Beauty of This and That

By Adam Diaz

"Beauty of This and That" is a collection of 6 flash fiction short stories that describe details and scenarios ranging from the mundane to the macabre, or to the shockingly violent. The setting is an unforgiving Los Angeles, or dream states with dire imagery steeped in the stressful world of the city -- or both. The characters are average people in typical predicaments or harrowing situations; some are depraved; some have been crushed by circumstances; some complacently wonder about it all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adam Diaz
• Release date: Nov 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370003525

Adam Diaz

Adam Diaz was born and raised in Los Angeles, California, obtaining a BA degree in English Literature, cum laude. He also studied extensively in the visual arts, beginning with a fascination for comic book art and the great masters of painting, to contemporary treatments of graphics, fine art and narrative suggestion. The "Coal" series is a culmination of his poetic and visual expression.

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Beauty of This and That

Short Stories of the Mundane and Macabre

© copyright 2017 Adam Diaz

Smashwords Edition

Find Adam Diaz's Coal series of poetry and drawings on Smashwords.

Also see Adam Diaz's fine art works at:

www.flyingbluestudio.com/adamdiazstudio and on Instagram: @adamdiaz3d

A Green Vapor

1

The woman approaching the post office doors was very thin, older, dressed probably too youthfully. She took tiny steps in her low heels but she moved quickly, as a result her legs seemed like a blur. I then saw the old man, white, haggard, possibly (probably) homeless, in a wheelchair of sorts. He was tucked away next to a dusty column but in full view. Trash and mail surrounded him. He glowered from his perch, and said something to the woman as she entered. She did not slow down her blurring legs. My turn to approach. The old man said, Can you help me up? I was shot in the leg by the Japanese in WW2.” His voice shook, as did his hand as he reached out. I said, Sure. I also thought as I approached, I hope he doesn't’t keep asking for more help beyond that. I was already feeling the guilt in my eyes; I must have been displaying my reluctance to help. I reached out with both hands to help the man up. He quickly grabbed at my left wrist and not my other hand. I felt the leathery smoothness of his hand. I quickly imagined, for some reason, the worn look of an aged human hand, palms up, innumerable creases and wrinkles, as a plate reference in some heavy medical book. I was a little alarmed at his urgency and a thought pattern of emergency kicked in. As he grabbed my wrist, he must have pushed forward a wave of air that contained his foul odor of homelessness. I reeled a bit—it was very potent. He pressed down hard on my arm. I then truly had to commit to helping him up by keeping my arm strong. He cried out, oh, oh, oh, oh as he got up. I saw then he was in bad shape. He stood up and trembled badly. I stood ready to catch him (begging to myself that he wouldn't fall); but I also worried that the bad smell from the oils on his hand was going to transfer to my skin like a foul balm. The guilt was getting stronger and I wanted to leave quickly. But I stayed and asked him if he was okay. He said thanks, and mentioned again that the Japanese shot him in the leg in WW2. I observed the various pieces of mail and trash strewn around and assumed they were his. Should I help him pick them up? I asked again if he was okay as I backed away. He said, yes, yes, yes!

2

I was shaken somewhat as I entered the post office. I had been reviewing of late my attitudes, in light of my own pitiable circumstances, and found myself wanting, understanding, to a degree, the horrors of homelessness as just a few unfortunate occurrences away—for just about anyone. I resolved to try harder, to act with compassion, if not understanding. But here I failed; I wanted to get away. I continued on my way and came upon the skinny woman with blurry legs who entered before me. She was old, yes,