Jack
Flash Fiction Story
by Kenneth M. Kapp
Jack slowly turned, looking everywhere. His senses were working overtime. He had a bad feeling. His nerves had taken a beating lately. “I’m sure,” he told himself, “it must be something in the water or the air.” He paused, thought for a moment, and continued, “They say we all have to go some time. I just don’t want this to be my time.”
Next thing he knew, Jane bumped into him. He never saw her coming. He couldn’t believe it. Here he was, straining all his senses so he could shoot off at the first sign of danger, and yet he was totally unaware of Jane sneaking up on him.
She knew he was on the lookout, so it must be important. He moved to one side, started to speak, but was so frustrated that only spittle came out of his mouth. He signalled, “So what’s so important?”
Jane twisted her head twice letting him know he should follow her. She maintained “radio silence.” He thinks he’s so macho; just watch this. She was angry and darted off. Bite my bubbles if you can.
Jack caught up with her and helped her push a large rock to one side. Jane preened and did a little dance around a large piece of bread, probably tossed by a litterbug. The dance told him he’d better keep his strength up.
Jack hesitated. He was on his own version of the Paleo diet and did his best to avoid glutens, especially the fatty baked goods that were everywhere. But he was hungry. He’d take a little bite to keep Jane happy. I’ll nibble the crust, leave that fatty part for Jane; she’s always hungry when it’s time to ovulate. Maybe that’s why she’s so pushy. I need to get topside again.
In an instant he was back at the surface and barely had time to look around when Jane joined him. Neither saw the gull swoop down. In an instant Jack was gone. Jane was in shock. All that remained of Jack were a few scales on the surface of the water.
Their friends schooled together, bubbled over by his abrupt departure. A squid brought a piece of sea glass from the deep. A large turtle volunteered his shell. Together his fishy friends composed a tribute. A big-claw crab took the glass and scratched the rhyme on the turtle’s carapace:
Jack, a sprat, would eat no fat,
And Jane would eat no lean.
There was no platter so it didn’t matter and the nursery rhyme can keep for another day.
The gull didn’t care but complained nonetheless that a little mayo or a squeeze of lemon would have helped – Jack was rather dry for a sprat!
Jack Be Nimble
Flash Fiction Story
by Kenneth M. Kapp
Jack was delighted. Ceci, a new hire in the clerical pool had invited him to a “Ti´” party on Friday. “It’s not your regular black or green tea. It’s a Caribbean punch from Martinique. Don’t get the wrong idea, we’re not on a date. The girls just said to invite someone interesting. I’m hoping you qualify.”
She wrote down an address on the West Side an easy walk from where he lived. “It’s apartment 6C. Come about 9. If you want, bring a bottle of your favourite alcohol. There’ll be plenty of Ti´ punch. All the bottles are lined up. You ladle out the punch and add whatever you want. That’s why down there they call it ‘Chacun prépare a sa propre mort – each prepares his own death.’ I think you’ll like the people.”
Friday couldn’t come soon enough. After a long week, he grabbed takeout on the way to his apartment, ate quickly, and set the alarm for 8, figuring a nap and a quick shower and shave would keep him sharp until the wee hours. Ceci was attractive but his company was strict with zero tolerance for any sexual harassment, which according to their definition meant no dating between employees. He’d been on his own for 6 months and was hoping to connect at the party.
He had purchased a bottle of his favourite Kentucky bourbon on Thursday. In the winter he liked to sip it straight and, in the summer, knew of a half-dozen easy mixes. Worse case if the punch wasn’t to his taste, a splash of ginger ale would be fine.
There was a colourful sign on the apartment door: Ti´ Party – Chacun prépare a sa propre mort. Name labels were next to a big punch bowl. Jack found his name with “Ceci” in small letters in the lower right. He opened his bottle, put it with the others, and ladled some of the punch into a tall glass.
The hostess came over and introduced herself. “Hi, I’m Shari. Ceci called, said she’s running late. Please help yourself to snacks and, if this is your first Ti´ party I’m going to recommend at least one ice cube with each drink and top it with one of those cute umbrellas. Ti´ punch can creep up on you so I recommend holding on to the umbrellas as a count. They’re green now. I swap for yellow umbrellas about 11 and at midnight out come the red. Enjoy.”
Jack thanked her, put two ice cubes in the glass, adding a generous pour of his bourbon. He decided to wait until he refreshed his drink before adding the first umbrella.
He made his way to a cluster of people in one corner, introducing himself as a friend of Ceci. They made small talk; most were professionals. all about his age. Stan, a lawyer, claimed to have brought the idea of the Ti´ party back with him two years ago after he returned from a dive trip in Dominica. “Martinique’s just south but good drinks travel fast.”
An hour later, Jack was sitting on the couch telling Fanny about his last trip to Europe. “Next time I hope to go to Austria, maybe even the Salzburg Festival. I like Mozart.” He hadn’t noticed that he was slurring; he wasn’t feeling any pain.
He lost track of the number of his umbrellas but the yellow ones were out when he went to refresh his drink. He smiled when the door opened and Ceci appeared with a friend in tow. She came up, gave him a polite peck on his cheek and said, “Jack, this is my roommate Wendi. And now we got to play catch-up before all the punch is gone.”
He returned to an empty couch. Fanny had joined another group of people. He leaned back and hoped that Ceci would bring her friend over once they had their drinks. He was tired and not too sure of his feet. The music faded in and out. Too bad, I like dancing. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again noticed that someone had removed his glass from the coffee table. He looked at his watch; it was almost 1. Ceci was gone and there were only five people left. He got up and found Shari to thank her for a swell party. As he passed the punch bowl, he decided to make one more for the road or at least for the elevator. There was only rum left and he poured himself a stiff drink over an ice cube, planning to sober up on the walk home.
The rum went down smoothly and he carefully placed the empty cup in the receptacle inside the front door, noticing that the floor had begun to spin.
The cooler night air was bracing and he decided to walk up Amsterdam Avenue. The first block was a challenge. He thought about taking a cab but decided the walk would do him good. “I’ll sing to myself – that should help.” He started with a march, “Alexander’s Rag Time Band,” but soon got lost in the words. Nursey rhymes were his next choice. “Mary had a little lamb…” He couldn’t recall if there was a Mary at the party. He was lost in thought, navigating as best he could when he started reciting his favourite.
“Jack be nimble, Jack be quick…” and he hopped from the sidewalk into 81st Street not seeing the cab screeching around the corner. He was sent flying 15 feet, his last thought was of the sign on the apartment door: Ti´ Party – Chacun prépare a sa propre mort.
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