Holiday In
Flash Fiction/Haibun
by Jerome Berglund
He
sits outside the motel in an old rust bucket; of course it’s raining. Through
his windshield the flashing neon signage blurs and warps, always blinking. The
man dimly recognizes he cannot recall his name, even his own face to be
perfectly honest. The rearview is just above him, but he durst not dare look at
it, right now, at this precise moment. Maybe later.
ask me anything
…please don’t
focus group
The
engine is still running, but neither does he recall parking here, was he
leaving? Doubtful, the fuel gauge shows the rig to be on empty. Unless he can
locate a petrol station almost immediately it will run out of gasoline. The
light glares, juicy apple red. The colour of knowledge, ironically he realizes,
life imbuing, doctor repellent. He needs a clinician this instant though,
in point of fact, the man at least responsibly recognizes. Still he shuts the
vehicle off, and sits there bathed in the darkness, beneath pounding sheets of
precipitation, sporadically illuminated by the gritty, slum light show. When he
closes his eyes the man can imagine he is passing through a car wash, but every
time he opens them again he is back amongst the grim scenery of the city. A few
doors down, what appear to be manager and pimp are engaged in a heated
altercation through his doorjamb, perhaps pursuant to their third party peering
dourly through the shadows behind the latter, with swollen eyes and battered
face. As our man watches the door slams, old lady throwing up her arms in
exasperation and hobbling back towards her desk, perhaps where a hot toddy or
something not dissimilar awaits to alleviate her discomfort, assuage the
overwhelming powerlessness which is perceptibly ailing her, surely a default
status, endemic to her predominant station in life. She must deal with these
myriad legitimate woes on her own, unfortunately, for this man has his own
troubles to contend with presently. He realized at some point during
reconnoitering that there is blood smeared all about his hands, and despite
valiant efforts for the life of him cannot discern any injury to his person.
retriever mauling
…even buddhists
can be gobshites
A
police cruiser meanwhile creeps through the lot, hopefully merely providing a
presence, but the man cannot yet be sure. He remains very still as it passes
his vehicle, stares calmly into the blinding spotlight from behind the wheel,
breathes a sigh of relief when it continues on its way out of the lot. As he
turns back around to face front his gaze almost lands on the mirror again and a
streak of electrifying terror sets the hair of his arms, across the back his of
neck at full attention, fills his heart with sheer unadulterated panic.
Gasping he directs his vision away, cast his eyes down on the steering wheel
and his gory, drying mitts. Thinking better he fumbles open the glove box in
search of a tissue or napkin and discovers, besides the revolver, a motel key.
But it is so much the worse for wear, faded and battered, that the numbers had
all but worn off its key-ring. So he will have no choice upon finally exiting
the vehicle but to begin systematically working his way across a good two dozen
units, hurriedly trying various locks at random, praying it may gain him entry
into one of their lodgings. That outcome is not necessarily a given, he
understands. Nor did he possess an umbrella, or so much as a newspaper to
shelter himself with the protection of. And that downpour, the associated gales
accompanying it, seem to be increasing their intensity by the second. As if to
demonstrate that truth a nearby butt urn blows over sending up a plume of ash.
He does not care to wait here all night, feels somehow the sitting duck, wide
open and vulnerable to who knows what at this particular moment, each elapsing
predictably bringing an unnamed reckoning closer and closer to his doorstep. It
is indeed now or never, he realizes frantically. The man takes a deep, haggard
breath, screws up his courage, heaves open a door and makes a mad dash b-line
over to the first door on the row. As he begins trying keyholes this gent finds
himself unable to get his mind off a certain face, features of an unfamiliar
visage which he’d inadvertently glimpsed as he thrust himself out into the
drenching deluge. Boy was it ugly…
accidental
flipped camera
abrupt revulsion
Jerome Berglund has worked as everything from dishwasher
to paralegal, night watchman to assembler of heart valves. He has
published haibun in Cafe Haiku, Contemporary Haibun Online, Drifting
Sands, the Other Bunny, Prune Juice, Under the Basho, and the Wise
Owl. His first full-length collections of poetry Bathtub Poems and Funny
Pages were just released by Setu and Meat For Tea press, and a mixed media
chapbook showcasing his fine art photography is available now from Yavanika.
TWITTER: https://twitter.com/BerglundJerome
BLOG: https://flowersunmedia.wixsite.com/jbphotography/blog-1/
INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/berglundjeromehaiku/
FACEBOOK: https://www.facebook.com/JeromeBerglundPhotography/
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