SIXTY SECONDS

By Andy Padjen | 10 March 2003

“You’ve got exactly sixty seconds to tell me what you meant by that,” she said, anger in her eyes.

This is the first time in months that I’ve had her attention.  Now I don’t know if I want it.  I suppose this is my chance to say important things.  Her eyes are cold.  Should I take back what I said?  She has no idea how serious I am.  Have you ever longed to be somewhere so badly that it made you cry?  Maybe I should just embrace her one last time, and not even say anything.  In the embrace, she’ll understand what I meant.  Emotions are transferable.  Have you ever wanted a fresh start so badly that it made you cry?  I need to take a second or two to look at her deeply, because I may never be this close to her again.  I used to stare at her face for hours.  I loved every freckle.  “Who made you?  Where does beauty come from?” I would whisper to myself.  She got so mad at me one time, for something I did or didn’t do, that she refused to forgive me.  So I went into her bathroom and put on her lip gloss.  I buried my face in her bath towel.  I needed her touch.  Every morning she has Italian toast for breakfast.  Except every once in a while she has a grapefruit instead.  On those mornings I know I can ask her anything.  So maybe I should’ve waited for a grapefruit morning.  Timing isn’t everything.  Life is more complex than that.  Have you ever wanted to be alone so badly that it made you cry?  Sixty seconds isn’t much time to make this kind of decision.

“I’m leaving,” I said.

CASH REGISTER

By Andy Padjen | 15 February 2006

I was standing in front of the cash register at Jewel. And I was a little, ya know, nervous. The girl began scanning my items, which felt somewhat intimate. Then she asked me how I was doing today, and I thought that was nice. But I got all, ya know, shy about it and didn’t know what to say. So I blurted out something about how the soul is capable of expanding like a balloon. And that I had read that recently and that I guess I was doing fine.

At that point I couldn’t look up. When I finally did look up, I saw her smiling, and she said she’d like to hear more about it next time.

Periodically I write short (very short!) pieces of fiction. The pieces are so short that I categorize them as flash fiction.  I pack as much soul-stirring drama as I can into a handfull of paragraphs.  What fun!

I decided to post some of my flash fiction pieces here on my blog (I’ll file them under “Flash Fiction”).  I also decided to draw illustrations for some of the pieces (which is a stretch, considering I’m a drawing novice).

To kick things off, here’s a piece I wrote last summer at a writing club gathering in San Diego.

KILL THE OLD WOMAN

By Andy Padjen | 10 August 2008

I took my finger out of her eye socket and gracefully brought it to my tongue.

I closed my eyes.  I pictured myself taking off like a rocket ship, blasting powerfully into the night sky, into the Milky Way, kicking the shit out of star after star.

The doorbell rang.  My heart pounded as I tiptoed toward the patio door and slipped out the back.  With the adrenaline I still had left, I lept the backyard fence like a hurdler.  Holy shit.  I’m unstoppable.

When I reached the sidewalk, I immediately turned on my cell phone and called my mom.

“Hi, Hon,” she said, with a motherly joy.

“Hi, Mama,” I said.  “How’s your vacation going?  Are you soaking up the sunshine?”

“Yea, the sun feels great,” she replied, “though I wish my knee wasn’t bothering me.  I can’t even play golf.  Dr. Goldstein won’t let me.”

At that point in the conversation, I tuned out.  My mom kept talking, but all I could do was lick the remaining blood off my fingers.