npr's 3 minute fiction

Below is a short story I entered into NPR's three minute fiction contest. The rules were to write a story that could be shared in under three minutes and to use the first and last lines NPR provided.

 

Some people swore the house was haunted. And who could disagree? Ever since the old man traveled overseas, not a single inhabitant left the home intact. No one died, mind you. Not literally. But emotionally, spiritually, mentally, they all suffered some sort of death. And that, can often be worse than living.

It seemed too good to be true. A charming home for rent on a quiet tree lined street ...such a rarity. But the old man, hesitant to sell his beloved sanctuary, did just that. He opened it up for lease, with plans to return home once his travels were complete.

They came eagerly, in pairs of two, four, even six. Not a single family lasted a year. They came with baggage, intentions, and expectations.

The first couple, newlyweds with twin babies, believed the home would solidify their marriage, make them complete.

The second couple, with four teenage sons, prayed the new space would bring an end to the constant fighting.

And the misplaced suburbanites, with their two kids, dog, and problems in tow, fully believed this was the house that would finally make them happy. Yes, the house in the city would make them happy….

All of them, every single one, put all their hopes and happiness upon the home, and the house reacted from the weight of such pressure.

The newlyweds divorced. The teenagers fought with newfound intensity. And the suburbanites fled to the country. Yes, the country…

The house sat empty, no one would rent it. Word had spread, ‘high turnover’, something was wrong, maybe it was jinxed….. bad energy….

 

Across the ocean the old man met a young teacher, also traveling. The young teacher, however, was about to return to the States. He had accepted a job, coincidentally, in the very city the old man was beginning to forget.

“What a blessing” the old man thought. He was worried about his beloved home, it had sat empty for too long. He offered the young teacher his home, rent free. “Just look after her for me, I’ll be back, eventually”

(Yes, the home is a she. They all are.)

The young teacher was thrilled at the opportunity. “You meet the coolest people traveling”, he thought. The young teacher lived simply, and was always thankful for a place to sleep. No baggage.

He moved in, and the house, now free from expectations, began to shift and change.

Some people swore they heard her giggle, saw her breathing.

The young teacher, he began to change too. He found himself walking through her threshold, thinking, “I like it here. I could stay here.” These thoughts, at first, took his breath away.

He began to have strange dreams. He could see a woman (a wife?) walking through the hallways, out to the garden. He dreamt of a baby, waking him up in the morning. Never before had he thought of these things. Was he going crazy?

Sometimes he thought he heard the house giggle!

Her heart, and his heart, began to swell, beat in sync. The teacher slept smiling. The house loved to watch his dreams. She thought they were charming.

 

Word of the old man’s death while overseas (he died in his sleep, he’s still traveling) first came with sadness, and then opportunity. For the old man bequeathed the home to the young teacher, and the young teacher accepted it graciously.

Through the hallway, out by the garden, gentle giggles greeted the teacher each morning, and the house sighed with sweet relief…

Nothing was the same again after that.

 

@carrieherzner2010

 

 

 

simply one of my favorite poems - thank you Kay Ryan

Repulsive Theory

Repulsive Theory

By Kay Ryanb. 1945 Kay Ryan

Little has been made   

of the soft, skirting action   

of magnets reversed,   

while much has been   

made of attraction.   

But is it not this pillowy   

principle of repulsion   

that produces the   

doily edges of oceans   

or the arabesques of thought?   

And do these cutout coasts   

and incurved rhetorical beaches   

not baffle the onslaught   

of the sea or objectionable people   

and give private life   

what small protection it's got?   

Praise then the oiled motions   

of avoidance, the pearly   

convolutions of all that   

slides off or takes a   

wide berth; praise every   

eddying vacancy of Earth,   

all the dimpled depths   

of pooling space, the whole   

swirl set up by fending-off—   

extending far beyond the personal,   

I'm convinced—   

immense and good   

in a cosmological sense:   

unpressing us against   

each other, lending   

the necessary never

to never-ending.

Source: Poetry (November 2003).

no-see-um 2

Flames is a poem that is part of the no-see-um diaries. For part one, scroll to the beginning of the poetry collection.

 

Flames

 

The last time you

Caressed me, ignited me

Loved me

I would have stayed -

Had I known

 

At dawn

The house was on fire

I shook as pouring on the flames

You did the same pouring on me

The night before

 

@carrieherzner 2010

parkbench poems

In 1993, I wrote a poem titled Parkbench. In 2008, I wrote another parkbench story. Below are the two poems that share a title despite the fifteen year gap in between.

*my apologies to my sister, who is in fact no longer a pain in my butt.

Parkbench 1993

My family is a parkbench -

My mother is the legs of the bench, providing support and stability. She's strong. She carries the weight.

My sister is the loose wooden board. she wobbles when you sit on her. She's a pain in my butt, but without her there would be an empty space.

I am the graffiti. I speak of love, I speak of hate. I use obscenities. I document what happens. I can tell you stories.

My dad is the man who sometimes stops by and sits for a bit. His visits are short, infrequent. There's somewhere else he needs to be.

Parkbench 2008

Parkbench 2008

 

A couple across from me reads their books…

 

That’s my wish, someone to sit beside me in the park

Reading books and just sitting quietly

Maybe he will say, ‘listen to this’ then read me a line or two

I’ll love when he reads to me

Maybe our dog will sit at our feet

Reading people and body language

Maybe our daughter will sit on her blanket

We’ll name her Liza, she’ll be spunky

 

I think I’ll get a dog

I think a girl dog

I think I’ll name her Liza

I’ll take her to the park with me and read

 

She won’t wag her tail.

 

 

@CarrieHerzner2011