Flash Fiction

Straight From the Heart

Walking across the room I looked for a good seat to sit in. I rested my backpack gently on the ground while slowly squeaking into a desk chair. The afternoon sun blinded me through a large window across the room, forcing me to slide the desk a couple inches to the left. The room was complete with silence, only the sound of technology softly buzzed filling every empty space with a drone sound.

I sat to keep myself entertained by watching the classroom fill up with students. An overload of conversation began between many of my classmates. I noticed my friend walk in through the door proceeding to the seat next to me.  

Rob and I began to talk about the things we hate about the class. In the middle of the conversation we all heard the same noise. The noise of the door knob rustling slowly as the door peeped open.  A bony frail hand peaked through the open door.  She struggled to push the door with full force while carrying three skinny books snug to her side.

All the conversation stopped between everyone in the classroom. The buzzing noise of technology erupted once again as she slowly walked into the classroom. I know she heard the silence as she walked in, and I wonder what she thought. The first thing I always looked at when she walked in was the expression on her face. Her eyes always stared at the big wooden desk where she sat at. A blank pale face was presented every time, making me wonder her current state.

I noticed she was wearing a new hat. A maroon winter hat covered her head. I’d never seen here without a hat. Her rectangular lensed glasses sat snug against here face. Her maroon hat matched here extraordinary patterned outfit. Cute and petit the outfit fit to her, striving to look the best every day she can. She walked slowly with each step towards the desk in front of the classroom. Her short frail body stopped at the desk as she gently placed the books down on the cold surface. We all saw the pain of what she was going through. She started to talk in a light tone to all of us beginning class.

“Hi guys, how are you all doing today?”

She always started off class with that question and always had a smile on her face. We all knew she didn’t have a lot of time left.

Nicole Robinson

Intro to Fiction

Flash Fiction Story 

"How We Burnt the House Down"

Mom and Dad never left us home alone. We knew it must have been important; they weren’t coming back til late. All we had to do was ‘stay away from anything breakable, flammable, priceless, or essentially destructible in some way’. We heard it all before. The family cat was the first incident; it wasn’t our fault it didn’t know how to swim. Then came our first car and our second garage door; who knew the gas was the one on the right? Okay, so we had caused some damage in the past, but we were seventeen now and certainly more responsible. Our mom always said she wanted twin boys and that’s what she got.

So we decided to stay in the living room with the pillows and soft carpet. Nothing could go wrong there. The game was on and the chips were still neatly in their bag, the coffee table still perfectly aligned in front of the sofa. We even refrained from putting our feet up. Glasses of water instead of coke (the carpet was white), a blanket instead of turning the heat up (we killed the boiler once) and the volume down low because Mr. Willis from next-door came onto our lawn with a gun last time the Pats lost: something about how ‘Nom’ must have been starting again with all the ruckus. We all knew he had PTSD so we gave him the benefit of the doubt. Plus it wasn’t as loud as the time the cops came to ‘rescue the screaming woman’. They didn’t think it was funny when we explained to them we were just practicing wind instruments to try and break the world record for the loudest two-person orchestra. This time though, we wouldn’t mess up… until Brady got sacked… about three times.

            Who knew a lost Super Bowl and a spilt glass of water could cause such a big fire? They should make those outlets more kid friendly. Well, okay, maybe the fact we used the cotton blanket to try and pat it out didn’t help, but it really wasn’t our fault when the fire extinguisher didn’t work. The flames crept up the wall and engulfed an entire side of the room so we decided to bail, but there was still something we could do to fix things. We took grandma’s vase, mom and dad’s wedding picture, the money stashed under our beds, our favorite video games, some of the small furniture and array of other things onto the front lawn, a safe distance from the fire that had now erupted throughout the entire house. We even thanked the fire department for showing up in good time. We tried to explain this all to our parents when they came home to a lawn full of assorted goods and a sizzling house, but they didn’t seem to notice when we presented them with the second family cat we held behind our backs to surprise them with and they certainly didn’t want to listen to how we burnt the house down.

          

Notes: Can't indent the first sentence. I don't know why, but it's bothering me. I know this is the same theme I wrote about in class, but for some reason I really wanted to continue it and make it better. AND I just wanted to say that I had a lot of fun in this class and it was nice getting to know all of you! Have a great summer everyone! 

Flash Fiction

Sarah Drew 5/5/12 Flash Fiction Mr. Tall stalked slow yet powerful to the left of Susan, pushing her with his inebriated girlfriend in tow into the crowd. A large group of girls danced provocatively with one another up against Susan’s other shoulder. Left, right, front, back, she was surrounded. The bass vibrated her tongue and throat; there was nothing quite like the Century Club in full swing. Three hours passed. The night was fun, up until the part where she got separated from her group and was suddenly vulnerable to the belligerent patrons. A short guy in sunglasses began jumping up and down to the beat to the new song the band was playing. Susan pushed him away from her petite feet trying to save her poor little piggies. Stomp! Grabbing onto a girl in front of him and started to dance, If you could call rocking back and forth dancing. The crowds were making Susan’s skin crawl and her heart race along with the bass. Clenching her jaw through the pain she turned to find her exit in the sardine packed club. Moving through the floor peeling apart bodies, pushing them out of her way her heart beat with the bass. At this point she could care less if her friends were having fun. She just wanted out. “Jackie? Hal? Where are you guys?”

Flash Fiction Piece

Tara Fraprie

A Simple Lie

            “I love you Julia,” The words take me by surprise. The weight of the smile that was on my face, threatens to remove itself as I fight to keep it intact.

            As my brain shuts down, I lose all control over my thoughts. My mind flies to the intricate hollowness of my body, where I can feel every elongated pulse of the heart that sends blood to my frozen limbs. The clenching of my stomach would have keeled me over if it were not for all the stiffness preventing motion.

            This has happened before. Many times. And like all the others, this man is perfect, beyond anything I deserve, but I do not love him.

            My awareness is taken to thinking of something that will get him to leave. If I tell him I have a lot going on right now, he will ask what. If I tell him I am moving away, he will ask where. If I tell him I don’t love him, he will ask why.

            My whole body is shaking and he is still standing here, waiting for me to answer but I just want him to leave. I don’t want to say anything. He should just take the hint, turn and leave. I don’t want to do this.

            I reach up with my trembling hand to touch his cheek and I push the lie from my quivering lips. “I love you too.”

            

         

Flash Fiction - Ian

Ian Vogler

Flash Fiction

Biking, REAL Biking

                The first day I rode my bike without training wheels was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life. I watched my Dad loosen, then unscrew, then knock off the bolts holding on the extra wheels. Freedom! Those red rusty pieces of metal that had held me back from so many bicycle adventures were finally gone. The clickity and the clackity of the plastic-on-tar sound that only training wheels could make was silenced at last by a liberal application of WD-40 and wrench. They did not come off easy, no sir, and I watched my Dad throw them across the yard in triumph once they were separated. Training wheels didn’t belong on my bike; after all I was a brave bicyclist, I was a fearless bicyclist, I was 6.

                My first two cranks of the pedals went so smoothly I assumed I was an instant pro. What I neglected to remember was that I was being supported by my Dad during those two cranks, and it was the third crank when I realized that I was actually doing it! I was biking! Crank number four went just as well, then crank number five, and then it seemed as if gravity was turned back on during crank number six and I realized I was in trouble. A little wobble, a big wobble, frantic turning of the handle bars to maintain control and then bailing off the bike seat to save my life. I hit the ground hard. The tar scrapping my elbows and knees, my helmet protecting my young developing mind and my Dad running at me shouting comfortable things and trying to sooth my damaged pride. Freedom was difficult.

                Later that day, after band-aid application and lunch, I was ready to give it another go. As I straddled the seat everything felt different. This bike had betrayed me. This bike, a bike I was so excited to ride, had thrown me to the ground! I had to conquer it. With my Dad’s strong hands around my shoulder I started cranking. Two, three, my dad lets go, four, five, six, seven and I was cooking! Actually, I was going way too fast. It felt like I was doing mach-6 at crank nine and by crank ten I realized there was no escaping my doom. The car wasn’t even moving. It was just parked in the street minding its own business. I don’t know why I couldn’t avoid it, I just couldn’t turn! The rear bumper met my front tire and I smashed into the vehicle with the force of a full grown teenager. My face hit the car first (it actually knocked out a baby tooth) followed by the rest of my body as I came to an immediate stop. I was only physically hurt temporarily with a few more scratches and one less tooth but my Dad decided to end the biking for the day. It must have been dinner time.

                That night I tried to fall asleep but just couldn’t. Buzz Lightyear, on my Toy Story blanket, kept staring at me through the gloom of my nightlight lit room. He must have known I failed. After a while I just couldn’t take it anymore and decided to go get a glass of water from the kitchen to quench my boredom. I crept down the stairs, being quiet so I didn’t get yelled at, and into the kitchen only to find my Dad already there. He was kneeling on the ground by my bike, muttering to himself and tightening the training wheels back on my bike.

Flash Fiction piece

Keelie Winslow           

Saturday Mornings

Emily decided on The Catcher in the Rye grabbed it from its place on her bedside bookshelf.  Walking out the door to the black Jetta, she adjusted the length of her sundress and tucked the book in her bag. She checked her hair in the reflection from the car window and wiped the edge of her lip with her thumb to ensure all lipstick remained inside the lines. Heaving a sigh, she threw open the door and tossed her bag in the passenger seat and kept grabbing her seatbelt so quickly it took several attempts to get it to stop locking and fully wrapped around to be clicked into place. She backed out of the apartment’s driveway and headed towards downtown.

            Within a quarter of an hour she was pulling into the bakery’s parking lot. Emily parked in her usual spot and checked herself in the mirror one last time, reapplying mascara and popped a piece of gum in her mouth.

            Her bag was light; she never carried much with her. She found it bothersome to lug around pounds of items that really would have no use to her while out and about. Her mother’s bag used to feel like it weighed twenty pounds. The contents of her cream, leather hobo were lip stain, chapstick, her wallet, cell phone, floss, gum, and today, of course, The Cather in the Rye. She walked in the bakery, ordered her self a lemon poppy seed muffin, toasted, and a coffee then took a seat by the window. The sun was slanting in and she opened up the book while enjoying the buttery, warm muffin.

            Chris walked through the door wearing a black leather jacket, a plaid shirt, and worn in jeans. At the sound of the bell on the door she looked up and nearly spilled her cup of coffee. She watched as he ordered his medium iced tea and everything bagel, but tried to look as though she wasn’t staring. She tilted her arms so the book was almost right in front of her face, its cover exposed to the world, and in its exposition, a potential conversation topic. She heaved a sigh and waited as he turned around to get find a seat. He chose the round table two down from her, which still kept him in pretty good view. She dropped and refocused her gaze almost rhythmically. He applied the cream cheese to his bagel liberally and took a small bite. He finally looked around and spotted Emily, who had thankfully stopped staring for a moment so when she looked up again it was he who felt he’d been caught watching her. He gave her a small wave that made her heart flutter and she returned it beaming.

            Just then the door jingled as a lanky brunette entered. She had a thin face and frame, wearing a denim shirt, tight black pants, and Frye boots. Emily noticed she walked in looking at Chris, and when she looked to see his response her stomach dropped. He got up from his table looking radiant, crossed the bakery to meet the brunette at the counter and kissed her. Emily didn’t even notice the book had dropped from her hands onto the floor. She pushed herself out of the chair, abandoned her breakfast and her book, and without looking again at Chris or his new piece of arm candy, proceeded out to the Jetta. She drove home feeling like her heart was beating in her throat and pulled into the driveway with tears streaming thick and fast down her face.

            Chris left the bakery a half hour later and noticing the book on the floor, picked it up saying to the brunette, “Aw man! I always loved this book! Such a classic!”

Flash Fiction

Good Pies and Bad Guys

            Malcolm set out of town towards the forest with adventure in mind. The forest was rumored to be enchanted, but without fear Malcolm ventured over rocks and under fallen trees into the deepest depths of the woods. His youthful arrogance pushed him onwards. Some time into his journey, he came upon a house. It looked far from empty. On the clothesline hung feminine garments. Malcolm approached. On the porch railing sat a raven, eying him. He entered without hesitation.

            Not a sound could be heard in the house, only the creak of Malcolm's footsteps. He made his way to the kitchen where a pie sat cooling on the counter. His favorite, apple, he ate a quarter of it. It tasted unlike any other apple pie he'd ever had, though. It was great. And then Emily walked in. She wore nothing but a thin, white slip of a dress that was nearly see through in the sunlight streaming through the window. Both were quite shocked to see the other. Emily explained how she lived alone in the house, bound to it by law and litigation long forgotten. Malcolm listen to her story with curiosity. He thought her quite ignorant. He was particularly interested in what she had to say last. How she seldom had visitors, but when she did she was required to indulge their every whim.

            Malcolm forgot all about the pie he had enjoyed so much. His mouth now watered at the sight of Emily. He asked her where her bedroom was. As if she'd heard the question before, she replied that it was located upstairs. Malcolm took her by the hand and pulled her to the second floor. He pushed her onto the bed, covered in white linens, and then positioned himself over her. She looked up at him as though she knew what was coming next and informed him that she had never known the tender touch of a lover. He ripped off her dress and informed her that she still wouldn't, but would remember him and his touch forever. And then he entered without hesitation.

            The raven looked in the bedroom window. Malcolm, satiated, slept. Emily got up and went about her work. She wet a cloth with a liquid she had never bothered to smell before and help it over Malcolm's face. His slumber grew much, much deeper. And then she began to cut him up. The white linens became crimson. Malcolm became tiny bits of flesh for carrion birds and pie ingredients. Emily managed to get three high quality pies out of Malcolm. While the third of which was cooling, a man named Adam came calling. Adam didn't much care for pie. Emily was saddened that she couldn't tempt him to stay, because there didn't seem to be quite enough of Malcolm to satisfy her. Soon a man named James came along. James liked pie very much. Emily forgot all about Adam. She also forgot all about Malcolm. She had new pies to bake. Maybe she'd even make a cake one of these days.