Smokey Says It’s Up to Us Now to Put Out Fires
I shuffle down to the breakfast table, tell Mom I dreamed they banned my favorite childhood TV show. She says sorry, kid, it’s probably real. I rub my eyes, grumble but the hero’s a bear and protects children. I swear I’m going to make a new cartoon for kids, a giant hen with rainbow feathers who’ll go buck-buck-buck and stretch her wings out over all the children to protect them and peck holes in bad people. Mom shakes her head, pats me on mine. Makes me cinnamon toast.
Something’s bothering my brother and everyone I know is afraid to ask him what’s wrong. He acts like he’s mad at the whole world and flings and hurls things around. We duck, take turns guessing. What’s Sam doing? Where does he go? I’m the only one who goes looking for him. I find him sitting with his eyes closed in the back pew of a neighborhood church. I’m confused. Sam hates religion, takes swings at folks who swear by God’s will.
My boyfriend Jake says I need protecting. Such a mother hen. I ask protecting from what, but he just laughs and pats my head. One day, he gives me a little bear his father carved from wood when Jake turned seven. Jake swears he loves his dad, but I’m not convinced, because if he did, he’d keep it. Maybe he loves me more? The bear looks fierce, so I take it. I name him Smokey, listen to him huff at night as he roots around for berries.
When gay men start dying from AIDS, Mom and Dad start arguing. Dad thinks moving will keep us all safe and we should leave San Francisco and go live in the desert. Mom shakes her head no. We hear Dad swear and watch him throw his duffel bag into the back seat of the car. Mom stretches her arm like a wing over me and Sam as he drives off. Then she makes us bologna sandwiches with mayonnaise.
Smokey’s missing. Who would do that to me. I swear a bunch, run through all the visitors who’ve been to my house lately. Friends, workers. I have much more valuable stuff around that someone could hide for a while, then sell on eBay. I’ve been missing things lately, but when I forget about them, there they are. I hear the door closing, the scrape of paws scurrying about. He’s back.
Sam’s pacing back and forth in Our Lady of Sorrows and kicking at all the candles he’s tossed to the ground. Some are still burning, scorching the tiles. The soles of his sneakers grind wax shards into the floor. He’s crying and swearing at the god he doesn’t believe in. Feathers start to drift down from the top of the vault to the nave below. Soon Sam is covered from neck to toe. He shivers, and the feathers regroup as wings, attach themselves to his back.
I stay up late sketching Cluck-Cluck Momma Hen. Sometimes, when I get stuck on the cartoon’s next frame, I light a candle and tap Smokey’s head. Tap-tap-tap and an idea comes. Now I’ve got Momma Hen’s head leaning forward. She’s going full tilt. Jake says come to bed, swears I spend more time with that chicken than him. But I’ve got a deadline. I hunch over my light box with paper and pen, rough out her claws, an open beak. Pinions. A rainbow.
Mikki Aronoff
Mikki Aronoff lives in New Mexico, where she writes tiny stories and advocates for animals. She has stories in Best Microfiction 2024 and in Best Small Fictions 2024 and upcoming in Best Microfiction 2025 and Best Small Fictions 2025.