11-04-2013, 10:59 AM
This was flash fiction I wrote for a contest (600 words, someone has to tell a joke, someone has to laugh). I'd like to stay within the word limit, but wonder if it's worth revising.
~~~
Death wasn’t what I expected. There was now no accident, no pain, no tubes, and even the scars were gone. Yet, I didn’t float above my body or look down upon family. There wasn’t a bright light, or darkness even; the passage glowed a soft sepia. Each step felt like walking through tar. There was the distant rasp of voices like sandpaper scraping wood. Words stripped of their emphasis settled in the air, at first in small snatches:
knock, knock, farmer’s daughter, chicken
cross the road
I gotta be careful when I drink. I used to box.
Heavyweight?
Naw, I used to box oranges.
Death, it seemed, was a long tunnel of badly told jokes.
So, a guy walks into a bar…
The words became louder. The tunnel opened into what could have been a crowded party room on any third-rate cruise ship. My eyes stung from colors and cigarette smoke. I reached to steady myself from growing vertigo, and felt my hand come to rest against the intricately-carved surface of a glossy black bar. That it was solid was unexpected. Most of the patrons were crowded around a woman doing a stand-up routine on a small stage at the top of the room. An overhead sign read “Open Mike Improv.” The bar’s stools were deserted except for a person at either end: a slight brunette woman in overalls nursing a draft beer and a guy dressed like a government employee smoking as he wrote on a cocktail napkin.
He looked up clutching the napkin, “Is it time for me to go on?”
I shook my head. “Don’t know. Been at this long?” I nodded toward the stage.
He twisted the napkin. “Yeah, all this month since the accide....” he absently touched his forehead. “No one ever does very well. Hey, can I try some material on you?” Not waiting, he began, “Everyone drinking? I gotta be careful when I drink, I used to box—”
“Oranges! I’ve heard that one” I said.
“What?” He seemed flustered. “All right, so this guy is in the country. He falls into some poison ivy…” As if on cue, I started to scratch my arms. It was more than a suggestion. They were burning, itching. Pulling back my sleeve I saw a deep rash with tiny blisters puckering its surface. The man continued, “…this farmer’s daughter helps him into a truck.” There was the sound of breaking glass. The brunette had dropped her mug on the floor. Her hands were shaking. The itching eased. I looked as the rash became normal skin tone.
“So was that funny? What you heard at least? Do you want to hear it again?”
“No!” I said. “Look, maybe talk about pain that you’ve experienced. Pain can be funny if you make the jokes about yourself.
“I don’t like talking about myself,” he hesitated and was about to say more, but a name was announced. “That’s me,” he said, “wish me luck.” He began to push his way through the crowd.
I turned to the brunette. “You come here for the comedy?” I asked.
“No.” Her voice was hoarse. Tears stained her cheeks. “Listen, you can’t talk to him. Try to become scenery here. You were the Hyundai. I was the pickup. He was drunk or asleep. He...” she cut off tensing.
The man had begun. “I...” He shook his head slightly, “I...a guy goes to the hospital.” He laughed. “Now this is funny because they accidentally castrate him.” The lights turned a sickly fluorescent. I heard the brunette gasp as I doubled over falling to my knees.
~~~
Death wasn’t what I expected. There was now no accident, no pain, no tubes, and even the scars were gone. Yet, I didn’t float above my body or look down upon family. There wasn’t a bright light, or darkness even; the passage glowed a soft sepia. Each step felt like walking through tar. There was the distant rasp of voices like sandpaper scraping wood. Words stripped of their emphasis settled in the air, at first in small snatches:
knock, knock, farmer’s daughter, chicken
cross the road
I gotta be careful when I drink. I used to box.
Heavyweight?
Naw, I used to box oranges.
Death, it seemed, was a long tunnel of badly told jokes.
So, a guy walks into a bar…
The words became louder. The tunnel opened into what could have been a crowded party room on any third-rate cruise ship. My eyes stung from colors and cigarette smoke. I reached to steady myself from growing vertigo, and felt my hand come to rest against the intricately-carved surface of a glossy black bar. That it was solid was unexpected. Most of the patrons were crowded around a woman doing a stand-up routine on a small stage at the top of the room. An overhead sign read “Open Mike Improv.” The bar’s stools were deserted except for a person at either end: a slight brunette woman in overalls nursing a draft beer and a guy dressed like a government employee smoking as he wrote on a cocktail napkin.
He looked up clutching the napkin, “Is it time for me to go on?”
I shook my head. “Don’t know. Been at this long?” I nodded toward the stage.
He twisted the napkin. “Yeah, all this month since the accide....” he absently touched his forehead. “No one ever does very well. Hey, can I try some material on you?” Not waiting, he began, “Everyone drinking? I gotta be careful when I drink, I used to box—”
“Oranges! I’ve heard that one” I said.
“What?” He seemed flustered. “All right, so this guy is in the country. He falls into some poison ivy…” As if on cue, I started to scratch my arms. It was more than a suggestion. They were burning, itching. Pulling back my sleeve I saw a deep rash with tiny blisters puckering its surface. The man continued, “…this farmer’s daughter helps him into a truck.” There was the sound of breaking glass. The brunette had dropped her mug on the floor. Her hands were shaking. The itching eased. I looked as the rash became normal skin tone.
“So was that funny? What you heard at least? Do you want to hear it again?”
“No!” I said. “Look, maybe talk about pain that you’ve experienced. Pain can be funny if you make the jokes about yourself.
“I don’t like talking about myself,” he hesitated and was about to say more, but a name was announced. “That’s me,” he said, “wish me luck.” He began to push his way through the crowd.
I turned to the brunette. “You come here for the comedy?” I asked.
“No.” Her voice was hoarse. Tears stained her cheeks. “Listen, you can’t talk to him. Try to become scenery here. You were the Hyundai. I was the pickup. He was drunk or asleep. He...” she cut off tensing.
The man had begun. “I...” He shook his head slightly, “I...a guy goes to the hospital.” He laughed. “Now this is funny because they accidentally castrate him.” The lights turned a sickly fluorescent. I heard the brunette gasp as I doubled over falling to my knees.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
