine Sol Price is Right and Left Foot, My Name is Earl the Pearl Monroe, Marilyn Manson Family Stone Cold Steve Austin PowerStation to Station, Shining Time Has Come Today, Yesterday and Then There Were None.

Illumination

Harry pressed the large button on his flashlight and shuffled out to the garage. The nights were getting colder now; he could feel the change coming.

Once inside, he shone the light on a set of shelves, found the can of beans Edna had asked for, and walked outside. He loved his old flashlight. Made of steel and glass in the 1940’s — by humans, not some damn robot — it was powered by a six-volt battery and much bulkier than his modern flashlights. But its narrow, powerful beam carried far out into the nighttime blackness of his fields, often finding an owl or a coyote.

Finding truth used to be as easy as finding a can of beans in your garage, he reflected as he walked to the house; you just needed the right tool. Growing up, there were just three national TV news shows — three! — and anyhow one was all you needed to get the story. Now, you can find information on 50 TV channels, on the Internet, even your phone for Pete's sake! In the white glare of all that media, the truth isn’t illuminated; it's blinding.

Harry checked the temperature on his back porch thermometer, switched off his flashlight and went inside to help with dinner.

Showtime

I fastened my brother’s top button, straightened his collar and sleeves. Growing up we’d been quite the entertainers — Carl, the natural-born comedian, and me, the straight man and entrepreneur. Elementary through high school we did our act at school assemblies, birthday parties, all kinds of events.

Then for me it was junior college and eventually taking over the family business, the largest mortuary in Boise. Carl went west, acted in plays, did stand-up, waited tables, drifted.

Lifting Carl’s feet I put on his pants, then pulled them up and fastened the suspenders. No matter how bad things got for him in L.A. he was always doing charity work, playing the clown at hospitals for terminal kids.

I placed the floppy shoes on his feet and laced them up one last time. At the viewing today they’ll be expecting to see Carl in pin stripes and a white shirt; well surprise, we’re giving them a fake nose, blue wig, red shoes, the full outfit. That’s what you were wearing when they found you, brother; that’s how I’m dressing you today. It’s showtime, and you’re gonna leave ‘em laughing.

Stairway to Hell

“Now, Mrs. Winston, you’ve said in previous testimony that your son Gregory was, in your words, a ‘different’ boy — is that correct?”

The witness replied, “Very different, yes, and I would also say, very difficult.”

“And Mrs. Winston, to the best of your ability to recall, at what stage of his boyhood did he begin to be ‘different’, and difficult?”

Without hesitating she replied, “It was February 6th, 2017 — two days before his sixth birthday.”

A murmur ran through the courtroom. The prosecuting attorney waited for quiet, then asked, “By your being able to recall the precise date that Gregory’s personality radically altered course, nearly 18 months ago now, are we to believe that this change was quite a significant and sudden one?”

“Oh, most certainly, yes, quite sudden," she said. "Something happened in his room that night while he slept, something…unnatural, and he was never the same. It’s as if he went upstairs to bed that night as our good, normal, little boy Gregory, and someone...no, some THING... came up those stairs, and in the morning he awoke a completely different human being - and quite evil. And we knew something had to be done, something, but we never thought...” - her voice trailed off and she looked down at her hands.

The prosecutor glanced at the judge and said, “I have no further questions, your honor.”

Revelations

We slid out of the gravel parking lot onto the mountain two-lane, the back tires spitting rocks. I jerked around in my seat; the sudden safety of the neon-green motel sign quickly faded as the blackness of the forest swallowed us up.

No conversation, only the wind-roar coming in the windows, rolled down wide on this warm alpine night. A glance at the speedometer told me 85 or 90; to the sides of our station wagon the thick trees moved past in a blur and the rich smell of red dirt and pine swirled around us. I wasn’t worried about crashing—my father had driven this fast before, driven drunk this fast before, and somehow I trusted we’d be OK.

This was the pattern of our family vacations: two or three good days, then mounting tension. Dad would begin creating reasons to drive somewhere, anywhere. Mom and sisters stayed behind, I was the accomplice.

We left the small store with beer and pretzels, Red Vines for me. On the drive back to the motel I took a sidelong look at my father, staring straight ahead at the white lines, silent, the tip of his cigar glowing red, thinking God knows what. But if this drive was like the others, I was about to find out.

A Gravitational Pull

“Earthlings are such incredible asses,” mused the all-powerful space genie, floating lazily above a blue dwarf star, scratching his furry thorax.

“I’ve given them plenty of time to prove themselves—millions of years—and now look! These supposedly 'sapient' beings have done everything imaginable to take a beautiful world, custom-made to suit their petty needs, and turn it to shit!”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he groused, growing more impatient as the decades rolled by, “these fools will evolve into homo maximus, with truly impressive brain power, and far less inclination for self-destruction. But that won’t be for another six million years!” he bellowed into a black hole, irritably swatting away an asteroid. “I CAN’T WAIT ANOTHER SIX MILLION YEARS!”

For three centuries he gazed into the blackness, lost in thought, then finally exclaimed, “I’ve got it! I’ll have the Swinging Sphere of Interplanetary Karma decide the earthlings’ fate—just as I did with that rogue race of jackanapes on Meezar 5, and the Bearded Babies of Rotay-Woo! The Sphere’s wisdom has never failed me!”

The genie blinked his lower eye, and the magical Swinging Sphere instantly appeared before him. With his three smallest pinkies he pulled the shiny ball back, sighed deeply, and let it go.

There Was a Young Cowboy

On a late-afternoon photography trip to an old California gold-mining town, I found myself in the midst of a “Covered Wagon Day” celebration, with tours of original 1800’s homes and a picnic for a group of school kids, dressed in western garb, who had come by bus from a nearby town.

I entered one of the older, less well-preserved houses located on a side street, well away from the crowds; as with the other historical homes, some of the rooms were cordoned off from the public by a heavy-gauge wire screen. After taking a few initial shots, I was adjusting a camera setting when I was startled to see one of the school kids appear to my left and seat himself in a wooden chair — on the other side of the wire screen. Dressed in full cowboy regalia, wearing shiny brown boots, spurs, leather chaps and vest, with a red-and-white checked shirt, neckerchief, and a full-brimmed hat — like he had stepped out of a history book — he settled back, boots swinging a few inches off the floor, nodded and said simply, “Hello, sir.”

I blinked and stared down at him through the screen, letting my camera relax on the neck strap, and finally responded, “Well, hey, little cowboy… Uhhm, how’d you get in there?” The boy shrugged, and pointing with his head to a door in the back of the kitchen, said, “Through there.” As I looked in that direction, he added, “My mother and my sister are here…but my father, he left.” As I peered through the screen to catch a glimpse of his family members, I heard some sort of announcement and applause coming from the picnic, as if the festivities were wrapping up; and I said to the boy, “Don’t you think you’d better be getting back?”

Instead of answering, the boy studied me for a moment and said, “Don't you want to join us?” I was sorely tempted — the rooms I most wanted to photograph were on the other side of the screen — so I said, “Well…sure — just to take a few shots — I’ll come around to the back door, and one of you can let me in, OK?” As I rounded the side of the house I heard the bus driver sound his horn three times, as if signaling the last of the students to board; not wanting to get the boy in trouble I quickened my pace, but as I approached the back door I stopped dead: The door was not only padlocked but had long since been nailed shut — from the outside — and across the vacant lot I saw the school bus close its doors and begin pulling out of the parking lot.

Setback

We were very close, my team and I; after eight years of difficult lab work, endless testing—and many failures—we were nearing a critical breakthrough in the fight to cure typhoid fever and perhaps save millions of lives.

To clear my head, I left my house for a morning walk, feeling certain that the last piece of the puzzle, a scientific epiphany, would come to me today. After a few blocks I came upon a neighborhood garage sale and was absentmindedly scanning the merchandise when a voice behind me said, “I recommend the clock.”

Turning, I saw an elderly woman pointing to an antique clock placed over to the side, away from the other goods, and before I could speak she said, “Really, I think you should have it.”

There was something odd about her; she appeared to be in her 70’s but her dark eyes were those of a much younger woman, like a teenager’s.

“In fact, I insist,” she said, placing the clock in my hands and then strolling off without another word.

Once home I placed the clock on a table, plugged it in, and—nothing. Picking it up with both hands I shook it, and to my amazement the clock’s ornate hands began racing around the faded dial at great speed—backwards—with hourly chimes coming every few seconds in decreasing numerical order. Staring transfixed at the whirring hands, the room began to spin wildly; I became so light-headed that I fell to the floor, and staring at the ceiling I felt completely devoid of thought, as if I had somehow regressed to a primitive moment in evolutionary time.

I awoke late that afternoon, stiff and sluggish but more clear-headed than before, the clock next to me on the floor, its hands still. In that dark and dejected moment I knew only two things for certain: that the final solution for our breakthrough had just been erased from my brain forever—and that if I returned to the garage sale looking for the old woman, no one would recall having seen her.

First Christmas

I awoke to the sensation of an animal licking something off my bare feet. My shirt was unbuttoned, and parts of me were stuck to the hardwood floor by a liquid that smelled flammable.

With a slushy brain I recalled a roaring fire and a room abuzz with holiday cheer at this party — our CEO’s annual Christmas gig for young executives. Now from my prone position I could see a few small coals in the fireplace, and the only other mammal in the room was a Chihuahua. From these facts I deduced that perhaps there had been some unfortunate series of bad choices and juvenile behavior that had gone far too far, and that I was lying somewhere near the epicenter of these activities.

Murmuring coming from nearby… no, you are not alone, I told myself, this is your CEO’s home and there are other employees here, some of them undoubtedly discussing the quickest and cheapest way to fire you.

I was seized by an overpowering urge to leave the premises. Sweet little Jesus, if you would just let me crawl out the front door to that beautifully manicured lawn, where my host’s Dobermans can shred me like a chuck roast, I will never ask another favor of you.

Too late. A man’s shoe appeared very near my head, a shiny lace-up wing-tip that looked very serious under an expertly tailored cuff, and it tapped twice.

In that moment, this being the season for giving thanks, I reflected on what was truly important here: My wife was also somewhere in this house — in similar circumstances, no doubt — and together we’d had a wild and memorable first Christmas.

Clothing Makes the Man

It was the buckle of a shoe, placed just so in the sunlight, that caught his eye from the alley. He stopped and peered into the garage. Pants, shirt, and shoes lay neatly folded barely six feet from where he stood.

From behind two large cardboard boxes, fingers twisting her yellow dress, the girl studied him. He looked younger and taller than when she’d first seen him from her window — and today, even more like her father.

The man hesitated, glancing around. Then from down the hill a church bell rang out, stirring in him a childhood memory of an Easter Sunday in happier times. He stepped to the clothing and shoes, tucked them under his arm and was gone.

When the footsteps faded, the girl stood and walked to the sunny spot of garage floor where her father’s favorite clothing and shoes had lain. A small, hopeful smile. She knew that, when the man found what she’d placed in the front pants pocket, she would be seeing him again.