Snowbirds : a Novella-in-Flash by Margo Rife
Welcome to SNOWBIRDS, a serial novella comprised of 35 flash fictions
We’re excited to begin serial publication of Snowbirds, a novella-in-flash by Margo Rife. The first two chapters drop today. New chapters will be published twice a week. You can read an interview with the author here.
Snowbirds Table of Contents
Part 1
Road Trip / Angels Don’t Bite Their Fingernails / Don’t Look Like No Dragon to Me / Coffee Grounds and Tangelo Seeds / How High Can Fruit Fly? / Take the Cake / You Will Spot Him Swimming / Grownup Talk / The Water Will Hold You / Wet Feathers Are Heavy / abide abide abide / Deep End of the Ocean / Bluff If You Gotta / We Used to be Snowbirds
Part 2
Parents as People / Uncle Harold Has a Sweet Tooth / My Aunt Has Good Knife Skills / O Matriarch Who Are Your People? / Old Money Food / He Could Have Danced All Night / Great Expectations / Leafy Sings the Blues / Auction House / Ways to Die in Florida -Alligators / Ways to Die in Florida-Spiders / Ways to Die in Florida-Humans / Ways to Die in Florida-Drowning / Estee Lauder Has a Cold / A Lake Will Never Be an Ocean / Ways to Survive in Florida / Father Figure / Shuffleboard with Mr. Zeller / The Secret Garten / Weekly Guide of the Palm Beaches / The Snowbirds Last Migration
Snowbirds: a person (or family) who vacations in a warmer climate during cold weather to escape chilly winters in their hometowns. No surprise to find snowbirds sitting outside on the beach, bench or boardwalk. Swimming in the sea.
Road Trip!
“Coppertone? Aren’t you an optimist! Sun won’t be out again ‘til April,” says the cashier at A&P as she hands my mother her change.
“We’re snowbirds,” Mother explains. “We’re heading to Florida to escape winter.”
My family escapes in a giant black Plymouth. For the three-day trip my dad replaces the back seat with a full-size mattress. The high flat surface allows my sister, Dawn, and me to play endless card games. Flat on our backs, we view the moon and stars shining through the rear window.
On day two, my sister and I strip off our sweaters and boots and replace them with shorts and sandals. Bare branches gave way to trees hanging with Spanish moss. We roll down the windows and lie spread-eagle to cool off.
I can’t wait for day three because on our arrival my rich aunt from Palm Beach will take Dawn and me under her wing. Aunt Doretta promised to escort us to brunch at the Breakers Hotel and to shop at Lilly Pulitzer on Worth Avenue. Maybe she’ll buy me a navy blue swimsuit with ruffles. Please, please, please.
We make good time on day two until a line of cars on a two-lane road forces us to come to a dead stop. I roll down my window and spot a blocks-long delay. Waiting in the hot car brings out the worst in us. Dawn pokes me with her toe. I fling playing cards at her. People honk horns. My dad wipes his forehead. Mother orders me out of the car.
“Okay, troublemaker, find out why those bells are clanging.”
I walk the sandy ridge near the tracks. Mother yells for me to hurry. I don’t see a train, but the gates are down. A woman with a bright orange vest walks from car to car. She sees me staring at her and yells, “It was just a little colored boy.”
The gates go up. I run back to our car to find Mother violently fanning her face.
“Get in. We need to get to Valdosta by sundown. What’s with the long face, Lyla?”
We drive across the tracks. I spot one small white sneaker with no laces near the crossing gates. When the Plymouth reaches the speed limit again, I open the Archie comic book I found in the tall grass on the ridge.
“Don’t read in the car, Lyla. You want to ruin your eyes? And where’d you get that old comic book?”
I look at the first page and notice blood on Jughead’s face.
Angels Don’t Bite Their Fingernails
“You like them grits, Honeycakes?” Our waitress winks at me and then turns to Mother. “She don’t talk much, does she, Mama?”
Mother sighs. “Half the time, we don’t even know she’s around.”
“Bet she’s a good one to bring to church,” our waitress offers.
Mother’s biting comment about my shyness is soothed by the last spoonful of dreamy creamy grits. My dad pays the bill and our family wobbles down the broken steps. The screen door slams as we leave. Why aren’t all restaurants in houses? The South is full of surprises.
“Y’all come back.”
“Did you remember to ask directions?” Mother probes. My dad reassures her he knows the way. We got a late start for day three because we slept in. My scream woke everyone at two a.m. when a Palmetto bug crawled on my scalp. Mother’s not talking to me. Fine. I look in the rearview mirror. I can’t believe the size of this town: three stores, a church, and a gas station.
After driving all day in the southern heat, it’s a relief when the relentless sun sets. In the dark the night noises begin. I’d enjoy them if I could turn down the volume, so they sound less angry and invading. How big are those frogs? Palmetto bugs splatter and smear our windshield. Great. I don’t think my dad knows where he’s going. Dawn has grown quiet. The night noises stop.
We’re lost. The road gets narrower and the bumps multiply. The Plymouth is a city car and meant for smooth pavement. Seated so high on our mattress, we bump our heads on the roof. The bug-smeared headlights barely reach twenty feet ahead. I’ve never seen such blackness. Getting lost is my biggest fear. Don’t my parents believe in road maps? They’re key to survival. I want my entire life to be one giant road map where I go from A to Z with ease.
Mother points out a distant porch light and urges my dad to get out and ask directions.
Why don’t we just turn around? The new night noise is barking. My dad drives to the light, and suddenly a pack of dogs rushes the headlights, all snarls and pulled-back gums—snapping and running too close to the wheels. We hear thumps. I’m too scared to scream. My dad drives faster until the car balks. Mother looks at the dashboard and cries, “The needle’s on empty!”
The Plymouth shudders and sputters to a stop. We’ve run out of gas. No one says a word and the night is silent again. We sit and wait. Mother seethes and my dad stares at the road ahead. Dull headlights and a shiny metal bumper catch our attention. A car drives past us then turns around. Headlights light up the Plymouth from the rear and cause us to squint. My dad gets out to meet four Black men. One of the men retrieves a rusty can of gasoline from the trunk of his low-riding car and walks to my side to fill our tank. In the darkness I only make out his ragged fingernails.
The men drive off, and we make a U-turn to follow them to the main road.
“I think we were just visited by angels,” says Mother.
I question this because angels don’t bite their fingernails.
“Dad. Were those angels?”
“Yes.”
I close my eyes and picture a little Black angel with white gym shoes on a bike. He waves to me.
A note on this project: Snowbirds is a novella composed of interconnected flash fictions. Continue to chapter 3. View the complete table of contents.
Margo Rife loves writing flash fiction. Her work has been published by New World Writing Quarterly, Reflex Fiction and a variety of literary publications. Snowbirds was developed in a Meg Pokrass Novella-in-Flash Workshop and edited by Michael Loveday, author of Unlocking the Novella-in-Flash. Margo is also a playwright whose dramatic monologues have been staged in New York City, Raleigh and Chicago. Margo produces a seasonal podcast from her hometown library that features local writers.
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