You are my best kept secret.
Six words in . . . love? fear? desperation? joy? jealousy?
Tag: flash fiction
Fire in the Night
“What do you see?”
I see the future. I see you and me. I see my heart exploding. I see a million fireworks. I see galaxies.
I feel it all within me.
I see our first kiss, unintentionally wonderful. I see awkward laughs and gentle embraces.
I see lives intertwined, threads to a needle connecting time.
I see my past fade away at your touch.
I see light fill empty spaces.
“What do I see?”
I see I’m in love with you but I can’t tell you that.
“It just looks like a fire dying in the night to me.”
“What do I see?”
I see I’m in love with you but I can’t tell you that.
“It just looks like a fire dying in the night to me.”
Word Count: 100
For Friday Fictioneers, massive thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for wrangling this massive flash fiction challenge in every week.
Always the Kettle
It’s the tea kettle, always the tea kettle.
Jada had no idea why it was the kettle. Surely it wasn’t always. How many childhood stories were there about tea kettles being possessed?
Zero.
She couldn’t resist the designs. It begged to be taken home.
Such a tea slut.
The walls rumbled. In front of her individual scales twitched and flapped. A beast of terrifying size draped over her furniture.
Don’t move.
Jada knew the beast couldn’t be real. Yet here it was, half chasing something in its sleep; its forked tongue hanging from between scaly lips. Its serrated claws curled as it feigned trotting through a field playfully tossing its massive head.
And probably a corpse.
A feeling of panic rested low in her belly. Jada’s legs ached to run but she was frozen.
Don’t breathe.
Its head snapped up. Jada could see her reflection in the glossy red iris. The beast inhaled as its nose passed across her.
Not a snack, the whole meal. Is this really gonna be my last thought before I die?
Its putrid breath filled Jada’s nose. Instead of a roar it let out a series of low clicks.
Oh god, it’s engine won’t turn over.
Word Count: 200
For Sunday Photo Fiction – It’s my first time joining in with this (we can post on days other than Sunday right?) Also, dragons are like puppies. Who knew?
Dad Said
“When can we go home?” Arnie watched his mom battle with the campfire. She rubbed sticks together, cursed, then clanged rocks above the cold wood.
“Think of it as connecting with your ancestors.” A frog escaped his mom’s frantic fire starting attempts. He counted the colors in the sunset. Five. His ancestors could have probably counted more.
“I thought dad said we were Irish.” The rocks hit the ground with a muted thud as his mom sat back.
“Well baby, your dad said a lot of things.”
“Like, that he would meet us here?”
Arnie watched his mom look away.
Word Count: 100
For Friday Fictioneers. Many thanks to Rochelle Wisoff Fields
Click the blue froggy for more
Her Eyes (Or Untitled)
My eyes trace the same curves over and over, like paper never truly absorbing ink. Gentle folds of skin stand in contrast to stark bone.
She had been so … welcoming, so polite.
“Yes doctor, please, come in. A drink? Food? Of course, anything for you.”
Though she had nothing to give in the end, a couple of blackened lungs, a spoiled liver.
Her eyes, crystalline blue, I would have taken those.
Why did she have to turn it the way she did? It shouldn’t have come to those utterances of hers.
“I think you’re mistaken. I don’t think so. No.”
And in this world, a woman of her standard owning a gun?
My soul will rest easy, hers I’m not sure.
I clean my tools meticulously, disposing of the browning apple core, used condom and bloodied cloths in her make shift fire pit.
I collect the money, laid on her poorly made wooden table … beforehand … in plain sight.
The first sign of trouble.
“Of course I trust you doctor.”
Outside the madam keeps an eye on rowdy drunks. I pass her a handful of crumpled bills.
“Made a bit of a mess, might let her sleep.”
She tucks them away, her eyes never straying from the stumbling fools, never truly catching sight of me.
They never do.
I wrote this as homework for a writer’s meeting I went to. I’m not sure yet where it’s going or if it can go anywhere else. I imagine this character has a bit of wanderlust though.
Nothing Ever Happens Here
One hundred and fifty.
That’s how many times I heard people utter it in the days following Jace Daniels murder.
“Nothing ever happens here.”
Mrs. Daniels let it escape between her fingers while she sobbed. News cameras panned the puffy eyes surrounding her but they gave nothing away.
My father slammed his fist on the table while yelling it to the wind. This new threat in his sleepy town sent his blood pressure soaring.
“God damn it! Nothing ever happens here!”
The fibers stitching our small high school together, always loose and frayed, seemed to become a quilted masterpiece overnight.
“We can’t let this divide us!” The principal clutched the microphone, prepared to impassion.
Candle light vigils. Twenty-four hour news cycles.
Everyone seemed to forget that town was made to swallow souls.
On day three I received my college acceptance letter.
Quietly, I stuffed my bloodied clothes in the fire pit.
Word Count: 150
For this weeks What Pegman Saw. The location is Radium Springs, GA
Knotted Hands
My grandfather planted this tree with roots poisoned after the war.
His father watered it, the seed which came before.
My father nurtured them, these roots of ruined fiber.
This tree grew ever higher.
Its fruit, rotting, my mother prepared for me.
She sweetened it, tried to soothe it down,
Nothing could disguise the smell of these roots rotting in the ground.
It falls to me, as this tree must be fed;
A living sacrifice of a life never lead.
I toss my children as far as I can;
Mutter the same empty words my mother offered
Over knotted hands.
Word Count: 100
A write for Friday Fictioneers, roped in by Rochelle Wisoff Fields. I also think it’s Sunday (though I am not 100% sure). I’ve been writing my research proposal/thesis. I’m afraid I’m not good for much else right now.
Click the blue froggy to read more!
