Spokes and Thorns

Flash Fiction

Photo by Andrew Seaman on Unsplash

The bike in the catalog was a fire orange, though it was available in teal, forest green and black.

The names of the dead on the screen were in robin’s egg blue, on a crawl.

Jenna Cozich wanted the bike her mom wouldn’t buy her in forest green.

Her grades were too low, she hadn’t gotten the job she promised she would get.

Jenna chewed a straw from a pop that had been gone for an hour and asked herself why Channel 8 chose robin’s egg blue.

Channel 8 stayed on the story for hours.

There was nothing else.

Jenna watched for hours, because there was nothing else.

Micah Ryan called crying a few times, Cayden Billows said they were all meeting down at Steg’s because the cops wouldn’t let anyone near Fairway and Pryce.

Jenna was grounded, and would honor the punishment.

They added crosses to the names of the confirmed dead.

Jenna watched long enough to see that Channel 8 changed the cross next to Amanda Rosen’s name to a Star of David.

Dan Kellman openly wept on TV, holding the microphone with the 8 on it.

Jenna had Dan Kellman’s autograph, somewhere.

She might have even looked for it, but she swore her mom would call any minute.

Mom would have to, right?

Uncle Matt came from Big Rapids to stay with them, keep his eye on Jenna, Jenna guessed.

Mom owned Cecilia’s Best Bouquets. The only flower shop other than the half ass display they had at Browner’s Groceries.

Piles of flowers near the shooting site, in the shadow of Dan Kellman and Cynthia Rogers and that new weatherman.

Mom never called.

Uncle Matt even ran over to the shop with pizza.

Mom texted once.

Jenna was two years older than Amanda Rosen, and had once been in the same Futchman Library Chess Club with Oliver Beeder even though he was three years older.

Mom texted that Jenna was ungrounded only for Amanda’s celebration of life, but not Oliver’s because she didn’t remember him.

Jenna walked to the community center, and let Marc Jacobs sob on her shoulder.

Mom was gone for 176 hours, Jenna counted, napping at the flower shop.

Uncle Matt made the house smell like weed, though he only smoked out back.

Mom never asked for her help once.

Someone passed out t-shirts that said Futchman Strong, though Jenna wasn’t sure what made them strong.

The bike arrived, forest green.

Mom had made an absolute killing at the flower shop.

She said killing out loud, blushed from her chest up like she always did, and apologized to Jenna for her poor choice of words.

Mom went back to the flower shop. She had sold some flowers earmarked for the Sanderson Wedding, and had to replace them.

Before she left she ungrounded Jenna and told her she could ride her new bike.

Jenna pushed the bike as far back as she could in the garage, locked it to a cross brace and the old, old, old lawnmower and walked up to the shooting site, where the cops were letting people get closer, and where the flowers were piled higher than Jenna’s head.

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