The ‘Be Attitudes’: A Flash Series
By Zary Fekete
(Based on the Beatitudes, Matthew 5:3-12)
Poor In Spirit
The quiet greenroom carried the faint scent of old velvet and furniture polish. Straightening his tie, Elias saw he had buttoned his shirt wrong.
There was a knock at the door and then it opened, “Three minutes, sir.”
He nodded.
The piano was out there on the stage. He had been here before. Once he dreamed of it; now it was the latest date on his schedule. A theatre filled with expectant patrons and an instrument he had mastered like a bicycle.
Elias balled his fists and loosened them. He played a few arpeggios and scales in the air and heard the phantom sounds. He was ready.
Leaning on the makeup table, he breathed a long sigh. In the mirror he glimpsed the sag of his shoulders. He winced up at the sharp fluorescent bulb. Its glare made the man before him impossible to ignore.
Dropping back into his chair, he felt the hollow space in his chest. An emptiness waiting, not for approval or applause but for something softer. Real.
It’s not the music, he realized. It’s how I’ve been playing it.
Another knock, a voice calling his name.
A moment later he stood in the darkness of the wings. The stage was glowing in golden light. In the center, the piano, a shiny thing as familiar as his own body.
The audience whispered in admiration. Someone coughed.
Elias bowed and sat. Hands lifted, he inhaled. Fingers poised above the keys.
And then, for once, he did not play. At least not yet.
After a pause he looked out into the faceless many. The moment stretched into the uncomfortable.
Elias leaned forward, the microphone catching the small clearing of his throat. His voice, when it came, was steady, but low.
“Ladies and gentlemen … I owe you something different tonight.”
Those Who Mourn
Thank You For Your Patronage!
The sign at the entrance was printed in black marker. Leonard unlocked the door. No point in changing routines. It was still his place for at least one more day.
Flour and yeast scented the air. The bakery’s counter and display cases were spotless with empty shelves behind the glass, waiting for the new owner. The steel cash register was on the floor by the utility closet; the power cord wrapped around it like a comforting arm.
Leonard closed the door, and the bell jingled in the stillness. Grabbing the broom, he surveyed the old store. Not bad for forty-two years, he thought. And that’s just my tenure. Never mind Dad and Grandpa before me.
He passed his hand over the wooden counter smoothed by years of neighbors sitting side by side. Thousands of hellos and goodbyes. The morning light slanting through the window slowly crept across the floor.
Leonard glanced up and saw someone outside, a woman at the locked door. He stepped to the entry and opened the door. “Sorry,” he said. “We’re closed.”
She tapped a grocery bag. “Muffins. Thought you might not be baking today.”
Leonard scratched his head. He had expected to spend the day alone, no gifts or flowers, definitely not store-bought pastries from a patron he hardly knew. But some habits die hard. He stepped back and gestured her inside.
She put the bag down on the counter and grabbed a second broom.
Side by side, they swept the floor. No sound, just faint shuffling of feet and bristles against floorboards.
When Leonard glanced around, the old bakery was spotless and ready for its new role.
The woman reached into the bag and pulled out a muffin, flicking out a napkin with it, and placed it before Leonard. She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Thank you,” she said and then left, the bell jingling behind her.
Leonard stared at the muffin. The light brightened around him, and he realized this day might not be only an ending. It might be a door that’s been cracked open. He broke the muffin in half and ate it slowly as if it was the last good thing in the world.
The Meek
The old house looked hunched, as if leaning into the wind. A half-broken porch ringed the outside. In the back, a chimney lurched awkwardly toward the sky. Chipped white paint flaked off here and there.
Lena was at the rear of the crowd, clutching a card with her number. She was the first to arrive for the auction and had slowly made her way through the gently tilted rooms. She stood before an upstairs window, tracing her finger along the sagging windowsill.
The place wasn’t much, certainly not what most buyers were looking for. But Lena wanted it.
The auctioneer gestured and his voice rose and fell. Lena was surprised at the speed of the bidding. Hands flew up and down. People nodded yes or no. Lena bid twice, her heart trembling.
But she was no match against the man on the side. He had arrived last, in his expensive suit and casual sunglasses. He didn’t look at the auctioneer but rifled through the bids with the practiced air of a professional.
The auctioneer’s gavel came down with a hollow thump. Sold!
The man chuckled and shook someone’s hand while he spoke to someone else on his cell phone.
Lena folded her card and stuck it into her purse. She was about to leave, a stab of anger motivating her footsteps toward the door. Instead, she stopped and approached the man through the thinning crowd. She held out her hand when he glanced up.
“Congratulations,” she said. “It’s a winner.”
He looked puzzled and shook her hand lightly. Then his phone rang again, and he turned away. Lena’s smile was small but real as she walked out into the late winter sunshine.
It was late spring when the call came. She didn’t recognize the number and almost didn’t answer. “Miss Carter?” asked a voice.
“Yes.”
“You probably don’t remember me. We met at the auction a few months back.”
She remembered.
He cleared his throat. “I … well, it turns out, I had a change of plans.”
A year later Lena sat on the crooked porch in her rocking chair, a steaming cup of tea balanced on her knee. The chimney still canted at an odd angle. Upstairs the windowsills were still worn. She considered fixing things, but in the end decided she liked it the way it was. The house was a bit like her, stubborn, worn by weather, but still standing.
The memory came back to her of the man on the phone. No fuss, the deed given as a gift.
Lena opened her eyes and slowly sipped from the mug. Somewhere in the house a clock ticked. And her world continued forward, imperfect but hers.
Hungry and Thirsty
The classroom window was warped and wouldn’t close all the way. When it was windy it shuddered, and the room grew drafty. Ms. Hanley stuck a wedge of folded cardboard against the frame, as she’d done for the past four winters.
She turned and looked at the room. Twenty-six desks. Fifteen textbooks. Twelve chairs that wobbled if a student leaned too far back.
She made notations on a list she had been keeping. She thought someone might ask someday, but no one ever had.
That night was the annual school board meeting. She stood in front of the empty room and practiced the speech, her notes in her right hand. She wasn’t asking for much. She needed a few simple supplies, one working computer, and a few new copies of To Kill a Mockingbird with covers that weren’t tattered or missing.
When the time came, she entered the auditorium. It was half full, and most of the people already looked tired.
When her name was called, she walked to the microphone. She spoke of the desks, the drafty window, the cracked linoleum floor. She singled out each student by name, mentioning how they stayed late to clean the chalkboard and sweep the floor since the janitor couldn’t be spared on certain days.
She sat down and waited. The principal thanked her for her “passion.” Then the proceedings moved on to the gymnasium floor that needed replacing and the plans for the prom budget. It was late by the time she got home that night.
The next morning, Ms. Hanley unlocked the classroom and switched on the lights. They blinked on one by one.
She noticed immediately. Something was different. She stepped toward her desk slowly.
An old shoebox sat in the center, wrapped in used construction paper. A piece of masking tape was stuck to the top with the words: “For the New Books.”
Inside were a few crumbled bills, a pile of sticky coins, and a few folded notes. Ms. Hanley blinked hard and sat down in her chair, the wheels squeaking as she did.
She opened one of the notes, written in halting script, “Mom said I could use my allowance.” Another said, “Thanks for all the fun reading times.”
Slowly, the students trickled in and took their seats. Ms. Hanley looked up and smiled at them. Then she stood and did the roll call.
Outside the cold wind rattled the window, but she didn’t hear it this time.
They Will Be Shown Mercy
The dented, gray sedan sprawled half on the curb, half across the driveway.
Eli jammed the brake down hard, the back of his car fishtailing wildly. When he stopped, he pushed his hair back from his face and breathed heavily, feeling the heat rise in his temples.
He glanced at his watch. Already twenty minutes late. The exam was starting any minute. No re-takes. No grace. No excuses.
He crunched the car into park and angrily pushed open his door. Getting out, he slammed it so loudly a few sparrows took off from a nearby tree. The offending car was small. Rust spiderwebbed the sides of the doors. A few overdue parking tickets dangled from one of the wipers. Eli pulled an old receipt from his pocket and scratched out an angry note.
“Thanks for costing me my final grade!”
He leaned forward to stuff the receipt until the other wiper when he noticed something. Through the windshield, he could see a paper with a child’s crayon drawing—a heart with flowers surrounding it. In the corner was a yellow sun, too big for the page. Below the picture was printed in careful, unsteady lettering: “Good luck today, Daddy!”
Eli froze.
The rain that had been falling all morning suddenly softened and he felt mist on his cheeks. Around him the street sounds dimmed, like the world was holding its breath.
He looked down at the note crumpled in his hand and slowly shoved it back into his jacket pocket.
The anger drained, leaving something hollow in its place.
There was still no way he would make it on time. But there were worse things than being late.
Pure in Heart
Micah was advancing the film with his thumb when the camera shutter jammed halfway through the second roll. Frowning, he gently thumped it with his fingers, then shook it lightly. No movement. It was dead.
He eased himself down to the curb. Around him swirled the city noises—buses sighing at stoplights, pigeons cooing as they searched for crumbs, a dog barking across the park.
The camera wasn’t his. He had borrowed it from the school lab, promising to bring it back in one piece. He needed it today. The contest deadline was tonight.
Pulling a cheap disposable camera from his bag, Micah looked down at it and huffed a bitter laugh. He’d bought it as a backup at the convenience store for three dollars.
In his fingers, it felt like a feather. Hollow and plastic. Nothing but a toy.
But now the sun was just setting. Magic hour light poured between the buildings in bright shafts of gold.
Micah stood and started to walk.
He pressed the flimsy, plastic shutter and snapped a shot of a boy chasing bubbles across a playground. He caught an old woman scattering crumbs before a crowd of happy birds at her feet. He captured a father leaning down to tie his child’s shoe.
He had no idea if any of the shots would be good. Finally, at the end of the roll, he realized his fingers were numb and his sandals were dusty from sidewalk grit. He slowly walked back to his dorm, dropping the camera into the overnight processing bin and paying the charge.
The next day he mailed the photos in to the contest. And promptly forgot about it.
Three weeks later, the letter arrived.
Cautiously, Micah sat down at his desk and opened it. Inside there was no prize money. No invitation to any ceremony. Instead, there was a single sheet of folded paper, a short note printed in neat handwriting.
Dear Micah,
Your photo of the father and the little girl stuck with me long after the judging was over. It wasn’t the most polished entry. The shot wasn’t even centered. But it was the only picture that really made me stop and look. Thank you.
Micah held the letter a long time before he slowly folded it, smaller and smaller, and slipped it into his back pocket.
Outside, the setting sun bathed the campus mall in soft twilight. He locked his dorm room and hurried to the convenience store. There was one disposable camera left.
He advanced the film carefully and slowly. Then he lifted it to his eye and waited.
Peacemakers
Everyone knew about the feud between Mrs. Connors and Mr. Reyes. But if anyone happened to be walking by just then, they would have seen the two neighbors staring down at the alley between their houses.
The dog was nothing but ribs and matted fur.
“You see him?” Mrs. Connors said.
Mr. Reyes shielded his eyes against the setting sun. “Probably trouble.”
“Could be hurt,” she said.
Then the dog noticed them and darted away up the alley. They both stood a second longer. Then, at almost the same time, they stepped off their porches and trotted after it.
The mutt was faster than it looked, squirming through broken fences and whipping past a rusted swing set. The two neighbors kept pace.
Mrs. Connors called softly, “Here, boy!” The dog ran harder. Mr. Reyes grunted under his breath about how some things didn’t want saving.
They ran past the corner grocery, through the library parking lot, and into a vacant lot filled with dandelions. Finally at the back fence, the dog stopped. It glanced back at them nervously before collapsing in the grass, its gaunt chest heaving.
“Careful,” Mr. Reyes said, gently touching Mrs. Connors’s arm.
She crouched down first, holding out her hand, palm up. The dog whimpered, wary.
Mr. Reyes reached into his back pocket and pulled out a hunk of jerky he had been snacking on. He broke off a piece and tossed it toward the emaciated creature.
The dog sniffed cautiously. Then limped forward and took the morsel, chewing loudly.
The three of them sat under the twilight sky. Slowly the dog’s breathing calmed. It rested its head on Mrs. Connor’s knee. Mr. Reyes ran his hand over its head, smoothing the dirty fur.
Neither of them spoke. The dog closed its eyes.
When the first stars came out, Mr. Reyes stood and dusted off his jeans.
“I have an old leash in my garage,” he said quietly.
Mrs. Connor scratched the dog’s head and nodded. “I’ve got a spare bowl.”
She looked up and smiled. Mr. Reyes smiled back. The dog thumped his tail once against the dry grass.
Blessed Are the Persecuted
Sundown marked the curfew. Everybody knew the rules—posted in the main square, pasted on walls and telephone polls on thin paper that flapped in the wind. The rules were simple. No gathering or speeches. No public pronouncements or symbols.
And no candles.
Marcos pulled one of the papers off a nearby wall and read the words through once, twice. He looked at his watch and then up at the church tower. At that moment the clock struck nine.
Turning, he walked out into the center of the square, past closed storefronts and below apartment windows that flickered with white and blue television light from within.
He carried a small candle, the kind for a birthday cake.
Cupping his hand around the feeble flame against a gust of wind, he walked toward the center fountain. No one stopped him.
He set the candle down on the rim of the dry stone of the fountain basin. The tiny flame flickered gently but held. Marcos nodded, satisfied.
Then he stepped back and watched.
No one came on the first night. The second night, two guards stood on one of the street corners. When Marcos walked to the center of the square with his candle, one of the guards spat onto the street loudly. The other muttered something into a walkie talkie.
Marcos placed the flickering candle on the fountain again. He walked away, leaving it burning in the dark.
The third night was cold. The candle went out twice as he walked toward the fountain. Still, he placed it on the stone rim, having to relight it a few times.
On the fourth night, the guards were waiting for him at the fountain with their hands on their belts, their faces blank.
Right after he placed the candle one of them flicked it to the sidewalk and the other crushed it beneath a black boot.
Marcos said nothing. He gathered up the crushed pieces and walked away.
The fifth night he placed another candle. And on the sixth. And the seventh.
They came for him on the eighth night. He stepped out of his apartment, heading for the square, candle in hand, when they stopped him. His mother called after him, but he had already been hustled into a waiting black van.
The candle he had dropped lay on the ground, broken in half.
On the ninth night, the square was empty. The fountain sat dark and cold beneath a hollow moon. All around the town slept.
The tenth night, just after nine, Marcos’ mother entered the square wearing a grey coat. She held a package beneath her arm.
At the fountain, she took out the candles, one by one. By the time the fifth candle was lit, she was joined by a young couple who approached from the other side. They reached into the package, taking candles. Placing them. Lighting them.
In five minutes, the square was full of people and the fountain was ablaze in light.
No speeches.
No slogans.
Only light.
Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) from DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addiction) with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many, many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete