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Three very short 'flash stories' by Philip Hyams

The Poet and The Bali Girl

Jean-Luc a middle-aged poet, author of ten well-received tomes which had been published in twenty countries around the world, walked into the brown cafe in Amsterdam, sat down by the bar and looking at himself in the large mirror there, ordered two jenevers from Anneke the buxom barmaid who tended clients of the watering-hole which overlooked one of the city's main canals. It was raining outside and the skies were dark and dismal as droplets of rain pocked the body of gray water outside those warm wooden walls.

Half an hour later: Jean-Luc is seated at a small table in the back of the café next to a slim dark-haired Indonesian girl about eighteen years old, named Latitia who was born on Bali but came to Holland at a young age.

'Are you sure mon petite?' the grey-haired poet says in a whisper. 'I thought you were on the pill.'

'I lied,' Latitia confesses. 'I want him to have your soul and ability with words,' the girl, drinking a jigger of rum confesses.

'I want you to get rid of it!' Jean Luc suddenly hisses at the girl.

'Forget it mon cherie,' Latitia sarcastically laughs. 'It's too late for that.'

Two days later: Jean-Luc a middle-aged poet, author of ten well-received tomes which had been published in twenty countries around the world, stands next to the pastor in the small church situated on the Leidseplein, his head bowed in remorse, a tear rolling from one of his sensitive eyes as the pastor, a white-haired man of the cloth eulogizes: 'We'll never know what caused Latitia to take her life and that of her unborn child but gathered here today, Jean-Luc, we share in your great sorrow the loss of your loved one in such an untimely way. May God be with you in your time of mourning.' The congregation of artists and others who knew the couple shuffle out of the little chapel. Jean-Luc is left holding the urn with Latitia's ashes.

Latitia left a note behind next to the bicycle which stood beside the water where her young promising body was found floating face down in the waters of the canal near the old brewery in the Port of Amsterdam.

Jean-Luc finished a new book of poetry a month following Latitia's demise. He shaved off his Van Dyke and bought a new pair of spectacles. Life was an experience!

Howling Eagle Shoots The Moon

Howling Eagle was a huge Mohawk, fifty-five years old, who lived by himself on Kanawake, deep in the forest outside of Montreal as far away from the white man as he could get. You couldn't blame him. He had an old dog, his only friend, a ragged and torn-up mongrel, middle-aged by dog years who was a faded-out yellow color, that kept Howling Eagle company through thick and thin and was his only company during the long Quebec winter nights that lasted sometimes for six months. The mutt's name was Shoot The Moon and Howling Dog had called him that since the first day he had found him almost dying in the middle of the forest, just one more puppy cast aside. There were too many on the reservation.

One time, some years before, Howling Eagle had fallen asleep smoking in bed. Like a bad nightmare he had been pulled awake by Shoot The Moon who had worked so hard to raise his master from that heavy nocturnal embrace, he had even drawn blood from Howling Eagle's hand. Howling Eagle had arisen to a cabin filled with smoke and flame but just in time had managed to beat the fire into submission and after a few hours clear the smoke from the place…still alive…thanks to Shoot The Moon's vigilance and loyalty.

Now Shoot The Moon was dying. The doctor Howling Eagle had paid handsomely to come from town said it was cancer and that it was only a matter of time. What could he do? Howling Eagle pampered the creature and Shoot The Moon was now half-drugged all the time so his pain would not get the better of him tried to be as happy as he could so Howling Eagle wouldn't worry too much. That's how much the old dog loved the man.

Howling Eagle donned his tribal costume and on the day Shoot The Moon went to the place in the sky where Howling Eagle would meet him by and by, Howling Eagle danced for the old dog and then buried him deep in the forest where he had once found him. He buried him on the night of the full moon and as he threw the last shovel full of earth onto Shoot The Moon's grave, the moon hanging above overhead turned a faded-out yellow color just like his old friend's matted, dry coat. A cloud quickly covered the light from that planet just as Howling Eagle chanted the last words of the song.

Shun-Xu and The Jewish Dragon

This is a true story. Even the names haven't been changed to protect the innocent.

Shlomo Chen, a restless Israeli, twenty-four years old, after completing his army service left Israel for the Far East. For close to three years he traveled extensively throughout Thailand and Cambodia, finally returning to his country of origin after his odyssey, toughened and wizened, changed from his voyage. Upon reaching the age of twenty-nine, Shlomo, after many unhappy liaisons with unsuitable Israeli females, met Shun-Xu, an attractive Chinese woman from Shanghai who was visiting her pen pal in Israel. The moment their eyes met the two 'strangers in a strange land' knew that their destinies were intertwined and were being fulfilled.

The first time Shun-Xu saw Shlomo naked was a week after they fell in love. On the right-hand side of Shlomo's chest was a large, blue-black tattoo which the young traveler had acquired in Thailand. He had been told that the symbol engraved there represented a Dragon. Not so, according to later accounts by Shun-Xu, the tattoo had been wrongly dyed into Shlomo's still malleable flesh and instead, when translated meant 'Shun-Xu'. The two lovers' destinies were being revealed.

Shun-Xu's family lived in Shanghai and when they heard of her impending marriage to Shlomo, they were very happy. As long as he was a good man, that was enough for them. A year after first meeting one another in a trendy bar in Tel-Aviv, Shlomo, Shun-Xu and Shlomo's mother flew back to Shanghai where the two fated lovers were too be married.

When Shun-Xu wed Shlomo Chen, she became known as Shun-Xu Chen...but not really...you see...Shun-Xu's family name in China was also Chen. Needless to say the festivities were quite elaborate with Shlomo and Shun-Xu Chen each dressed in the vibrant colored silk wedding clothes of traditional Chinese newlyweds.

The Chen's destinies were only just beginning.

Philip Hyams is an Israeli/Canadian novelist, poet, artist, journalist and film producer currently residing in Kfar Sava, Israel. His first novel Canaan Barred was published in 1995 by Tell Books – New York/Toronto and his poetry has been published in more than 70 print and electronic journals around the world from the U.S and Britain to Sweden and South Africa.

More Philip Hyams at Ariga:

• Plastic Flowers in Paradise
• The Survivor Coming Home
• The Brood and other poems
• Let us not forget on Yitzhak's Third
• Poems
• Three Great Men