Can I Be – Flash Fiction

Can I Be
Flash Fiction
Written by -M. Taggart

Can I Be

As seen in the nine years old boy’s diary before his death-

‘I didn’t know I was bad. I felt it once but I made it go away. Jan 14.

I found out I am not bad. I saw bad today. That is not me.  Jan 21.

I had a good day. My uncle took me to a movie. When I came home he told me he was sorry. Feb 6.

I think I’d like not to be here anymore.  Feb 22.

I did what I was told. I don’t know who else to tell. Feb 28.

Today was good. I was told I could go to school again. I want to go to school again. I want to learn and read books. March 3.

My covers aren’t enough.  March 4.’

The boy was found dead March 5. The boys diary contained notes and drawings.

(edited timeline error.)

A Simple Truth – A Short Story

A Short Story
‘A Simple Truth’

Fiction- Written by -M. Taggart

Warning- Adult Material.

She use to wash my feet, he thought. The water from the shower would land on her breasts and he’d watch the beads of water collect and trickle down her stomach, to her naval, and then the tub. She’d take her time and scrub one foot at a time. He didn’t know why she did this. He had taken it for granted, he thought.

Now he sat on the couch, looking at his feet, and wondered why she’d ever cared enough to touch them. He opened a can of beer. It made a suction sound. Bits of beer flew up and out of the can. Some sprinkled onto the coffee table.

‘Want to go for a walk?’ He asked her.

‘No. It’s too cold out.’ she replied.

It was 50 degrees. The sun was shining. It was November.

‘We could bundle up. You have that L.L. Bean wool jacket.’

‘I don’t like it. It itches my skin. Besides, I brought it back.’

He took a long pull from the beer. It foamed in his throat. Soon he would need to spit. The sun looked graceful. He wanted to be in it. Walking. Anywhere. He knew if he left for a walk she would become angry. If he sat and made conversation, she would pick it apart. If he sat and said nothing and drank more beer she might ignore him and that was the best plan.

The shower almost always ended with her giving him a hang job. He would be close to sleeping. She would message his calf. Then his quads. Eventually she’d start to tug. How to get back to the shower and the washing of the feet?

‘Do you want to take a shower?’

‘I’ll take one later.’

‘I mean the way we use to. But this time I’ll wash your feet. And you can lay back and sleep if you want to. Let the hot water land on you, I won’t need it.’

‘All you think about is fucking.’

Often, yes. He thought. But that wasn’t what he’d been thinking about. He wanted to repay her and find a way to go back. Fix all the middle ground he and she had trampled on. He was confused about it, but knew somewhere in there was truth.

‘I don’t want to fight.’

‘Have another beer.’ she said.

The best plan was to have another beer and not talk. Not talking was nice because he could still talk in his head. Fuck, he could write an entire novel in his head and forget it all by evening. He might even sit down and write a chapter. Or, he’d tap into some whiskey and relax into a nice long conversation he’ll never have with the one he loved most because he wasn’t sure how to start without chaos following.

‘Want me to grab you something from the kitchen?’ he asked her. He had finished his beer.

‘Can’t I sit here in peace? Why do you constantly pick at me. What’s with all of your questions?’

‘Fuck you.’

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Now it was too late.

‘Maybe if you weren’t such a self-centered bitch who can’t realize how hard I’m trying and how difficult it is to communicate with you, maybe then, you’d fucking get me. But until then it’s more beer and a big Fuck You.’

She got up and grabbed her jacket. He heard the keys in her hand. The sounds of self-served abandonment. He knew it well. ‘Keep being you. You drunk.’ The door slammed shut.

He needed to spit badly now. The beer foam had gathered in his lower throat and was becoming a ball of fucked up saliva. He felt the tension from the fight gathering in the pit of his stomach and rush toward his chest and he spit the wad from his mouth and watched in spin in the air. Parts of mucus broke off and went in its own direction. The bulk of the wad landed near the TV, on the carpet. It clung to the carpet looking disgusting. He’d never done that. He wished he hadn’t. He hated himself because he knew the same emotion which enabled him to cause this mess was the exact same that caused him to destroy his relationship.

Fuck myself, he thought. Then he got up, went to the fridge, opened a new beer and grabbed a towel.

copyright -M. Taggart 2016

Want to read more of my writing? Try my self published short story, ‘Don’t Be A Sally’ found via the link below.

https://www.amazon.com/Dont-Be-Sally-Based-Events-ebook/dp/B00DYAJ2ZW?ie=UTF8&keywords=don%27t%20be%20a%20sally&qid=1433349895&ref_=sr_1_1&sr=8-1

Fuck Off Professor Brown – Non Fiction

I’ll simply say it as it was. A bitch of a professor at Brown University told me Hemingway wouldn’t be published today because his writing was too simple.

Fuck off.

That was my internal response.

I had been standing at the deli. A middle aged women stood next to me. I asked how her day was. She told me it was rushed. The man behind the counter asked what I wanted and I told him steak. Filet. For two.

I like to chat and talk and meet and know. I asked her who her favorite author was. I quote, ‘Oh, I don’t know. Who’s yours?’

I don’t respect people who can’t answer simple question. I respect them less when it’s about themselves.

‘Hemingway.’

‘Oh. He’s nothing really. He wouldn’t be published today.’

‘No? Why not.’

‘He’s too simple. He never took on anything important.’

‘Tell me how he’s simple. Tell me why.’

‘He never wrote about anything that meant anything.’

‘The Sun Also Rises was simple?’

‘We all stand on his shoulders for what he’s done. But, he’s simple.’

I told her I felt differently. She was alone and it’s easy to frighten off a conversation.  I asked, ‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a retired professor.’

‘Of?’

‘English.’

English. Books upon books and cognitive development involved with a mental sphere of words pushed into physical boundaries and here we are.

‘I enjoy to read. Where were you a professor?’ I asked.

‘Brown.’

A professor was asked a simple question. Who is your favorite author. She couldn’t answer the question. She turned the question into a shaming moment. I wish her students the best of luck. I watched this women try to pay for her purchase. She was unable because she didn’t understand how the card ran through.