Ghost writing
“Menachem Schwartzman, Diary of 1940-42.” She reads the name aloud. Flips through the diaries pages and watches paper particles fall out like dust. ‘Damn this name is tough. At least he writes nice in cursive. Penmanship and shit.' She found the diary on a step in the subway. ‘This dude's whole life must be in this book. It's like, a man diary.' The thought makes her laugh. ‘My diary's prettier. Hello Kitty's on the cover. This one is depressing ass brown but his life is mad juicy.' She sits up on her bed and opens it. ‘Way better than that stuff we read at school.'
Wednesday, August 12, 1942
As I write this my wife is in the hospital. My Frieda suffered a breakdown. There has been no news of her parents. She is afraid the Nazis killed them. There is a rumor that something terrible is at hand. Our only hope for news is a former business associate of her fathers, a goy. But it is difficult at best. There's nothing I can do to lift her spirits. The doctors gave her sleeping pills, she wouldn't stop crying. I am sad and grateful. All my family is here in New York but Frieda.... I suppose things could always be worse.
I feel like walking. Tomorrow after I leave Frieda in the hospital I'll go to the George Washington Bridge and watch the boats.
‘Damn. My aunt Lori had a breakdown when the cops shot my cousin Tito. The cops got away with it too. They said he looked like someone they were after. Me and my cousins played Double-Dutch in front of our building that night. A block away from where Tito got shot. Our families were crying and screaming.' She looks at her diary, sitting on the dresser. ‘When I'm done reading this I should write something about that.'
Friday August 14, 1942
Last night I noticed how stagnant the Hudson River can be. Even from that height it pretends to move more than it actually does. It reminds me of my Frieda's eyes. She required so many pills to calm her nerves. She couldn't hear me, she saw right past me.
My world is completely upside down. I should jump from this bridge and end this madness. Where is my God? Where is my God to end this madness?
‘I used to pray.' She closes the diary, goes to the closet and grabs her jacket. ‘I'll meet you at the GW Bridge, Menachem.' She walks out the door and down to the subways.
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Author's Note
I'm not a very good flash fiction writer but I tried my hand at a short short story.
Other stories by Roberto C. Garcia
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Strong, emotional stuff here, Roberto.
Nice one, Roberto.
Not very good? Ha! Fine story. Fav.
Incredible. Love. Fave.
Very good story, nice form. The choice of title is very good, too.
Great story and I agree with JMC that the form works really well.*
I love the parallel you've drawn between two very disparate lives. Nice work, here--very powerful indeed.
Roberto this is so interesting and good. I like the form and feel you could really extend this, perhaps into a novella.
*
well done, robert. you should never say you're "not a very good flash fiction writer". who even knows what that is. you're on top of your words, mate. enjoyed this though in the end i expected a different ending. what you're proposing is black and discouraging. i think menachem or who and what he stands for, and frieda ("the peaceful" in german) and your narrator...they have a different message for us than "let's end this". there's no judgement against those who decide to end it, but as a writer, i believe you've got a moral task...well, i know you believe in that too or else you wouldn't be such a darn good political poet, too.
brilliant title, too, btw.
For someone who questions his ability to write fiction, this is extremely good, Roberto. I, too, would like to see more of this story. Well done.*
Thanks everyone for your very kind comments. @Marcus, I agree that the ending could imply doom but it could also imply "a diving in" to Menachem's life. Perhaps a part II is in order. We'll see what the characters decide. Thanks again everyone.