The 9th Avenue Watch - Flash Fiction Story by Lois Anne DeLong

 

The 9th Avenue Watch

Flash Fiction Story

by Lois Anne DeLong

 

“She’s back,” Leah said out loud in a voice filled with joy, as she watched the small woman in the brightly patterned dress slowly rock back and forth. Seeing the woman framed once again in the third of three windows on the sixth floor of the building across the street, a small gray cat in her lap, Leah felt the world was spinning properly on its axis once again. After an absence of three days, “Martha” was again at the window.

 

Martha, as Leah had named the woman, first came into view three months ago on a miserable winter morning. Sidelined from work by a bad cold, Leah had decided to use the large windows of her apartment on 9th Avenue like a movie screen. For several hours a day, she would bundle up against the chill that leaked through every tiny gap in the aging window frames to watch the people on the street below. Not content just to observe, Leah began constructing stories for many individuals passing by, all inspired by the old films she loved. So, the man from two buildings down—the one who always wore an immaculately crisp trench coat—became a spy, exchanging secret documents in Central Park with similarly clothed figures. Another tale revolved around a dark haired woman who favored large hats. Hat Lady, who appeared several times a week in the late afternoon, was transformed into a society girl with dreams of the stage who was secretly taking voice lessons from a former opera star.

 

Leah’s street observations continued long after her cold dissipated. Though now she could only indulge her passion on the weekends, it still provided a diverting change from a dull job and a rather colorless life. At the window, she could create a world full of adventure and imagine she lived among people doing bold and dramatic things. It was better than any entertainment crafted in Hollywood.

 

On one unusually warm day in that winter, Leah watched Hat Lady enter the building across the street. Sliding herself towards the end of her chair, Leah felt sure that this time she would catch her at one of the windows. Eagerly scanning for signs of that striking blue and green chapeau, she instead caught a glimpse of Martha out of the corner of her eye. Though there was nothing striking about the woman’s appearance—a plain face showing the lines typical of a woman of about 60, dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail— something about her expression drew Leah in. It suggested an endless well of disappointment and Leah quickly realized that plumbing the depths of that sorrow could feed a need much deeper than her craving for momentary fantasies of spies and aspiring thespians.

The fascination grew into something of an obsession as Leah soon lost all interest in the other people coming and going in the streets. Even Hat Lady, who she finally figured out was just a housewife with an attentive and wealthy lover, no longer intrigued her. Just Martha, who wore her loneliness like an invisible shawl.

 

When curiosity got the better of her, Leah crossed the street and entered the building. A quick walk around the 6th floor helped her locate the apartment she had been observing. Knowing the woman was currently at her post, Leah knocked on the door several times but received no response. Finally, she slipped a note under the door that said simply. “Are you alright?” with her name and phone number.

 

As Leah awaited some kind of response, she could scarcely contain her joy. Surely Martha would respond and then, perhaps something resembling a friendship might come from it. Leah envisioned the two of them sitting quietly together, with two cups of tea resting on the window ledge. Leah was even willing to obtain a cat for such visits.

 

But an answer never came, and the day after Leah left the note, Martha disappeared. When her absence persisted for a third day, Leah decided to go back across the street. Her mind envisioned Martha ill or perhaps struggling to get up. Just as she was grabbing a coat to hasten her exit, Leah saw the lights across the way come on. Martha, looking smaller and much more fragile, came into view. Slowly, and with a facial expression that suggested pain, she walked across the living room to her chair. Under her arm she cradled the grey cat. Taking her seat, Martha’s eyes scanned across the way until they connected with Leah. Lifting a brightly colored shawl, she waved it, as if she was sending a message to her distant companion. Then Martha dropped the shawl, turned to her left and sunk down deeper into her chair. Soon the only things Leah could make out were a few strands of hair escaping from her ponytail.

 

The next morning when Leah awoke, the blinds across the way were closed. Two nights later, there was a knock at her door. When she stepped out in the hallway, all she saw was a small basket containing a tiny grey kitten. The kitten was resting in the folds of the colorful shawl, to which the note Leah had slipped under the door had been pinned. Carefully detaching the note, Leah saw a new message, written in a crisp neat hand. “I am fine now,” the message read. “But my friend needs a home.”

 

Lois Anne DeLong is a freelance writer living in Queens, New York, and is active in the Woodside Writers literary forum. Her stories have appeared in Dear Booze, Short Beasts, Bright Flash Literary Review, The Woodside Review, and DarkWinter Literary Journal, and her poetry in Literary Cocktail, Haikuniverse, and The Bluebird Word.  DeLong spent many years as a technical writer and also taught composition as an adjunct instructor at a community college. In her free time, DeLong enjoys going to the theatre, singing show tunes in piano bars, and cheering on her beloved NY Mets.

 

Eight Poems by John Drudge

 

The Path

 

Within

The cotangent

Of universal design

Where nature tends

Toward something else

In a process of attraction

And novelty

Beyond meaningless

Observation

To the cutting edge

Of the cosmos

Where we revel

In the order

Of connection

Toward higher states

Of universal breath

And the cutting edge

Of sheer complexity

As it Passes

 

The days are long

But the years short

First steps and birthdays

Skinned knees

And hurting hearts

Time trickling by

In slow streams

Of awareness

And endless bouts

Of broken attention

Currents against the wind

And boats on waves

Of memory

Searching forever

For the soft shore

Behind the Eyes

 

There’s a certain

Nebulousness

To certainty

Something always

Behind the curtain

Bat wings

On night air

A rolling rhythm

In the creases

Of time

A high hard moon

Lighting paths

Made of oak

And stone

In the quiet

Behind closed eyes

And the knowing

Of the moment

In the absorption

Of things

Gone

 

I bounce out the window

And I’m gone

Gone from everything

That bleeds foul grey

Gone from the chains

Of orchestration

Gone from the things

That don’t match my eyes

And the brain screws

That pinch behind

The frontal lobes

Beyond the toxic tension

In the town square

And the unravelled truths

That slither and slide

Over dry ground

In new reflections

Of loss and deprivation

Under the faint light

Of a new shrivelled moon

Here

 

It’s a subtle thing

The way we walk

Through time

The way we stand

Before storms

And welcome the rain

The way we rejoice

In silence

For just a moment

Where life requires

Surrender

And who you are depends

On what you resist

And all becomes quiet

In the art

Of noticing

In Venice

 

We were happy in Venice

And Venice treated us well

Our place was just off

The Grand Canal

In what used to be

An old post office

Corridors

And creases in time

Stone holding secrets

As a backdrop to history

Seaweed clinging

To time-stained palaces

And footsteps

Echoing with clarity

Down narrow streets

Masked desire

And gondola rides

And Hemingway still barking

In St. Mark’s square

On his way to Harry’s

For a quick drink

The lagoon filling

With possibilities

And the moon bright

With memories

The Veneto beckoning

Impossible marvels

Floating on the horizon

Like dreams on water

Peace

 

It sometimes

Comes to you

Sudden and alone

In waves of great joy

Or with the sight

Of big green trees

Or sunlight on the bay

Where the water is shallow

And the sand runs

All the way up

To the tree line

And the wind kisses dreams

In the stillness

Of sitting

Renewal

 

Every so often

Everything changes

And the planet erases itself

Without hesitation

Into the hope that attaches

To destruction

And renewal

Gone are the creatures

And the old sky

Gone is breathing

And the stars at night

Transformed

Into new eyes that peer

From new tides

Into new sights

On the horizon

Under a blind orange sun

John Drudge is a social worker working in the field of disability management and holds degrees in social work, rehabilitation services, and psychology.  He is the author of eight books of poetry: “March” (2019), “The Seasons of Us” (2019), New Days (2020), Fragments (2021), A Long Walk (2023), A Curious Art (2024) and Sojourns (2024), and Too Close to the Shore (2025). His work has appeared widely in literary journals, magazines, and anthologies internationally. John is also a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee and lives in Caledon Ontario, Canada with his wife and two children.

 

 

 

 

 

Ring of the Nibelungen - Flash Fiction Story by Barbara Krasner

 

 

 

Ring of the Nibelungen

Flash Fiction Story

by Barbara Krasner

  

 

Elsa always wanted to be an opera star. When she was little, she’d dress up in costumes she pulled from an old trunk in the attic, smear red lipstick on her lips and cheeks, and belt out a song. Most of all, she wanted to perform in a Wagnerian opera. She wanted to wear a horned helmet like Brunhilde. With that heavy metal on her head, she could be queen and rule the land. She could have servants waiting on her. And she’d own a stable of white horses. Every day she’d go riding on her favorite she’d call Apple. 

Her parents humored her and paid for voice lessons. Elsa auditioned for every school musical. Her voice grew stronger, more melodic. Her teacher said one day, “Do you know how lucky you are to have perfect pitch?” Elsa nodded. She was meant to be a star. In college, she majored in theater arts and again auditioned and got major parts in the musicals. Best of all, the school offered free tickets to the Met dress rehearsals. In the spring the company would perform all four parts of the Ring of the Nibelungen. She sat in the plush red seat, read the libretto in English on the screen across the chair in front of her, completely mesmerized by the music, the setting, the voices. Out came Brunhilde, one of the Valkyries.  

Elsa stepped up her studies. She told herself she’d give anything to play Brunhilde. More voice lessons. More practice. A move to New York City. Finally, after studying Germanic mythology, practicing the German language, trilling her r’s, mastering those troublesome umlauts, she auditioned for the part.  

“I’ll do anything to be Brunhilde!” she said. The minute the words slipped out, she regretted them. “I’ll work very hard. Sacrifice my free time. You can rehearse me to death.” 

“I hope you mean what you say,” the casting director said. 

 She won the part.  

On the day of the opening performance, she sat in front of her mirror in her dressing room and ran the scales, focusing long and hard on each specific vowel, and holding it. She worried about that twenty-minute aria for the immolation scene, when Brunhilde rides into the funeral pyre, and Valhalla explodes in fire. The ultimate sacrifice. Performing it terrified even the most mature singers. 

There was a knock at the door. 

“Come in,” she said. 

A man with a pointy beard and red satin jacket entered. “You will give a superb performance tonight," he announced. "You will have five curtain calls.”  

 Elsa’s eyes lit up. “Really? How do you know this?” 

The man smiled in a way that gave her chills. “It’s been the plan for years. You will perform brilliantly. And then you will give your soul to me. After all, you said you’d give anything.” 

“But the part is already mine!” The words pricked her throat like shards of glass. 

“You know how these Wagnerian arias can stress your vocal chords. How do you think other singers manage them? Oh, if I had a pfennig for every singer I’ve struck a bargain with. Five just this week.” 

Elsa’s mouth opened. The immolation aria poured out with ease and perfect soulful diction.  

The man slid a piece of paper in front of her. “Sign here, Number Six!”

Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her flash fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Boulevard, The Ekphrastic Review, I-70 Review, Flash the Court, and elsewhere, earning multiple Best American Short Stories, Best of the Net, and Best Microfiction nominations. She lives and teaches in New Jersey.