Ordinary Alchemy: stories & vignettes

By cookiejar

Ordinary Alchemy is a collection of 100 flash fiction stories about people—some human, some not—trying to figure out their lives, relationships, and the often puzzling world around them. These tales stretch from the kitchen to the wharf to the moon and beyond. But they don't wander far from turning events into experiences, moments into meaning. That is the alchemy of our ordinary lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: cookiejar
• Release date: Feb 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224628292

Book preview

Agency and Legacy

Awful Actor

Walter was an awful actor—professionally, anyway. He struggled to remain in character, gravitating toward humour even in the most gristly tales.

His subsequent career was an opposites-attract. Walter turned professional mourner, offering a prestige service on tips from his pastor and the pastor’s connections among lawyers.

There were always industrial scrooges, having expired of lives built on zero-sum negotiations. Fabulously wealthy and notoriously friendless.

Walter travelled the countryside, making a scene that seemed like somebody greatly missed the dearly departed. The local lawyer would attend, of course, and the pastor, depending on distance.

Family and friends, few as they were, were from away, often far. That suited Walter’s anonymity nicely. He played a childhood friend, an army buddy, and once a one-night stand.

But he never played so close as to raise suspicion that he may be here for a slice of inheritance. Walter was here for a piece of the executor’s fees, a tax-free chunk of change that accumulated handsomely.

Walter exercised improv mastery, and the part played to his strong suit because he saw the whole service as silly. His ‘sorry for your loss’ was a send-up, a bit of heavy-lifting irony.

Until it wasn’t. Until an argument ensued at the gravesite. In the aftermath, Walter sought to console who? A great aunt? An elderly niece? A face of aging contradiction. Counselling is not his strength, but Walter can listen.

And she could talk. She told Walter where the bodies are buried, putting Walter six feet deep in matters beyond his depth. To be privy to illicit information about the family is one thing. To be outed as an outsider with inside information—that’s quite another.

Turning to the pastor might put him in jeopardy as well. The lawyer changed with each client and could hardly be counted as a confidant.

A knock came in the middle of the night. One might ignore it were it not coming from both the back and front doors. He turned on a light and, over the next few hours, was convinced to purchase what was put to him as health insurance. Over the next few months, premiums cleaned out his un-taxed account.

The church offered meals to the poor, and Charlie garbed for a role—too proud to be seen as himself—begging for a bowl of soup. In disguise, Walter observed the pastor whispering to the ageless lady from the gravesite. Then, to another from the same scene. Neither wore clothes of mourning.

So, the pastor is taking a cut off my cut, and these suits are other actors with a penchant for mourning and insurance.

Weeks later, the bishop died. With his passing, Walter finally had a suitable dramatic script and delivered his services for free. Free and unannounced, ensuring the pastor saw him standing beside the ageless lady in the crowd.

I have taken up a new career, he told the pastor, passing across his business card.

Now Walter is an underwriter for undertakers, and every Sunday their second collection pays to prove Walter isn’t such an awful actor after all.

Bar Barista

Jeff slides an espresso in front of the fellow with a palm top, no sooner than Eileen screams, ‘This cappuccino has milk—I expressly ordered cream,’ and everyone swivels to look.

Finally, the guy with dilated eyes and Lilliputian screen snaps closed the case and points beyond Jeff.

Here, I’ll do it.

Jeff follows the vector of point to the coffeemaker, where he’s surprised to hear himself whimper.

Are you sure?

The second week of work and already demoted by a patron whose charm is the confidence of one who acts swiftly and pockets a palm top.

It’s been a week of clogged equipment, the other employee calling in sick and now this slip-up with Eileen.

His esteem is about to take a double shot, knowing he’s not making the impression that was the reason for taking a job around the corner—paces he measured to her door.

Mr. Palmtop pulls a grin while turning a whoosh and swoosh into a cup of arabica with a topiary top. Jeff’s jaw drops, conceding he’s lost the girl of his dreams to meringue artwork, courtesy of the fat content in cream.

Cheer up, says Palmtop, the greatest mistake is giving up. But Jeff watches Eileen take a seat on the far side, by the street.

Son, you’re interested as long as circumstance permits. When you commit, you’ll accept no excuses. She stomps to the other side of the shop—so what! Nobody’s won or lost with a slather of froth. Ask yourself, in this or any endeavour, without the ache of desire, do you still care?

Jeff works at a bar not far from his old espresso haunt. Eileen cleans tables and dreams of becoming better. Achieving, she admits, starts with believing character is the author of her story.

Caped Legacy

Alan sat on the porch, the sun hanging low as evening threatened. His fingers worked at the knotted twine, unravelling it to reveal the gift: a comic book beside a simple bar of soap encased in a cornflakes box wrapped in yesterday’s news.

His brother, lean and almost a man, watched with a grin. Figured the soap would keep you guessing, he quipped, leaning his lanky frame against the worn railing.

Alan smiled, pleased with the ruse, his eyes tracing the colourful cover of the comic book. He did not miss the significance of his brother’s new bicycle, a second-hand treasure from the shop down the street, parked just beside the steps.

It was the summer of ’38, and the air buzzed with talk of inventions and discoveries, the resonance of Lou Gehrig’s grand slam lingering, and tales of oil gushing from desert lands. The airwaves filled with the voice of Orson Welles, and images of costumed heroes flickered at the Bijou.

Alan cradled the comic, the ink scent rising to his nose. The hero on the pages seemed invincible, towering above mere mortals, a man of steel. He could stop a war, Alan said to himself, imagining the adventures leaping off the pages.

But Alan’s story took a different turn. The comic book was forgotten, tucked away in a trunk in the attic. Time shifted life, as it does, and Alan’s brother marched off, his paper route abandoned for the call of duty.

The world spun on its axis through the years, and Alan’s youth faded to memory. The cost of war was counted in far more than soap or comic books could tally. When the time came, and Alan was no longer a boy but a man grown old, he found the comic again. Hidden away like a time capsule, it was in the same condition as the day it was given. The sale made headlines, the auction hammer falling to a price that turned heads and opened wallets.

Alan watched his granddaughter, her eyes the mirror image of the brother he once knew. Through her activism, the comic’s legacy turned to a cause greater than any caped hero could fight—hunger, ignorance, fear—the very roots of war.

Sitting on the same porch, his aged hands resting on his lap, Alan considered the legacy of gifts. His brother wasn’t there to see what came of that long-ago present. But maybe, Alan whispered, a rare smile finding his lips, you wore a cape after all, tossing newspapers to doorsteps in the summer of ’38.

Gambit of Amber

The soft clinks of antiques in the merchant’s stall are lost to the merchant hawking wares in the bustling bazaar. He clutches an amber pendant, its entrapped insect a visible testament to prehistory. For only ten credits, he proclaims, his voice feigning regret for the sale, yet certain the bug inside is nothing more than that.

A pale figure steps closer, swathed in linen and keen intent. The pendant draws her. I’ll take it, she says, closing the space of sale between them.

Interest flickers like a flame in the merchant’s eyes. His fingers toy with the string of the pendant, the insect swinging to the rhythm of potential profit. No dance of prices? His surprise is genuine, his grip on the pendant tightening reflexively.

Her eyes are fixed upon the amber. None needed. Within your stall lies a specimen that might rewrite medical texts. A creature thought vanished, its secrets strong against modern ailments. The words, layered in promise, dangle like the amber pendant.

Delight dissolves into greed, as fast as the pulse in his throat. That wisdom inflates its price. A full purse is but a pittance for such purpose, he declares, the pendant now caged in his fist.

A half-smile tempers her response. We agreed on a price. Honour the deal, she says, balancing reproach and understanding.

Reluctantly, he concedes, handing her another amber pendant with flowers inside, delicate yet dim. A peace offering to his greed. She accepts the floral amber, nodding with reluctant gratitude.

Turning from the stall, she merges with the flow of the bazaar, her step light, the merchant still holding his coveted prize up high. Yet all he holds is a bug and burgeoning doubt about a ruse.

The buyer holds victory. The flowers are keys to doors hidden from a man blinded by the obvious. The market flows like a river around a stone.

Leslie‘s Story

Leslie likely isn’t his real name—maybe Butch or Boris or something that sounds like a broken nose. A bulk like that could model orange jump-suits. A voice like that would make most suits jump.

Leslie carefully guides the clippers over the Pomeranian, a mural of tattoos on his arms peeking out beneath the sleeves of his work shirt, each a faded relic from a past life. The pup, once trembling, now rests easy in the cradle of his palm, its eyes half-closed in trust.

Terry leans against the door, watching. Never pegged you for the nurturing type, Les.

Leslie’s gruff laugh blends with the hum of the clippers. Life’s full of surprises.

Makes me wonder, Terry continues, arms folded, What turns someone from a bruiser to a groomer?

Leslie’s hand pauses. What my daughter said. One last chance, Dad, he’ll be better this time. He doesn’t meet Terry’s gaze, focusing on the dog’s fur. He wasn’t. Neither was I.

They both know there’s more to the story. The silence speaks of it. Sorry, bud. You don’t have to … Terry starts, trying to staunch the hurt.

Leslie stops the clippers. His voice drops to a near whisper, reserved for confessions and reverence. But the incident offshore called me, told me there’s more than being an enforcer. I’m the man who rowed out and tossed a sack over. The chain caught my ankle; my head hit the gunwale. The sheltie, who escaped from the sack, tugged me to shore. My dog, the dog I abandoned, came back for me.

Must’ve been hard, Terry says, at a loss for what to say.

Leslie resumes his work. Hard is waking up knowing you could’ve been … should’ve been more. To her. To myself. That dog showed me. Taught me.

The door chimes. A young voice breaks the silence, a melody of innocence. Is my Ziggy ready?

Leslie turns, a gentle half-smile breaking through. He hands the Pomeranian to the waiting child. She’s all yours, kiddo.

They leave in a flurry of giggles and wagging tails. Leslie watches them go, the chime of the door a counterpoint to the beating of his heart.

Terry watches Leslie’s rough hands clean the shears, seeing them anew. Every snip and shave, he muses aloud, it’s like you’re carving out a space for yourself here, Les. Good to have ya here.

Leslie gives a slight nod—an acknowledgment of a path chosen. The door chimes again—a cycle, a signal, a reminder that life, much like the hair that falls to the floor, is in constant renewal. Leslie’s palms warm the new arrival, as they have so many companions since they warmed a sheltie named Leslie.

Life Couch

On a street of many shopfronts, there stands a furniture store that catches the eye of every passerby. Its window displays a neon