Sierra Madre, California
Congratulations Linda!
Linda’s Bio:
Linda Courtland lives and writes in Los Angeles. Her flash fiction has appeared in Flashes of Speculation, Fictional Musings, FlashShot, and MySpace News. Three of her stories were chosen for inclusion in the print anthology, Six Sentences, Volume 1, available on Amazon in mid-April. Linda was recently invited to San Francisco to read her work at the Soul-Making Literary Prize Awards, and after the reading, she's looking forward to sailing by the Golden Gate Bridge at sunset, enroute to the super-scary night tour of Alcatraz.
Contact her at LCourtland@gmail.com
Change Management
He stands in front of the supermarket, shoving a cup at each cart.
“Change?” he says.
A woman drifts toward the entrance.
“Hail the crusaders,” he says to passing shoppers.
The woman pauses mid-step, forgetting why she came.
“You all right, miss?” he asks.
“I'm sick,” she says.
“The angels, they cry.”
She stares at runny eyes, watching her reflection melt. His cough smells like chemicals.
“Do you have a cigarette?” she asks.
He reaches up one sleeve, pulling on a pack of generics.
“How much for one?”
“My gift.”
She slides it out of the crumpled pack. “You have a light?”
“Can't smoke right here,” he says.
They walk through rain: she, in a stylish suit; he, in torn pants secured by orange string.
His fingers shield the tiny flame. They sit at a stone table, staring at the night sky.
“The light from Saturn's too damn bright,” he says.
She stifles a cough.
He moves his lips, talking to the stars.
She had quit smoking ten years ago. Since then, she followed the food pyramid, drank plenty of water, did yoga and Pilates.
“I'm supposed to start chemo tomorrow,” she says.
“Noah fills arks to save Earth,” he says.
“My husband doesn't know.”
He smiles. “They clone them, two by two.”
She crushes ashes with her foot.
He lights a second cigarette from the fiery tip of the first. “Want another?”
“Yeah.”
He passes her the pack.
“Secrets ain't good,” he says.
“The truth isn't good, either.”
He eavesdrops on a conversation inside his head.
“I wanted to tell him.” She crosses her legs. “But it never seemed like the right time.”
He blows smoke rings.
“Noah sails every Sunday,” he says.
“Tell him to take me.”
“He only take animals. Noah don't like people.”
“Why not?” she asks.
“I got to get back to work.” He stubs out the half-smoked cigarette and puts it in his pocket.
She opens her purse. “Here, let me give you something.”
He grabs her wrist. The strength in his gnarled hand scares her.
“Lady, you know how long it's been since someone sat down and talked to me?”
She shakes her head.
“Eons,” he says, releasing his grip.
She exhales a puff of smoke.
He trudges toward the concrete portico.
“Your husband,” he says, facing away. “He still love you if you tell him.”
She throws her lit cigarette into a puddle. “Don't you see?”
He retreats to his post, asking strangers for change.
“I'm different now!” she screams at him.
“We all different,” he says to the store.
***