Flash Fiction: Bubbles

I noticed the man as I walked home one day. He was partly balding, his unkempt grey hair straggled down to his shoulders in lanky twines. He was protected from the elements in the park by a beatup black duster, that looked like it hadn't seen clean water since the Carter administration. He sat on a park bench, his face like a wallet beaten repeatedly with a baseball bat. His scowl was fierce and all encompassing as he leaned forward, legs splayed.

In his right hand was a cheap cigarette, held between first and middle fingers yellowed and cracked with abuse. In the same hand, clenched fiercely to his palm, was a small, pink, plastic wand, the tip shaped like a star.

Repetitively, he would reach the wand into the small jar of bubbles in his left hand, swirl it around, and slosh some of the liquid on his finger. He'd withdraw the wand, a patina of film spread across it. Then, his right hand to his mouth, and a drag of his cigarette. One heartbeat. Two. Three. And out into the wand.

Bubbles would fill his little corner of the park, and when each popped, a small flare of smoke would escape. Once every tiny sphere and exploded into vapours, he'd reach his right hand over to the left and start again. And never stop scowling.




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