Brookings Hall- Washington University, St.Louis

Perhaps because I am a double Gemini I have multiple-multiple personalities. One day I am "painter Lexie," another day I am "chef Lexie," and on my Hot Yoga days "Bikram Lexie". Robert will endearingly call me these names because on that day, or in that moment I am most passionate about that which I am doing, or being. Some days I am more than just one "thing" in which case I can even confuse myself! LOL! But this past month I was seriously  one Lexie who became: Flash Fiction Lexie! The metamorphosis occurred when I went to study the fine art of Flash Fiction and Prose Poetry thru the Summer Writers Institute  at Washington University in St. Louis. David Schuman is a fabulous teacher/writer/and current director of the Creative Writing program at WASH U and who, lucky for me, teaches the Flash Fiction program there. With approximately 32 hours of class time, plus the same  for "homework" (or more accurately, "hotel work"– dictated by my residence of choice), I got out of the class what I invested! Lots of writing and reading, reading and writing! There was serioius  workshopping, keen instruction, conjuring, dynamic discussion and critiquing, invaluable feedback, and kinship amongst writers FROM WHOM I LEARNED SO MUCH! The overall experience has given birth to a passion for a kind of writing that suits my nature: short in length, creative, and something that straddles poetry and prose. I even earned credits for which I am very proud!  So dear readers, on the heels of my return, and without looking too much over my shoulder, I submit one new piece of writing. In exchange for my SHARING this "micro-form" of writing with you, I ask you to read what is  OFF THE PAGE as well as what is ON THE PAGE.  Please enjoy and as always, I welcome comments. 

Better Than Dancing Alone

I found a dead bird on the welcome mat this morning. I found it by stepping on it, and since I didn’t have my slippers on, its matted feathers were sticky to my soles. Its beak nearly broke the skin of my left heel.

 “Get away from the crow,” I told the dogs. “In, in.” They knew to get away from a dead thing, and we all backed into the house like a crawling pod.

 I waited for R to come in for breakfast. I stood in the kitchen with a rusted shovel and plastic bag.  “There’s a dead crow at the front door. It’s bigger than you’d think.” I could hear the latent whine in my voice. I couldn’t hide that I didn’t want to do this chore by myself. 

 “We could kind of dance around it, like a blessing, sort of.”  I was thinking about the time in the islands when a dead dolphin washed to shore. The beach boys did a tonga number around it. Then they scooped it onto the surfboard, paddled out and returned it to the sea. In this case the crow would not return to the sky.

“Honey, you do it. I gotta go.”

“Can’t we do it quickly? It’s so much better than dancing alone.”

“You can do it. I’ll see you later.”

 The dogs watched from inside the latticed screen door. I blessed the broken bird with my silly dance. I hummed and swayed my hips and cried more than was necessary for this impromptu funerary ritual. Getting it onto the shovel was a struggle, heavy as it was, and I had to rip open the green plastic bag to allow for the super size bird to slide into it.

Barefoot still, I felt the gravel bite at the undersides of my feet as I walked the dead over to the garbage. Trash, or recycle?

R came home early that day.

“Let’s go for a hike,” he said, putting his arms around me.With the dogs in the back of the car we drove to the place where we can trek without leashes. Hand in hand, the animals running circles around us,  we turned to face the mountains.