Flash Fiction

IN THE SUBURBS

by

Ellen Champagne
 

In the suburbs, the lawns are smooth planes, the shrubs clipped into cheerful spheres. The fences, high and solid, show their best sides outwards. There are no silhouettes of killers in the shadows after dark.

In the suburbs, the houses are cool in summer and warm in winter. Minivans patrol the broad, white streets. Children glide on roller blades and do not, must not, smile back.

In the suburbs, it is always noon, a cloudless sky above. This home is protected, say the signs. Minivans, sunglassed, anonymous, slide past silently. You wanted a child once, a long time ago. Rapists do not roam here, lurking in the cheerful spheres.

In the suburbs, there is a small unwelcome weed. You want to pick it out of the razored lawn, but you are counting mung beans, and you forget. The beans, so small, so green, deserve to be counted. When he comes home there you are on the kitchen floor, the mung beans arranged in one hundred perfect rows.

In the suburbs, you are busy. You are busy not counting the beans. You must not ever count the beans. You are busy not seeing somber children rolling past. You are busy remembering that you wanted a child once. You are busy watching your own reflection waver in the glass, relieved there will be no new face like yours.

In the suburbs, the lawn now has many small weeds: blue-flowered, star-shaped, with yellow centers. The flowers are not visible to blank-eyed minivans. You, only you, are allowed to see them. You are busy noticing the blue flowers, but you are not counting the mung beans. In the night, potholes in the streets are erased by men dressed in pale uniforms, men with masks, men without guns.

In the suburbs, a card arrives from the neighborhood association: the flowers must be counted and arranged in rows. The flowers, so small, so blue, deserve to be counted. When he comes home there you are, crouched in the waist-high grass, unable to see the smiling children gather, unable to see the minivans creeping past to watch. There you are, counting all the flowers and scanning the horizon for any small hope of rain.

© 2001 Ellen Champagne


####


Once upon a time, Ellen was an artist. As artists do, she suffered from hunger and rejection. She gave up art and became a software consultant. As consultants do, she suffered from corporate stress. She now wants to give up consulting and become a writer, so she can suffer hunger and rejection again. Most days she hides under the bedcovers, cultivating an aura of mystery.

Her short fiction has appeared in Flush Fiction Magazine, The Phone Book, and is soon to appear in Exquisite Corpse.

Reach her at EllenC@crunchware.com.