JOHNNIE MAE KING Flash Fiction Notable Selections
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Transformation by Jerry Timothy
An Evening at Bemelman's by Moni Shywriter
Living in an Apology by Elhondra Brazzle
To the Market Through the Town by Glenn Tifanni
Mind of the Healed by Jasmine M. Taylor
“Alright,” Johnnie mumbled to herself, “one transcription left. Come on, Mae.”
Thoroughly fixated on her analysis, Johnnie skimmed the sheet in her journal. She read each line once and twice more for good measure. The hands on her wristwatch ticked louder than usual. Either that, or she’d been cooped in her basement office for too long. Johnnie glanced at her watch: five after three o’clock. A short mental calculation confirmed her theory—she had, indeed, been in that basement for far too long.
Her eyes glanced at a small pile of recording tapes on the desk. She spent six months acquiring her qualitative data through interviews—a vital component for her case study. Examining the psyche of African Americans was Johnnie Mae’s passion—particularly those exposed to traumatic occurrences during developmental years. Growing up in rural Montgomery, listening to elders was her favorite pastime. As an only child in a home full of adults, she didn’t have much choice, but those evenings spent eavesdropping—unknown to a young Johnnie—revealed the notion she’d spend her collegiate and professional years investigating: trauma impacts the mind, and the psychological effects were just as detrimental.
Johnnie ogled the wall calendar above her desk: the twenty-first of August 1969—one weekday to go, and two months before her manuscript submission. Most deemed her a workaholic. They weren’t inherently wrong. Truthfully, she was, but that was Johnnie’s nature—it always was. She was passionate with grit and known to hyperfocus until her goals were met. She didn’t have that childhood rhyme dedicated to her for nothin’.
“Johnnie Mae, Johnnie Mae, drop that book, come out and play!”—playful banter from friends to celebrate her doctorate, but that was Johnnie Mae at her core: authentic to herself and her roots with an eccentric flair in her stride.
“How long have you been hiding down here?”
The coiffed locks of Johnnie bounced from her contorting frame, acknowledging the familiar voice. Patricia Rogers: co-founder of the Montgomery Angel’s Home for Children and Johnnie’s mentor. She greeted Patricia with a smile and clicked the stop button of the Webcor reel recorder. While observing Johnnie scribble in her journal, Patricia’s eyes wandered. A maroon and white pennant from Alabama A&M proudly hung above a University of Minnesota diploma cover. The maturing bamboo plant—a welcoming gift for Johnnie—stood in the windowsill. Patricia smiled at the botanical, recalling Johnnie’s first day at the children’s home.
A slew of academic papers were tacked to a bulletin board with a trio of framed photos cater-cornered: one of her family, another of youth from the children’s home, and the final of her alongside Drs. Kenneth and Mamie Phipps Clark—Johnnie’s heroes and inspirations, to put lightly.
“Here’s the numerical data you asked for,” Patricia said, “also, congratulations in advance on the submission.”
Handing the pages to Johnnie, the women held their grins longer than normal. The community yearned for healing, and their research was a step in the right direction.
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"We see the STEM side of Aunt Johnnie and witness her on the verge of a major breakthrough. The story had an element of community uplifting, and it was enjoyable seeing Aunt Johnnie in this role." - Ran Walker
Transformation by Jerry Timothy
Aunt Johnnie was going for me, I knew it. She hadn’t told me, but her eyes spoke promising goodbyes. They peered profound at me through her astronaut helmet, reflecting the spotlight. “Wait for it!” she seemed to cry, though her eyes sparkled earth-green.
She would come back from Mars with something. Rocks. Fossils. Stories that would change people.
They weren’t going to cancel this launch. Her stride was too sure.
This was when I should have cried or teared up.
My papier-mache mask, from school, was part of her tool kit for the mission. And I heard the words again as her steps faded from my ears.
“I’ll wear this, Ronny. You’ll see Mars through these magic eyeholes.” Was I too old or was I too young to believe it? No matter, I knew with my pumping blood, my raging hope, my faith in Aunt Johnnie that she meant something else. Something truer.
She was a step ahead of the other travelers, their eyes fixed on John Mae, as they called her. Wonder integrated with worry - that’s all she had said about them. And I saw it, as they gritted their smiling teeth and stumbled in their space suits out on the service structure’s incline.
She promised to come back, though the journalists were all making bets about the colony’s survival.
I had experienced times when sure things fell away, but under that rocket’s shadow, an affirmation from soul to soul blasted into me. I’d see Aunt Johnnie in the twinkling of an eye and she’d forever changed my world.
I know it all sounds mythical, but I was there under the stormy, summer clouds, watching her climb the ramp and into the ship.
Transformation.
Actually, both of us. I ain’t gonna discover nothing if I don’t understand the “other”. Whatever that is.
Finally, tears flowed as the engines roared and Aunt Johnnie trembled within the ship’s vibrations.
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"We see Aunt Johnnie on the cusp on going to Mars and the impact she has on her loved ones versus the expectations of the media. The energy of exploration fills the story, and I find myself rooting for her mission’s success." - Ran Walker
An Evening at Bemelman's by Moni Shywriter
I closed my eyes.
My mink stole is just enough to keep the late October chill off my shoulders, but not by much. I leave one exposed. I like that. I like the gaze of the elite and well-to-do denizens here to peer at my skin—“polished” to perfection like a bronze vase under layers of Vaseline and Balm Bar.
And peer they do. I glide through the crowd of white owls, gawking and turning their heads with each beat my gold pumps announce in the room. Even when Mr. Edwards rose to greet me, slid a chair from beneath the table for me, and kissed my hand, they stared—especially when he kissed my hand. The appetizers and cappuccinos grew cold beneath those affixed faces.
“Isaac,” I said as I sat, barely allowing my lips to curl into a smile, “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Yes, likewise! Likewise, Miss Mae. I am immensely excited to finally meet such an accomplished woman.”
I nod.
I had only just returned to New York from my solo piloting expedition to Northern Africa, stopping in Egypt and Sudan, when Edwards insisted I meet with him to look over an offer for the exclusive publishing rights to my memoir. It took weeks of prodding and pleading on his end and two snubs of his offer from mine before I finally breathed heavily into the phone that previous evening and said, “Sure, Isaac. I’ll see you at Bemelmans.”
“Perfect!”
The young waitress approached. “We’ll have a bottle of your vintage Bollinger,” I said as Isaac’s eyes grew wide beneath his thick gray brows before brandishing a willing smile. “Is this not a celebration?” I continued.
“Well… indeed it is!”
I smoked my Virginia Slim throughout our “negotiations,” which ended with an acceptable large five-figure advance proposal.
“This is quite a promising start, Isaac.”
“Well, promising? I thought…”
“Aht Aht! Mr. Edwards, a lady never leaps like some silly poodle simply because a man waves a shiny trinket before her. I will be in talks with my attorney and will return to you with an answer before the week is out.”
His face became a bloated hot water bottle—red, steaming, near to burst before subsiding. He bowed his head, “As you wish, Miss Mae. I look forward to your call.”
I then rose from the table, thanked him for his time, and had the hostess get my driver. I was in a hurry now. I had a long-standing date in Harlem with the handsome Black physician Braxton, whom I’d gotten cozy with before my voyage.
Then, someone calls to me from down the sidewalk, “Johnny!” I looked to my right, but there was no one. “Johnny!” The screams are now more frantic. I look in the other direction and still can’t find the source.
A rocking and jolting, shaking my stole to the concrete, ensues, “Johnny Mae! If you don’t get your country ‘Bama ass in here and finish this hem on Mrs. Braxton’s gown!”
--
"This story was clever, fun, and funny. I enjoyed it. The ending was hilarious." -Ran Walker
Living in an Apology by Elhondra Brazzle
Love only visits those that don't want it as bad as me. It has a grudge against me, that's what I tell myself, anyway. Sometimes it turns the pain into a whisper, other times it's louder than the world I carry. My grandmother named me Johnnie. She said it would remind me of my father. I always wonder if that's why my mother stayed gone. That name turned the south into ice. Turned her blood cold. They both died within days of each other. She couldn't exist near him and couldn't breathe without him. I’m now the same age as my mother when she passed 35, almost to the exact date. I stopped by my grandmothers this morning, she said “now Johnnie, I got a surprise for ya” anytime my grandmother starts any conversation with "now johnnie'' it comes with regret. But she's the last thing on this earth connected to me, so I always give in.
This time it was a box full of my mother's things, some stuff granny couldn't stomach to pack and look through all in the same lifetime. This is the first box she's ever gifted me. Maybe she's getting used to having to bury her daughter first. But then again, I don't know if you ever do. Dust filled my living room floor. The box felt weighted, but not much looked back at me. A few of my mother's old hair clips, mail she never opened and a large journal with her name written across it, she always did have the best handwriting, if she could've gave me anything that would've been it. I read through those pages all night. I stopped midway when I saw my name, “my little girl Johnnie”. She wrote about me like she knew me, like she seen me, almost like she loved me. I thought she would have possibly started it with an apology, not a summary. What did she know? Where was she? I wanted so badly to jump through these pages, tell her she was wrong, I wanted to give myself that damn apology, I threw that old useless journal to the closest wall. It fell face open. I found myself surrounded by my own words, the words that so carelessly stumbled from my mouth. I was covered in my mother's writing, my voice sounding the way I remembered hers. Her scent almost stuck to me.
I found myself in a place that felt familiar. I heard my grandmother's voice. “RUTH .. RUTH” “ME!?” I replied in confusion. “That’s what I named you, didn’t I?” Get in here and hang these clothes. I’m not going to tell you again.” Wait, Ruth? That’s my mothers name- WAIT!
Am I my mother? Granny did say be careful what you ask for, you just might get it.
What if I could finally apologize to myself?
I always wondered how different my life would be, had she just apologized to me?
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"Nice details throughout. The story has a bit of an interesting twist at the end, but it fits within the speculative energy of the Aunt Johnnie character." -Ran Walker
To the Market Through the Town by Glenn Tifanni
The hair on her head is robust and fluffy, reminiscent of freshly spun cotton candy. With her back arched and head up to the sky she struts with a purpose; high stepping in a yellow, knee-length dress with pearl buttons down the back. Every step shakes the ground beneath her feet. The houses in the town go quiet upon her growing presence. The pots stop stirring, the hammers stop banging, and the kids stop playing. “Here comes Aunt Johnnie!” someone shouts in excitement. Big grins spread across their faces as they hurry outside to see her. She passes each of them leaving the aroma of freshly baked apple pie to linger behind her. Her skin glows as if it is coated in fairy dust. The market door creeks as she enters inside. She grabs a sack and travels each aisle grabbing all she needs to prepare dinner for the evening. As she picks up a big green apple, sweet potatoes, and collards she notices a wide-eyed little boy peeking at her from around the corner. She smiles and gives him a wink. His eyes stay glued to her. The men in the market tip their hats to her saying, “Hi Aunt Johnnie!” The women in the market watch her in admiration. With no words spoken her power is felt. She approaches the clerk and pays for her groceries. Brown bag in arms, she bumps the door open with her wide hips and out of the market she goes. Following the same route back, the town watches her again in awe. This time a specific cadence goes with her walk. They are privy to the magic that she carries within her. It is so infectious that it overtakes them like a shadow in the night. Aunt Johnnie knows who she is and embraces it unapologetically. She is full of wisdom and knows a thing or two about life. She’s fallen down and gotten back up. She’s licked her wounds and healed herself. She is respected. She is their strength, light, power, spirit lifter, and the embodiment of self-love. She is Johnnie Mae King.
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"Nice descriptions. It is fascinating to see how the people in the town respond to Aunt Johnnie." -Ran Walker