As the two families exited their homes on the homogenous suburban block to witness the same event that annihilated the dinosaurs, Mrs. Jones looked across the street at Mr. Smith, his arm dutifully placed over his tiny wife’s shoulder, who, in turn, held their twin boys in an iron grip. Mrs. J remembered, two years ago, the day the Smiths moved in, and how Mr. S’s gaze lingered a bit too long on her tidy bosom and wide hips she was secretly ashamed of, as they weren’t symmetrical. In the weeks that followed, the families' lives intertwined. The hubbies took turns grilling burgers on opposite weekends, the wives discussed safe topics like genocide and jello recipes, and kids played street hockey, oblivious to it all. One night, while Mrs. J waited on her porch for Scraps, the family cat, to show up before she went to bed, she spotted Mr. S in his driveway. He stared at her, unabashed. She blushed, and acknowledged a feeling she’d kept, until now, compartmentalized. She removed her robe so her thin nightgown was visible. The cool breeze made her areolas stand at attention. He stepped off his porch, and she wasn’t aware he’d crossed the path from faithfulness to infidelity until she felt his lips on hers. She led him to the basement, which, thankfully, wasn’t locked, where they did the deed, quick, dirty, and full of urgency. The entanglement went on for 18 months, through the collapse of the global economy, mass suicides, and exodus of most of their neighbors, who departed in the middle of the night, cars packed, never to return. Mr. S often wondered if Mrs. J felt shame over their affair, but decided it didn’t matter, as they were all assigned the same expiration date. So, with one mind, they physically and mentally disengaged themselves from their family units, met in the middle of the street, and fell into each other’s arms. It was the first and last moment of honesty they ever expressed, and they weren’t sorry, even as the sky darkened, and they became atoms scattered to the wind.
My Emotional Support Sphynx
Flash Fiction
by Marie C Lecrivain
I found her at an occult store. With her flat gold finish, and stoic expression, she’s a vision of classic judgemental silence; a perfect sphinx. On the way home, as I reach into my bag to caress her smooth tail, and carefully dressed hair, the name “Gladys Calpurnia,” flashes in my mind.
“So, that’s your name?” I whisper.
Gladys gave no reply.
There’s something soothing, and disconcerting, my relationship with Gladys. I carefully carry her from room to room, through breakfast, to my desk, where she listens to me prattle on the phone to clients, watches me type up their details, eat lunch, then dinner, and we finish off each day by binge watching my favorite tv shows. Made from resin, she’s a tough little sculpture, but I’m always careful to set her down on a stable surface, so she won’t take a tumble.
Inevitably, we’ve grown tired of one another. She never answers my questions, or gives me an indication of what she’s thinking.
Well, the girlmance is over. I found Gladys in my desk drawer today, underneath some client files. When did I do that? I pick her up and study her. She, as usual, says nothing.
Since I like to make sure all things come to an amicable end, I made a special place for Gladys on a bookshelf next to a row of poetry books and a Cthulhu statue. She won’t be lonely, but will still be seen, as part of the jumbled landscape of my weird life.
Marie C Lecrivain is a poet, co-publisher of Sybaritic Press, and an ordained priestess in the Ecclesia Gnostica Catholica, the ecclesiastical arm of Ordo Templi Orientis. Her work has appeared in California Quarterly, Gargoyle, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Nonbinary Review, Orbis, Pirene's Fountain, and other journals. She's authored several books of poetry and fiction, including Gondal Heights: A Bronte Tribute Anthology (copyright 2019 Sybaritic Press, www.sybpress.com), and Ashes to Stardust: A David Bowie Tribute Anthology (c 2023 Sybaritic Press).
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