Flash Fiction, Lucas Simone
The body is stiff and holding itself, its skin shrink-wrapped caramel. We shouldn’t be able to tell, but we can:
It’s our age.
Henry passes me The Stick, a code name we crafted in between rapid taps of our sneakers in class this past week, our Saturday plans warping any mention of quizzes, essays, or extra-credit readings. And last night, right on schedule, we mixed spit in swigs of bright greens and churning browns, taking in soda until our temples ached. Then, five hours before sunrise, we rolled his dad’s jeep down the driveway, cringing at every pebble it popped. We drove until the headlights clicked off, buckled the spindly elbows and joints of our snow boots, and hiked until the air in our guts was as clean and white as the ground before us. We technically have detention, but the punishment for skipping Saturday detention is lunch detention for a week. Five lunches is a solid trade for a Saturday.
I place The Stick between my teeth and do a pucker-puff with my lips, letting out smoke like a mobster or a broken grill. We just had a whole archeology unit in science class. We know all about ancient kids in the Andes, killed by thuds to the head. Their likes and dislikes, the smell of their clothes, the rare and breathless eye contact with their favorite animal. All taken as sacrifice. It was my favorite unit so far this year. Henry’s too.
“We could probably figure out her last meal.”
“Why ‘her?’” I ask.
“I don’t know any guys who look like that.”
The kid is gripped and sunken in the middle, hips swollen in relation. I pass The Stick with numb eyes and watch Henry’s blur hit it with another crack from his prized camo BIC lighter. The Stick is a Cuban cigar. Henry lifted it from the box in his dad’s study, then dissected it with his pocket knife and filled it with green, skunky crumbs. He lets it bend and bow him now, sucking in for ten seconds after it’s left his lips. We stare at the body. Looking past the raisin skin, she and I have the same build.
The day we learned about the Andes bodies, all the girls were huddled in the corner and crying. There was an active shooter one neighborhood over, so we got to go through the slideshow in the dark and on the floor like we were in an ancient cave. It was awesome.
A bird beats somewhere above, a yelp that makes me imagine a black beak and a red, furry chest.
It feels good to be a boy. To not be afraid of what touches your body. I would make a good archeologist because of that. I would be able to wade through a bog, drag a lake, pick through poop. I could handle a shooter too. I would never cry in a corner. I wouldn’t even stay in the classroom. I’d get out into the halls, take off my shoes so he couldn’t hear me, and get him from behind. It’s not hard. I’d be a hero.
Hence, detention.
“Stomachs stay good longest,” Henry says. He’s right. The other organs are quick to sludge, but the stomach can stick around. It’s almost like they want to be helpful.
I’ve got The Stick again. Henry’s unzipping his jacket, sliding his sleeves up to his elbows in quick bursts, crouching down. He looks like a cartoon fighter—big pants and bigger torso. There’s a quick, cold sound and then a warm, familiar smell—familiar like the whale belly I nightmared-up when I was five and watched Pinocchio. Something long buried, deeply personal. Something that was never meant to be remembered.
“You can’t get to the stomach that way.”
The body crunches dark and dry, like a tree decomposing into itself, like plaque scraped off a dead tooth. The pocket knife squeaks as it moves in and out. I hear a muted sizzle. I look down. I dropped The Stick in the snow.
Suddenly, Henry’s up. “It’s probably a Halloween decoration or something.” His jacket’s back on, his eyelashes crusted.
I nod. “It doesn’t even look real.”
“It’s a prank,” Henry says. Then he moves. His steps are heavy and bounding, back down the mountain toward the car. I leave The Stick and follow him, everything white except the thing behind us.
Lucas Simone is a playwright from San Jose, California. He currently lives on the Southside of Chicago.
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