Flash Fiction Friday - Cuba Libre

Havana, before Batista and the revolution, burned brightly in her mind as she swayed to the fierce thrumming of fingers on guitars, Spanish and yet not of Spain, of Cuba, of freedom and what had been. On the boat, over endless martinis sparkling for the ambitious businessmen and rum for those who were more sure of their allegiances, Javier had been the most ambitious and yet the most sure. He had played flamenco and jazz effortlessly, and had put down the guitar many times to dance with her, only to be cajoled into "just one more" by the drunken American plutocrats who didn't know samba from son.

Her memories, kissed by the sun, dissolved in a haze of scratches as the needle of her phonograph lurched in its track, the record coming to an unscheduled halt as it always did. That was where the song ended now. Javier, the boat, the sun, the freedom, all of it dead and gone. She had nothing to do now but watch the sun sink in Miami harbor and dream of Havana that was, and what might have been but now would never be.

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I must say at the start that I am not political about Cuba at all. This is not me pouring out my longing for a free Cuba, or pining for dissidents, or what have you. It's just a story. Used to be, long ago, that one didn't have to say things like this, but now it seems safer. Please don't get offended. Thank you.

Now that that's out of the way...

This picture wasn't terribly inspiring, thus only one this week. They can't all be winners. I know the title of the picture is Casablanca, but this really spoke Caribbean to me for whatever reason. For a total and utter gringo I have a bit of experience of Cuba, entirely vicarious, for various reasons. I worked on several plays about the period surrounding the revolution. Cuban music, although I can't claim to know much about it, is also fascinating; Cuba is a real melting pot of cultures and it shows in the arts.

The picture struck me as an odd combination of old and new, vintage and modern, so I played with the idea that maybe it wasn't an old picture, but rather a memory. Which led me to consider what kind of memory it could be. It doesn't look like sex is about to happen, so the most enjoyable memories were out, but they seem like they're having a good time. A party on a yacht, perhaps. He's playing, she's dancing, there are drinks and cigarettes. But she looks a bit like she wishes he'd put down the damn guitar and come dance with her. He's not looking at her though. Lost opportunities maybe?

I've read a number of stories over the years where watches stop at important times. She keeps a watch because it stopped the second her lover died. The watch was smashed when its owner was murdered, preserving that moment. And so on. But there's no real angle for a watch here. The moment is frozen in some other way, and I'd already decided it wasn't because the picture was taken; this picture isn't a photograph. So she's dancing and thinking of this memory, and then it stops. And it struck me that a record would be perfect. I'm not sure why the scratch happened. Maybe it was totally innocent at the time and later achieved significance. Maybe the record was damaged during whatever events occurred to ruin what might have been. But for whatever reason, she has this precious record which she plays because it brings back happy memories, but the record is scratched, the memories flawed.

Anyway, enough talk about me. Let's talk about you. Yes, you. The one who hasn't ever done Flash Fiction Friday before. You read them, you enjoy them, and you think to yourself, "Gee, it seems like fun, but I don't think I could ever write something. I'm just no good at it." Pshaw, my fine fellow, pshaw I say again. You can write something. Hell, the first thing I wrote for FFF was about an elaborate sexual roleplay scenario involving vampire ants. I can only go up from there. And so can you. Seriously. Writing is good for the brain, and we all need a little fiction in our lives these days. So it's not too late. You can write something for this week's photo right now and head over to Flash Fiction headquarters and put your hat in the ring. The worst that will happen is that you write something terrible about an elaborate sexual roleplay scenario involving vampire ants.