Flash Fiction: Jetstar 88 by Bonnie Proudfoot

Photo by Sarah Cervantes

I saw my dad in a dream last night, driving a shiny new Oldsmobile, black as night, hubcaps spinning like planets. We were on our way to a union meeting. I wish I could say he stood up for fair play. I wish I could say his hands were not that soft. When the trifecta hit we bought new carpet. We invited everyone over. When his picks tanked, he borrowed from relatives, acted like he never missed a paycheck. I wish I could say he never cheated anyone out of anything. He died with 21 lottery tickets in his pocket. That new car smell, Old Spice and soft leather, the way it says luxury, like one mink stole, like one penny on every windowsill, how one thing can erase a lifetime of wait. I wish I could say no one cared about the new car, hubcaps spinning like planets.

Bonnie Proudfoot received a Fellowship for the Arts in Creative Writing from the West Virginia department of Culture and History, and she has had fiction and poetry published in the Gettysburg Review, Kestrel, Quarter After Eight, the New Ohio Review (online edition) and many other journals. Her first novel, Goshen Road, published by Ohio University’s Swallow Press (2020) was selected by the Women’s National Book Association for one of its Great Group Reads for 2020.  The novel was also Long-listed for the 2021 PEN/ Hemingway Award for debut fiction. Her poetry chapbook, Household Gods, is forthcoming on Sheila-Na-Gig this summer. She lives in Athens, Ohio.