Snow Falling on Couchy

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
From Stranger Things Happen, my book of 76 overlapping flash fiction stories inspired by original street photography. Available on Amazon in all global markets.

Submitted: February 19, 2016

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Submitted: February 19, 2016

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It’s not the snow that’ll shut you down; it’s the ice. And sure enough, that’s what happened yet again in Atlanta. Nothing has changed since Snowpocalypse last year, when the entire city shut down after the roads froze over. Nothing. Or, perhaps everything. There’s been a whole year of life and love and loss.

Yet here we are again, iced in. And here I am, still sitting on this about-to-be-paved path that will somehow connect everyone, although there’s a disconnect about that. I don’t mind the ice. I’m not going anywhere, at least not today, but I see the construction people. I know the end for me is soon. I know I’m not really art to them. I know I’m junk. If I could, I’d stick my tongue out and catch the gently-falling snowflakes. I’d twirl. I’d laugh. I’d make snow angels. I’d live out loud for whatever time I have left.

I used to cringe when people looked at me, thinking of their own lost youth and beauty. But I don’t really mind that anymore. I’ve grown comfortable in my skin, so to speak. I’ve grown to enjoy —  relish, even  — my little part in the collective drama of existence. People have sat on me, gotten sentimental about me, and been sorry for me. They have stuffed me with money, stolen from me, and soiled me. And through it all, I have somehow mattered, even if it was just for a brief time. Isn’t that the most any of us can ever hope for? Isn’t that all we really want?

I have a name now, you know. There was a girl with a glockenspiel  — a woman, really – who used to come at night, hang upside down in a tree, and play Ode to Joy mournfully. She comes during the day now, pushing a stroller. She points at me and says to her little girl, “Say hi to Couchy!”  The baby is too little to care, but I care. I’m not just a couch anymore. 

And now, new strangers cross my path, and yours. Or are they really strangers? Are any of us?

What will become of our city? What path are we on? Do any of our stories even matter? Do we?

 

 


© Copyright 2018 Pattie Baker. All rights reserved.

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