Thank you, Bill Tope, for publishing our flash fiction piece on Topiary Stories!
Nolcha’s text is in regular font, and mine is in italics.
“Flashbacks” by Nolcha Fox and Barbara Leonhard
When Marcella woke up, she felt as though she had lived 1000 lives. Mostly boring ones in drab cities. In one life, she lived in a plain house surrounded by shrubbery that reminded her of her first husband’s unruly hair and beard. Panels of the fence surrounding the patio were missing, much like a couple of Harold’s teeth.
Whenever the Garden Club hinted that she should host the next tea party, Marcella faked illness, complaining of spring allergies and vertigo. She was embarrassed by the yard, which was overtaken by poke weed the size of small trees. Oregano still flourished in the old garden spot, now too shady for tomatoes to grow. Creeping vines were overtaking the grass. Harold was always too engrossed in YouTube shows featuring explorers of abandoned homes to landscape the yard.
Marcella sighed and considered dropping a bomb in the backyard. She’d have to drop her membership in the Garden Club, but maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
“Why so glum, my sweet?” a voice that sounded like Harold’s said.
She looked around. Harold wasn’t there.
“Behind you,” the voice said.
She spun around and almost fainted.
A bent, wrinkled old man stood in the corner where the oak tree once was. “So sorry to shock you,” he said. “I noticed your backyard is in desperate need of help. I have a landscaping company, and I can help you out.”
“But I can’t pay you,” Marcella said. She knew her stingy husband wouldn’t pay for anything he refused to do himself.
“Oh, I don’t need much,” he said. “A kiss will do.”
Marcella was stunned. She studied his thin lips, which stretched to his earlobes. His bulbous nose would get in the way of a kiss and probably smear her glasses. He was a runt, about 3 feet tall, so she towered over him, even though she was considered short. “A hug won’t be part of this transaction,” she thought.
“What’s your name? Mine is Marcella.” She looked around, hoping Harold would rescue her from this odd little man wearing a green shirt and baggy trousers, and donning a mustard-yellow pixie hat.
“They call me Sneezy.”
“What an unusual name.”
“Seasonal allergies—aaaaaaaaaaCHOO!”
“And you work outside?”
“It’s our way. Doc, Grumpy—Well, not Sleepy. He’s always in dreamland—aaaaaaaaaaCHOO!”
“Where did you come from? You simply appeared out of nowhere.”
“Over there.” He pointed to the base of the redbud tree, stifling another sneeze. “We find our ways around this realm.”
“Why did you stop by here?” Marcella asked.
“Why, your dress! You remind me of someone I used to know.”
“Oh, this old thing?” Marcella always thought she dressed like a clown, mixing blue, red, and yellow. And long skirts felt more comfy than jeans. And baby doll sleeves were back in style. Just like her ebony bob.
“You sure you aren’t a princess? Now, how about that kiss, and I’ll get started—aaaaaaaCHOO!”
“Work first, pay later,” Marcella said.
“Well, that changes the terms,” Sneezy said
. “
I’ll take your memories instead.” He pressed his finger to her forehead.
Marcella heard a sucking sound. She fell to the ground.
She opened her eyes to Harold shaking her. “Babe, are you ok?”
“Where am I?” she asked. “And who are you
© Nolcha Fox and Barbara Leonhard
Nolcha and I have collaborated on poetry, too.
And with Melissa Lemay
Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver 
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