stories

New Fiction!

Click here to read Purpose, published by Watermelanin Magazine on March 17, 2020.

The Swimming Pool © 2020 Joi Maria Probus

Blue Eyeshadow

We all have to start somewhere. I was 22 years old and in my last undergraduate year of college when I had the idea to write a nostalgic, character-driven, coming-of-age story that explored loss, love, and generational angst. Blue Eyeshadow was the result. Despite its many imperfections, I will always love this story because it was my first attempt at writing "serious" fiction. I even won an award for it. Thankfully, I write better now than I did in 1997, but few things I've written since have made me as happy as this little story does. Without further ado...

 

Blue Eyeshadow

 

I

She was only eight in 1983. But she dreamt about being eighteen. When she slept, visions of blue eyeshadow, teased hair, pink spandex, off-the-shoulder sweatshirts, leg warmers, and gaudy earrings flashdanced before her eyes. Sometimes she would fantasize about Eddie Murphy. Not the 90’s debonair version, but the Beverly Hills Cop/Saturday Night Live Eddie with nappy hair and a gap-toothed smile. She would think about how much she adored the King of Pop when he was black, pre-maternity Madonna, and of course, Simon LeBon. Sure, she was only eight back then, but Duran Duran still made her drool.

Such a Sweet Boy

The next time her mother-in-law asked her to an antique fair, Michelle Evans would find a way out of it. She'd need a good excuse, too. Like Ebola or SARS. The Black Plague. Maybe even all three, Joyce not being the type of woman to whom one simply told “no.” Especially not when she played her I Always Wanted a Daughter card. It was just too bad Joyce seemed to think the only thing daughters were good for was dragging to antique shops and flea markets and garage sales on perfectly good weekends.

She trailed Joyce into a tent filled with shimmering dishes and vases—more carnival glass—and as Joyce continued on, Michelle stopped in front of a table. She picked up a teacup and peered through it like a kaleidoscope. And still failed to see what all the fuss was about.

“Chelle!” Joyce called from several rows over.

Twenty Minutes

 

There is a man on the couch. 

He is slouched against the backrest, thick legs thrown open. His suit jacket is draped across the armrest, his shoes side by side on the floor by his feet. He flexes the toes in his black dress socks, extending them with a pop, and looks over at the girl who has just walked into the apartment.

He smiles.

“Close that door,” a woman calls from the kitchen. Something clangs onto the counter and the woman curses.

The girl does what she is told.

"Well, hello there," the man says. He lifts the glass in his fist as if to toast her, then splashes the contents into his mouth. He strokes a worn spot on the cushion and works his finger into the tear. “Ain’t you pretty,” he says.