I love flash fiction. It’s so challenging to write a semi-complete story in 250 words. Try it sometime, it’s MUCH harder than it looks. If you want to participate and write your own flash fiction, feel free to take that nifty button below.
Fiction under 250 words
I let him in. I didn’t want to. I knew what was going to happen, but I swallowed my anxiety, stomped on my panic and I quasi-calmly opened the door to face my ex-boyfriend.
“Hey you,” I began but no sooner were the words out of my mouth that he snarled at me.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I had convinced myself that he had come over to try and reconcile the damaged relationship. But judging by the sneer on his face and his diamond-hard eyes, that wasn’t his intention.
“I have no idea …”
“You are mental. Wait. You’re more than mental, you’re insane and wow, I’m so glad I dumped your ass because you’re one scary bitch.”
Even though I knew what he was referring to, I forced my expression to maintain a blankness that I was far from feeling on the inside.
He shook his head in disgust. “I can’t believe you thought you could trash my apartment and get away with it.”
Again, I tried to interject even though my heart had now squeezed through my rib cage and had settled just under my vocal cords. I suddenly found it hard to speak and my words came out squeaky. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You deny breaking in, and yet you post pictures of what you did on My Space,” he snickered.
I swallowed.
“I’m filing charges.” He thrust a piece of paper at me. “I’ll see you in court.”
1000 Words Meme Did I tell you I really dig photo prompts?
Well, I do. Photos have always interested me – there’s so much STORY behind them and the great part? Is that the interpretation is endless.
As usual, any fiction I post on this blog is inspired by true life events – either from my life, something I’ve heard or something I’ve read. In fact, it’s safe to say that the fiction I post? Is my way of telling you what’s really on my mind.
With a little dramatization thrown in for good measure. *grin*
Gwen softly fingered the blood red leaves on the poinsettia plant. The leaves felt like well-worn silk – there were some spots that felt a little fuzzy, other spots were smooth and thinning.
“Do you think she’s being controlled??” she asked the man on the sofa.
“I think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill, Gwen,” the man said and snapped his paper in irritation at her interruption.
She sighed and idly rearranged the plant. “I think he’s manipulating her. I just can’t believe she’s not coming down for Christmas. I mean, I could understand it if she had to work but …” she shook her head and turned around to face her husband. “What about the girls? Don’t we deserve to see them?” she choked back a sob at the thought of not seeing her granddaughters.
“Gwen,” the man said patiently and lowered his paper so he could see her over the top. “We don’t know what’s going on. I really think you’re jumping to conclusions.”
“But,” she sniffed, “ever since she got together with that,” she paused and tried to search for a word that would describe her daughter’s new boyfriend, “man,” she spat the word out deciding it was probably safer to stick with a more generic term as opposed to the non-Christian description she had in her mind, “came into her life, she hasn’t been the same. She hasn’t called,” she ticked the reasons off on her fingers, “she hasn’t emailed me. She hasn’t given me a straight answer about anything since he started coming around. She won’t even let me talk to the girls!”
“You talked to them last week!” he said, a note of exasperation in his voice.
“No I didn’t.”
Her husband put the paper down and gave her a straight, pointed look over the top of his glasses. “Gwen Michelle Lane, you most certainly did talk to those girls last week. I was sitting right here and heard you!”
She shrugged and stuck her lower lip out in a small pout. “It wasn’t the same.”
He continued looking at her, not saying a word.
“It wasn’t!” she said defensively. “Normally, they talk my ear off, and giggle. My lord, those girls can giggle whenever they get going. I can’t remember the last time we talked and they didn’t giggle over something.” She broke eye contact with her husband and looked down at the small table, idly tracing a finger through the light layer of dust that had accumulated since last week. She made a mental note to dust before the children arrived.
IF the children arrived.
“Maybe they just didn’t have anything to laugh about.”
“Exactly!” She said, excited that he was coming around to her way of thinking. “I think there is so much sadness in that house since” she waved a dismissive hand “what’s his name came into the picture that, well,” she paused and bit her lip, suddenly unsure of her argument, “that they’ve just been …” she shot him a frustrated look, “different, that’s all.”
He grunted and she continued.
“Look, I can’t describe it, okay? A mother just knows these things. Something’s not right with Samantha and the girls, I feel it.”
“Alright, assuming for a minute you’re right, and” he held up a hand to stop her when she started to say something, “I’m not saying you are. But just because I’m in the mood to argue with you, let’s say you are. What was her reason for not coming down again?”
“She said,” and Gwen couldn’t help but roll her eyes, “that what’s his name had to work the day before and the day after Christmas and she didn’t want him to spend Christmas day all by himself.”
He nodded and continued to look at her.
She defiantly held his gaze.
He finally huffed after long seconds passed. “And?”
“And what?”
“And that’s it?”
“Well,” her superior expression melted into uncertainty, “yes.”
“It’s a new relationship, Gwen. Don’t you remember how hard it was for us to do anything separately when we first started dating?”
Despite her concern, she smiled softly. “Yes, I remember.”
“Well, it’s the same thing for her. She wants to spend as much time with … what IS his name anyway?” he asked while arching a bushy brow at her.
“Kelvin,” she supplied with a long-suffering sigh.
“Right, Kelvin.” He snapped his fingers. “I knew it was something weird like that. Well, she just wants to spend time with Kelvin. After all, it doesn’t sound like the man is going to get a lot of time off and she wants to make the most of it.”
“But what about the girls?”
He sighed. “That is unfortunate.”
“I can’t stand the thought of not spending Christmas day with our granddaughters, Randy. We’ve spent every Christmas with them since they were babies!”
“Well,” he put the paper down and struggled off the sofa cushion to stand up. “Times are changin’. They’re getting bigger. They may not want to spend the holidays with a couple of old coots like us.” He slowly hobbled over to her.
Gwen shook her head and looked distracted. “I don’t think that’s it. I just think he’s turning their lives upside down and Samantha is so relieved to have someone else take charge for a change that she’s allowing him to control her.”
Randy placed his arm around his wife’s small shoulders and hugged her close to him. “Samantha has had a really hard time since the divorce, Gwen. Let’s cut her some slack, okay?”
“Did you hear he took Dana’s books away?”
“What?”
She nodded firmly before continuing. “He felt like she was spending way too much time in her fantasy worlds and not enough time in the real world. In fact, he cut up her library card!”
Randy’s brows arched. “That seems a little extreme.”
“That’s what I thought. She’s a bookish-sort of person. She enjoys books. She’s a good girl. She doesn’t do drugs, she’s making good grades, she doesn’t hang out with a bunch of trouble kids, she’s always in by curfew …” she shook her head. “It’s just not right.”
“What does Samantha say about all of this? I thought she was encouraging Dana’s interest in books. Didn’t she even say something about pursuing a career at the library?”
Gwen rested her head against her husband’s shoulder. “That’s the weird part. She agrees with Kelvin. In fact, every time I ask for her opinion, she always refers to what Kelvin wants. It’s like she doesn’t have her own mind anymore. It’s creepy.”
“Well, I’m sure there’s more to the story. We don’t really know ….”
His words were cut off by the phone ringing. Gwen snatched a tissue out of a nearby tissue box and quickly wiped her nose before answering.
“Hello?”
“Grandma?” A small, female voice asked.
“Yes? Is that you, Dana? Speak up honey, I can barely hear you. Why are you whispering?”
“Grandma?” the voice sobbed. “I’m so scared!”
Christmas song #11 Linus & Lucy by The Vince Guaraldi Trio
Through storm and sun (and cold, crappy weather like today), you traversed the noveling seas. Pitted against a merciless deadline and fighting hordes of distractions (like website updates, family obligations and intestinal problems), you persevered. You launched yourself bravely into Week One, sailed through the churning waters of Week Two, skirted the mutinous shoals of Weeks Three and Four, and now have landed, victorious, in a place that few adventurers ever see. (But should! Come on writers! Focus!)
We congratulate you on your hard work, salute your discipline and follow-through, and celebrate your imagination.
You did something amazing this month, novelist. We couldn’t be prouder.
*blush* Why thank you.
Here’s a stupid short video that I shot at the university library today, shortly after I crossed that 50,000 word line. If you think I look tired, you’d be right. 🙂
(The sound is pretty crappy, so you might want to turn your sound up. Thank you!)
Can you imagine a world WITHOUT the National Novel Writing Month challenge??
I can’t. And I hope I never have to. Won’t you please consider donating? I know times are tough, but this challenge is one of the most amazing experiences out there and all for FREE! If NaNoWriMo blessed you, then please, consider donating and help them continue their writing goodness. 🙂
I’m dying here. Both physically (I’m physically uncomfortable – intestinal problems – too much information? *grin*), and creatively. It was like squeezing tomato juice from a lemon today. Part of me WANTED to write, the other part of me RESISTED that urge to write. It was the oddest feeling. I felt like there were two sides of me at war and neither side was winning.
Really strange. Maybe it’s the Red Bull talking, who knows. (I am sort of buzzing right now).
At any rate, I’m close. Hopefully, I can cross the finish line and post a winner’s badge very soon.
However the story? Doesn’t feel close to being done. But I will continue to work on it. I’m determined to see this thing through.
I just received a comment on Write Anything concerning an entry I posted over there March 31, 2006.
Wow, I forgot I even wrote this. I have to admit, I like it and it still applies to me today.
In fact, probably more so.
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Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer’s loneliness, but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day.
Ernest Hemingway
Writing is a lonely profession.
And yet, I like it that way. I’ve never been a people person, per se, and given the choice of attending a party or holing up in a corner with a pad and pencil, I’ll choose the isolation every time. This doesn’t mean I don’t like people, far from it, I just prefer to remain on the outskirts of humanity and simply … watch.
And write about my observations.
I like my space. I like being by myself, I like having room to stretch out and do yoga exercises with my imagination. I like submersing myself in fantasy worlds and building entire scenes out of an overheard conversation or absent-minded gestures and unconscious expressions. I require absolute silence when I write, otherwise I’m too easily distracted and my story fades like a television station with poor reception.
I like my own company and I never have any problems being by myself or finding something to do to entertain myself and I purposefully factor myself out of human equations – give me a book instead.
And yet, there are times I get incredibly lonely. Those are the times I pin my husband to the wall as soon as he gets home from work and talk his ear off, generally about nothing; it’s just a relief to hear my voice as opposed to hearing my thoughts. I know he must feel like a bug caught in a jar during these times, he can see me and he can hear syllables come out of my mouth, but I’m usually talking so fast that the words are garbled and vague. I can tell he’s humoring me. He’s a creative person as well (he plays music) so he can relate to my enthusiasm for new ideas and the adrenaline rush one gets when ideas flow, but he doesn’t fully understand that there are times I simply need to … talk shop.
That’s why I love participating in online groups like this blog. It gives me a chance to communicate with like-minded people, like myself, on my terms. I can sign on and comment on my schedule. I answer to no one.
But after comparing notes, cracking jokes, bouncing ideas, and offering suggestions, after all of this is said and done, writers must once more step back into their isolation and pick up where they left off – they must accept the fact that writing is a lonely profession.
Here’s the last installment from my 2006 NaNoWriMo project.
I have comments turned off, not because I don’t want your feedback, but because I can’t afford to think about revising at this point – I hope you understand. 🙂
Please remember, this is straight from my rough draft – I’ve done virtually no editing. 🙂
Thanks for reading and KEEP WRITING!
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“Should I wait here, miss?” the cab driver asked her.
That was probably a good idea. She didn’t even know if she would be allowed into the house, let alone allowed to talk to Marcus. Perhaps coming hadn’t been the best thing to do.
“Actually, yes, if you don’t mind. I’m not sure if he’ll even see me so … if you don’t mind, could you stick around for about five minutes? I’ll come back out and pay you if it looks like I’ll be staying longer.”
“Right.” The cab driver put his car into park, turned off the engine and settled back into his seat. “Five minutes, miss.”
She opened the door and made to get out when suddenly a body shoved her back in, a male body.
“Hey!” She was shoved across the seat, her body pushed up against the opposite door.
Dalton shouted to the driver. “Drive!
“What?” The driver sat bolt upright and twisted around in his seat to give Dalton a wide, startled look.
“Drive!” Dalton glanced out of his window, a look of trepidation on his face.
“Wait, please,” Brenna placed a hand on the driver’s shoulder then turned to Dalton. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I came to talk to Jackie.”
Brenna continued to glare at him.
“My sister?” he supplied, his brows lifted. “Marcus’ wife?”
“I know who Jackie is, Dalton! Now get out of my way! I need to talk to Marcus and you’re not stopping me this time.”
“I won’t have to,” he said, his eyes trained on a figure bursting out of the house. It was a woman, and she was carrying a shotgun.
“Get off my property, you little whore!” Jackie started across the front lawn, the gun dangling from her skinny arms.
“She wouldn’t seriously shoot me, would she?”
Dalton ignored her and spoke directly to the driver. “If you don’t want your head blown off, I suggest you MOVE!”
The cab driver took one look at the woman with the gun coming toward them and roared the engine to life. They were moving two seconds later.
Brenna turned around and watched the woman reach the curb. She steadied herself and took aim.
“She’s going to shoot us!” Brenna continued to stare at the woman through the back windshield. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. A man was running toward Jackie. It looked like Marcus. It WAS Marcus. “There’s Marcus!”
Dalton slapped a hand on the back of her head and pushed her down to the seat. “You have a death wish, do you know that?”
The driver, panicked and not wanting to get shot, rounded the corner on two wheels, they were out of sight within seconds.
“If she had fired that gun, could I have had her arrested?”
Dalton sat back up and regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Just what the HELL were you thinking?”
“I … I … needed to talk to Marcus,” she answered quietly, shrinking from Dalton’s anger.
“At his house? With his WIFE home? What did you expect to happen? That you could just waltz up to their house, ring the doorbell and say in that perky little voice of yours, ‘Hello. I’m Marcus’ mistress. I was wondering, is he here? I need to talk to him. I hope you don’t mind.’” He snorted. “Are you mental?”
“I don’t think I’m the one you should be asking that question to, Dalton.”
“I’m not playing games, Brenna. Jackie is my sister, and I love her, but she’s nuts. Always has been. She’s unstable under the best of conditions, she’s certainly not going to allow you to walk into her home and shut yourself off in a room with her husband just so you can get a few answers.”
“Uh … where to, lady?” the cab driver addressed the question to Brenna, but his eyes remained on Dalton through the rearview mirror.
“Back to the lady’s house,” Dalton growled
The cabbie’s question served to ground them both. Long moments passed with neither of them speaking.
“WHY don’t you want me to talk to Marcus?” She crossed her arms and turned in her seat to stare at him. “What exactly do you not want me to know? What is the big secret?”
“Believe me, I’d tell you if I could.”
“Why can’t you? I’m going crazy trying to piece this thing together on my own. It would be nice if you would meet me halfway here.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“How so?”
Dalton waved a hand. “Your whole losing your memory thing.”
“I’m not made of glass, Dalton.”
He sighed. “Look. I realize this must be incredibly frustrating for you,” she snorted in response. He ignored her. “But you’re going to have to trust me on this. Dr. Connelly said you lost your memory because of something traumatic that happened to you. This is your body’s way of protecting itself. You’ll remember when you’re ready to remember. Talking to Marcus is not going to help you.”
“It would fill in some gaps.”
“It would hurt you,” he said softly.
“Why do you care? Wouldn’t it be better to make me remember? Then you would have the answers you need concerning the fire, you could get back to work, I could get on with my life, everyone’s happy.”
“It’s not that easy, Brenna.”
She felt like screaming. “It could be! Why do you feel like you have to protect me?”
He was silent for a long time. When she was sure he wasn’t going to answer her, she huffed out an irritated breath, moved closer to her side of the car and stared out of the window.
I wrote chapter six because I was terrified of writing chapter one or getting stuck wrapping the story up at chapter seven. However, I would have taken those chapters if no one else wanted them.
This was my first time participating in a collaborative writing project, but it was not my first time writing with other people – if that makes any sense. I used to be pretty heavy into the whole role playing thing (back before The Sims came along *gasp* and back when you had to write all of your characters reactions out as opposed to now when it’s all done through fancy-smancy avatars.)
So, I was pretty used to thinking on my feet. And that is what is necessary when you collaboratively write with other people. The story takes unexpected turns and you must go with the flow – sometimes it’s frustrating because it wasn’t what you envisioned, but often times, it’s exciting because it travels down a road you never considered before.
It’s the ultimate writing challenge, in my opinion. And it REALLY exercises your writing muscles as well because you have to consciously try and write in the same tone as the other writers.
At any rate, I had a BLAST participating in this project and we plan on continuing the project as long as we have interested writers. We’re currently gearing up for the next Chapter Seven Edition – the Winter 2009 Edition, if anyone would like to join up I still need three more writers. I will be participating again (in fact, I will be participating in every challenge because come on, it’s only fair I ask myself to go through what I’m asking you to go through) so I’ll be at least one face you’ll be familiar with. *smile*
You only have to write about 1,000 words and you’ll have close to a week to write that. It’s a fairly low-stress (non-paying) writing gig and I can promise you, you’ll learn a lot about your writing self in the process. Contact me if you want in!
Anyway, here’s an excerpt of what I wrote. Our story is entitled “Lost on Earth” and it’s a science fiction story about a woman, an alien, who is using Earth to hide from her people who want her back so she can lead them. If you get a chance, please click over and read the rest of the excerpts – I really think we did a nice job pulling it all together.
Nico could only see the outline of a body on her front stoop. She tried turning her head to one side, then the other side in an attempt to gain a better perspective, but it was no use, she simply couldn’t determine who, or what, was outside her door.
“Who is it?” she asked softly. Her voice sounded strange, almost hollow in pitch and she felt a peculiar squeezing in her stomach.
She placed a hand flat against her abdomen and nearly forgot about the person on the porch as the peculiar sensation persisted. She tried to decipher what she was feeling – fear perhaps?
“Hmm, that’s an interesting emotion,” she muttered quietly.
“Nico, it’s Bob,” his voice hissed through the door. “Let me in, we need to talk.”
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Write From Karen 