Flukeman and It Walk Into a Bar
Flukeman has had it up to here. He points dramatically to his chest. Flukeman is a fan of literal gestures. It doesn’t roll Its eyes, but It wants to. Outside the bar, the rain falls in streamers of red—dense and coppery to the taste. It is in full clown regalia. It is not looking forward to going outside. Even temporal make-up runs. Flukeman is getting into the groove of his rant. That girl she’s gotten too old. She thinks she can just leave us behind. The jukebox plays lullabies from broken music boxes: discordant and jarring as babies crying from the attic of old houses. The other morning, she woke from a dream where the world didn’t end and she still woke feeling sad. She drank her coffee, sitting in the window, and saw a little boy across the street. He was crying. His father ran to him, swung him up into a hug. Flukeman orders a drink: sewage water with a twist of eyes. It is on Its third scotch. Flukeman takes a gulp, grimaces. The bar is using the cheap stuff, again. Her nightmares are so boring now, you know? So…Realistic. They both shudder. Across the room, a witch is arm-wrestling with a giant spider. Unfair, really, as spider is using four arms. She gets scared so often, that it’s hard to remember what it’s like to not be: the phone ringing in the middle of the night, the doctor frowning when looking at her blood results, her boyfriend driving too fast around curves. Each moment makes her breath go in, heart speed up. It wants can’t get a word in edgewise— no Pennywise, It thinks and chuckles to Itself. It wants to say, well, you’re the problem, Flukey, that’s when we began to lose her. When she started thinking about parasites more than imagination, as the place to find her terror. But It is smarter than that. Flukeman doesn’t take criticism well. There’s biting. At a funeral for a friend, the priest gets the deceased’s name wrong repeatedly. She wants to shout, to correct him, but she’s so afraid that this is what life comes down to: a slow erasing of who we were. Walking home, after, she walks over a sewer grate and doesn’t even briefly imagine the possibility of clawed hands grabbing her feet. |
Buzzer-Beater, February 2009
In 2009, a friend marries
a man who tells her “you’re
lucky I’m willing
to settle.” And I discover that sometimes
I can’t sleep alone and it is the first
time that has ever happened.
In 2009,
Devin Harris hits a half court
shot at the buzzer to lead the Nets
past the 76ers. I lean forward
in my seat, watching Harris lunging
forward, the ball leaving his hands
as if it has chosen the shot instead
of him. My boyfriend
tells me that distance is nothing.
In 2009, though I don’t believe him,
I say I do, having always been a speaker
of needs more than truths and what he
needs to hear is that we’ll be fine. My friend
calls me up and says
that she feels like she’s made a mistake
and I don’t say “you have” and she doesn’t
ask me for advice and so I don’t give any,
just listen to her breathing, so heavy
and deep.
In 2009, my boyfriend crashes
his car, miles and miles and miles away,
and he is safe and he is fine and still
I think he is too far away for me to feel
such danger. Devin Harris
makes a turnover with 20 seconds to play
and the game seems lost. My
friend says she feels like
her choice was God’s way.
In 2009, I tell my boyfriend, I can’t
and I don’t tell him it’s because I have
never been able to believe in anything,
except the worst,
and so every phone call, every news story
makes me think that he is lost.
The buzzer blasts as Harris throws the ball,
arcing through the air like a sun setting
in time-lapse photography, and 47 feet
later it hits the rim, spins, and falls.
And in 2009, after the game, after
the loss, 76er Andre Miller said “It happens
in this league. We just
have to move on.”
In 2009, a friend marries
a man who tells her “you’re
lucky I’m willing
to settle.” And I discover that sometimes
I can’t sleep alone and it is the first
time that has ever happened.
In 2009,
Devin Harris hits a half court
shot at the buzzer to lead the Nets
past the 76ers. I lean forward
in my seat, watching Harris lunging
forward, the ball leaving his hands
as if it has chosen the shot instead
of him. My boyfriend
tells me that distance is nothing.
In 2009, though I don’t believe him,
I say I do, having always been a speaker
of needs more than truths and what he
needs to hear is that we’ll be fine. My friend
calls me up and says
that she feels like she’s made a mistake
and I don’t say “you have” and she doesn’t
ask me for advice and so I don’t give any,
just listen to her breathing, so heavy
and deep.
In 2009, my boyfriend crashes
his car, miles and miles and miles away,
and he is safe and he is fine and still
I think he is too far away for me to feel
such danger. Devin Harris
makes a turnover with 20 seconds to play
and the game seems lost. My
friend says she feels like
her choice was God’s way.
In 2009, I tell my boyfriend, I can’t
and I don’t tell him it’s because I have
never been able to believe in anything,
except the worst,
and so every phone call, every news story
makes me think that he is lost.
The buzzer blasts as Harris throws the ball,
arcing through the air like a sun setting
in time-lapse photography, and 47 feet
later it hits the rim, spins, and falls.
And in 2009, after the game, after
the loss, 76er Andre Miller said “It happens
in this league. We just
have to move on.”
Chloe N. Clark's work appears in Apex, Flash Fiction Online, Gamut, and more. She writes for Nerds of a Feather and Ploughshares, teaches college comp, and tweets about all things dessert and sci-fi @PintsNCupcakes.