flash fiction #1

a paraphrasing first and a break from introspection

Feb 20, 2024

This week’s edition is a quick re-work of something I wrote a couple years ago for a class at Hugo House in Seattle. I have been hesitant to publish fiction in any form before because I feel the least qualified to write it (so, imposter syndrome).

This isn’t perfect, but I think it’s good enough for others to read & get the vibe (so to speak); and, producing writing that is “good enough” is the whole point of this newsletter.

dissolving margins

Henri’s margins began to dissolve the day the Blue Angels arrived.

He was whole; then, as the sound barrier broke above him, the edges between him and the world softened. Henri blinked back tears as he fought violently against this unwanted unraveling. He looked up, desperate, and caught a glimpse of the six fighter jets soaring between the skyscrapers.

Time froze.

The Blue Angels glided directly over Henri as he cracked open on a crowded sidewalk.

He thought of the church they used to attend as a family every Sunday in his childhood, and how he would gaze dreamily up at the frescoed ceiling high above him, and feel both awed and frightened of a God who possessed such a grand house.

“Dissolving margins” is the best way he could describe it to others, who at first thought his affliction intellectually eccentric. But as Henri’s episodes became more frequent, their perspectives shifted. He didn’t understand why they didn’t understand.

No believed the angels stole something important from him.

No one believed Henri was in danger.

He swore up and down to his sister it was the angels, it was all their fault - he had been fine until the angels came. But despite his best efforts, she didn’t seem to understand either. He was grateful she took him in, but he wished she would stop asking him about work (because she still didn’t know - the angels took that away too).

“You’ve just been waiting around for an excuse to exit society,” his sister shouted at him, once, when she came home late from the hospital to find Henri exactly where she had left him 14 hours ago, again. “And you’ve finally found it. Congratulations, Henri.” She stomped to her room and slammed the door.

But he felt it; it, being every-thing. All those feelings…they paralyzed him. And he was frightened.

On one of his good days (there were fewer of those now), he asked his sister to take him to church. She looked startled, then suspicious; but agreed without asking any further questions. Anything, she told herself, anything to get him out of this phase.

The church down the street wasn’t as grand as their childhood parish, but it made Henri feel small all the same. He stood next to his sister, mouth mumbling responses and prayers, staring and staring and staring at the glorious blue stained-glass window above the altar, and the winged angel contained within it.

“Please,” he silently prayed to the angel, “please.”

The angel didn’t respond.

When the service ended, Henri told his sister he would meet her at the car, then knelt back down and bowed his head. He was still there 20 minutes later when, impatient and worried, his sister yanked open the church door, saw him, sighed, walked over, and plunked herself on the pew next to him.

She was surprised to see tears streaming down his cheeks and over his folded hands as he gazed, adoringly, at something towards the front of the gathering space.

She turned to see what made her brother cry like that, and wrinkled her brow in confusion - for above the altar, where Henri's eyes were arrested, there was only a blank, brown stone wall. Nothing.

“Henri,” his sister said, “are you going…are you going to be okay?”

He didn’t move for a heartbeat; then he turned, slowly, and locked eyes with her. In that moment, he was radiant.

“No,” he whispered slowly and firmly, his voice hoarse. “No. But it’s going to be beautiful.”

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