Tag: flash fiction

“Every day for the first week of school, Edwin’s feet dragged all the way to his sixth period class. He’d almost been late twice, which would land him in detention and put his misery on his parents’ radar.

But English. Ugh. Like it wasn’t already the worst class, he didn’t know any of his classmates. And the teacher, Miss Kick. She hadn’t really even been teaching. Every day they’d had to write dumb paragraphs about stuff. What was their favorite TV show and why. What were they most likely to be doing on Saturdays from three to five. What would be the best place to live and what kind of house would they have. Describe their favorite store. None of it had anything to do with English, and the paragraphs weren’t even graded. A whole week of school was behind him, and it wouldn’t be long before his mother got nervous and started asking what his grade was. All because he’d almost failed seventh grade because of stupid English. That was going to follow him around forever.

He made it into his desk just before the bell rang. Miss Kick was peering at her grade book and didn’t notice, so at least that worked out okay.

Everyone got quiet as she looked over her glasses at them then began calling roll. Edwin thought Miss Kick was kind of witchy looking, with her sharp nose holding up her little black glasses. Her teeth seemed too big for her face, and her head seemed too big for her body. She had a habit of pushing her long, dark hair behind her ears. At least her ears were okay. Mrs. Green, his seventh grade English teacher who was about two hundred years old, had ears the size of his hands. They hadn’t helped her hear any better. Miss Kick was a lot younger, and though he’d heard she was new at this school, like he was, she didn’t seem new to teaching. He usually did better with new teachers because they were more nervous than he was. Miss Kick wasn’t nervous.

‘Today we’re starting our unit on poetry.’

Sixth period had just found a way to get worse. Judging by the groans, he wasn’t the only one who felt that way.

Miss Kick smiled and said, ‘Sometimes people don’t like poetry simply because it’s called poetry. The same people have favorite songs, and songs are poems set to music. Poetry allows you to create the music in your head. The rhythm, rhyme, the words the writer uses, all appeal to your sense of sound.

‘The more of your five senses a poem engages, the more you can appreciate it. We’re going to approach the same poem, Michael Lee’s “Pass On,” from a different sense every day this week. Today’s sense is sight. I’ve broken you into groups of four, and I’ll be giving you a copy of the poem along with magazines, scissors, paper, and glue. After I read “Pass On” to you, each group will create a picture book together, using images cut from your magazines, to illustrate any parts of the poem you choose. Create between five and ten images, and if you don’t finish today, no problem. We’ll be with this poem for a while.’

Edwin ended up in a group with two other boys and one girl. They had to put their desks in a circle. When Miss Kick brought them a stack of comic books, Edwin’s eyes widened. Maybe she was a witch. How else could she know he loved comic books?”

From Asher’s novel There Goes My Hero.

I take photos. I write. My volunteer job is taking photos of rescued dogs and cats transported by the rescue group whose records I manage. Since working and volunteering don’t leave me a lot of time to write, I’m spending 2017 borrowing from what these dogs and cats are writing. They said it’s okay.

“Every Sunday the five of them went to Maury’s Home Cookin’. It was buffet style, and though none of them could eat enough to make it a bargain at one sitting, their ‘knitting’ bags were loaded with enough plastic bags and containers to ensure they’d get several meals out of their single visit. They chose Sunday because it was so busy with the after-church crowd that no waiter, waitress, or manager could pay attention to a group of larcenous seniors who made a suspicious number of trips to the food bar.

Beatrice suspected they weren’t really getting away with anything, that Maury’s son, who’d been running the buffet for more than a decade, was not the tightfisted old curmudgeon his father had been. At forty-four, Maury Jr. had three divorces and a few other mishaps behind him. Instead of making him hardhearted, they’d made him indifferent. Better the food should go to old ladies than to the trash. At least that’s what Beatrice figured he thought.

They were a mostly quiet group until the first round of salad and yeast rolls had been consumed, so Beatrice wasn’t sure what surprised her more when Wylene spoke: what she said or that she said it.

‘I don’t believe in fortune tellers,’ Wylene said, her eyes on the cucumber eluding her fork. ‘Does anyone remember that carnival we went to when we were fifteen? Well, you were sixteen, Beatrice.’

‘I was the only one with a driver’s license,’ Beatrice said.

‘I remember that you stripped the gears on my daddy’s truck,’ Linette said. ‘He knew one of his kids had taken it out, and since no one would confess, we all got a whipping.’

‘Nobody told me I’d be driving a stick on the column.’ Beatrice took the defensive tone out of her voice when she turned to Wylene and said, ‘I never knew you went inside the fortune teller’s tent. How did I miss that?’

‘You were on that dinky ferris wheel for the dozenth time.’

‘I was making out with Junior Hayward behind the cotton candy stand.’ Bobbi’s tone was wistful.

‘What did the fortune teller predict?’ Linette asked, clearly in no mood for Bobbi’s romantic reminiscing.

‘She said I would have three babies and die young.’

‘Ha!’ Luann barked. ‘You passed both opportunities long ago.’

‘You did once have three kittens,’ Bobbi mused.

‘And it’s possible you died and you’re a zombie,’ Linette said.

‘Has she been a zombie for several decades?’ Luann asked.

‘I don’t believe in zombies,’ Wylene said.”

From Angela’s novel in progress.

I take photos. I write. My volunteer job is taking photos of rescued dogs and cats transported by the rescue group whose records I manage. Since working and volunteering don’t leave me a lot of time to write, I’m spending 2017 borrowing from what these dogs and cats are writing. They said it’s okay.

“There were some concepts he could accept even if he didn’t understand them or agree with them. After all, not only could he not know everything, there would always be someone who knew more than he did, or who knew anything on subjects about which he knew nothing.

There was, however, one mood or feeling or idea–whatever it was called–that he didn’t understand and didn’t want to understand: boredom.

How could anyone be bored in this world? Not just because of the unending creative efforts or activities designed to keep us from being bored–music, movies, books, art, sports, recreation. The beauty and ferocity of the planet was something to wonder over and enjoy constantly. The study of human and animal nature was anyone’s for the taking. Even getting lost in a daydream, a fantasy, a reminiscence–these were free, available anywhere, for the young and old, well or unwell, rich or poor. The mind was an infinite playground.

Boredom. Bah! He just didn’t believe in it.”

Sylvan, from his novel Bartie Conquers the World.

I take photos. I write. My volunteer job is taking photos of rescued dogs and cats transported by the rescue group whose records I manage. Since working and volunteering don’t leave me a lot of time to write, I’m spending 2017 borrowing from what these dogs and cats are writing. They said it’s okay.

“‘What’s the worst thing you ever did, Miss Bonnie?’ he asked.

She shook her head and said, ‘Oh, no, I could never tell you that.’

‘How bad could it be? You didn’t get to be such a sweet old lady by having a past of misdeeds.’

She pleated, smoothed out, and repleated her apron, then said, ‘It was really bad. The worst thing. I knew it when I did it, and I know it now.’

‘Now you have to tell us,’ one of her granddaughters said, scooting closer to Miss Bonnie on the porch swing.

He could never tell them apart, all these girls with their coal black hair and dark eyes. He suspected Miss Bonnie had looked a lot like them when she was young. She must have had dozens of suitors swarming around her. Had she had a long-secret tryst with one of them, he wondered.

‘It was the summer of rain,’ she began softly. ‘All anyone talked about were the levees. Would the levees break on the Arkansas side? Would the levees hold on our side? Through long nights when it wasn’t raining, but they knew the rain was coming back, you could see campfires all along the banks. The men would sit up, telling stories, drinking and smoking, always watching the levees. As if watching could ward off what disaster might be heading our way. That was also the summer Mama and my sisters and I stayed with Grandfather Harper.’

‘That would have been Roy Wilson Harper,’ someone said. ‘He was in the state legislature for decades.’

‘He didn’t like Mama, didn’t like that she’d married his firstborn son, and he didn’t like us. He called Mama the Spaniard. We didn’t know why. She was born and raised in Valdosta, Georgia, but he had it in his head she was foreign. Even then–I believe I was eight that summer–though I might not understand all his cuts and digs, I understood his tone. I determined to get back at him.’

She stopped and looked around at everyone’s expectant expressions, then covered her face with her hands for a minute. Finally she dropped her hands and took a deep breath.

‘I knew it was bad, I did. He was so proud of his library, with all his law books and history books. He had books full of old maps and photographs. Many were leatherbound, and the rarest of his collection he kept behind glass and locked up. I knew where he put the key. Each night, after everyone was gone to bed, I slipped down to the library. I took the key, unlocked that bookcase, pulled a book from the shelf–it didn’t matter which one. I then found another book of similar size to fit in the space. Finally, I relocked the bookcase, replaced the key, and crept into the night with my selection. I could walk without a sound and find the campfire where conversation had faltered. If I heard snoring, I’d slowly move among the sleeping men until I was right up to the campfire, and without even a second’s hesitation, I’d drop that book right on those flames.'”

Kizzie from her novel Fire on the Levee.

I take photos. I write. My volunteer job is taking photos of rescued dogs and cats transported by the rescue group whose records I manage. Since working and volunteering don’t leave me a lot of time to write, I’m spending 2017 borrowing from what these dogs and cats are writing. They said it’s okay.

“That winter holiday, every mile we traveled by train across Europe was agony for me. I was suffering from one of my most severe chronic headaches, and the noise, light, and movement were excruciating. Each time I closed my eyes, it was as if someone were writing in an ancient language across my eyelids. I struggled to read and comprehend the words, but they would fade and vanish to be replaced by new incomprehensible words.

Worse was that while most of us understood we were on the brink of war, no one could talk about anything but the servant girl who’d kidnapped the prince’s baby. Every town we stopped in, the headlines screamed it from the newspapers. Every new passenger had to share updated information or retell the news. But to me, it wasn’t information or news. It was gossip and conjecture of the worst sort. Some instinct told me there were missing parts of the story. While everyone else tried and convicted this poor creature in the court of public opinion, I privately urged her on, said any charm I could think of for her safety, and hoped they never found her.”

From Cameo’s novel The Girl With the Baby.

I take photos. I write. My volunteer job is taking photos of rescued dogs and cats transported by the rescue group whose records I manage. Since working and volunteering don’t leave me a lot of time to write, I’m spending 2017 borrowing from what these dogs and cats are writing. They said it’s okay.

‘She spotted him when he came in. Graying hair closely clipped. Brown tweed sport jacket over a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Jeans. Neutral facial expression.

It was his casual, actually nondescript, appearance that made her sure he was her guy.

He met her eyes, gave her that backwards nod of acknowledgment that only men give, and walked to the bar. After he paid for his beer, he came to her table and sat down.

‘You said on the phone you need someone followed. Just so we’re clear, everything I do is on the up and up. No funny stuff. Is this about an unfaithful partner? Somebody who owes you money? I’m not cheap, and I can’t give you an idea of what it’ll cost you unless I know exactly what I’m dealing with.’

She’d been turning her water glass in circles while he talked, leaving interlocking rings of moisture on the table. She looked up and said, ‘Let me get a beer first.’

‘Sure.’

When she returned to the table and sat down, she stared at her beer for a moment without drinking it and said, ‘The person I want you to follow is me.’

One of his eyebrows twitched but he had it under control so fast she’d have missed it if her intense stare hadn’t moved from her beer to his face.

‘Is this a security thing? You need a bodyguard?’

‘I need you to figure out who I am.’

Do you have amnesia? Have you suffered a blow to the head? I’d have better luck tracking you down on the Internet than trailing you through the city.’

‘Oh, I know my biography. I need someone with finely-tuned observation skills who can watch me when I don’t know I’m being watched.’ She pointed at the beer. ‘I couldn’t decide what I should order to drink when I got here. I waited to see what you’d order. That’s my biography in a bottle. In high school, I dated the star running back. I didn’t even like football, but I became a cheerleader. My college boyfriend? Total science nerd. I graduated with a degree in biology that I’ve never used because the first job I could get after college was as a bank teller. I hated it, but I started dating one of our customers who was a rodeo stock contractor.’

‘And you became a bullrider?’

‘No. But I did learn to waltz and two-step, and I know George Strait is supposed to be a great guy and all, but I don’t like country music any more than I liked football. And I didn’t like NASCAR, but there I was, sweatin’ and drinkin’ in the sun while my eardrums took a beating on weekends. Not to belabor the point, but in the name of romance, I’ve gone scuba diving, run a half marathon, learned more than anyone should know about cheeses, and mimicked Stevie Nicks in a rock band. Trust me; I am no Stevie Nicks. I’m thirty-two–okay, thirty-five–and I don’t know who I am. I’m betting you can scan your brain and think things like I don’t like liver. I’d rather stay home tonight. I’ve never thought Julia Roberts is America’s sweetheart. I prefer the mountains to the beach. Because you know who you are and what you like. I can try to start those conversations with myself but… Now see, you did that thing with your eyebrow again. It means you think I’m a little kooky but in a good way. So before you know it? I’ll be asking you how to get my PI license and trying to be your quirky sidekick.’

‘I don’t want a quirky sidekick. I’m still not sure how you think my following you, even surreptitiously, is going to help.’

‘I’ve comparison shopped. Detectives are cheaper than analysts. Plus if I sit in somebody’s office and bare my soul, I’m just going to try to figure out how to become my shrink. I want you to notice what catches my eye. What makes me stop and shop? When do I smile when I’m alone? What do I watch? If there’s nobody there to mirror, do I like dogs? Kids? Volkswagens? Riding boots? Tulips or, uh, whatever other kinds of flowers there are?’

‘I can already tell you horticulture isn’t going to be your passion.’

‘Is that on my tab or free information?’

He almost grinned then stood up. ‘That one was free. I’ll text you a quote. I may see you soon. But you won’t be seeing me.'”

From Shamir’s private eye romance series.

I take photos. I write. My volunteer job is taking photos of rescued dogs and cats transported by the rescue group whose records I manage. Since working and volunteering don’t leave me a lot of time to write, I’m spending 2017 borrowing from what these dogs and cats are writing. They said it’s okay.

“‘Did you ever have a friend,’ Emma asked her aunt, ‘who says mean things to you? And when your feelings get hurt, she says she’s only kidding?’

‘Mercy,’ Aunt Phyllis said. ‘You don’t need those kinds of friends. That’s what your mother is for.'”

From Nala’s novel in progress.

I take photos. I write. My volunteer job is taking photos of rescued dogs and cats transported by the rescue group whose records I manage. Since working and volunteering don’t leave me a lot of time to write, I’m spending 2017 borrowing from what these dogs and cats are writing. They said it’s okay.

“It was a rather exclusive club she’d joined–women who had famous husbands gunned down in front of them. Almost every one of those women reached out to her, and she appreciated them for that.

In the weeks after his death, she found she couldn’t bear the company of anyone who hadn’t been with them that night. She was grateful for people who didn’t make her talk about it. Those who’d been with the two of them on the worst night of her life already knew with all five senses what she knew, even if their hearts didn’t suffer in the same way hers did.

His best friend spent hours with her most nights. She was sure in time people would draw the worst conclusions about that. It was human nature. But what they did was sit across from each other at the table and play separate games of solitaire, one game after the other. They rarely talked about anything important. He’d never been much of a talker anyway. The smell of the cards, the sound of the shuffling: They couldn’t make her forget, but they did keep her breathing.

Frequently since that night, she feared she would forget how to breathe.”

From Madonna’s second novel.

I take photos. I write. My volunteer job is taking photos of rescued dogs and cats transported by the rescue group whose records I manage. Since working and volunteering don’t leave me a lot of time to write, I’m spending 2017 borrowing from what these dogs and cats are writing. They said it’s okay.

“She had come to the house as a bride seventy years ago. There were only two bedrooms, but she’d raised four children here with Roland. He was twenty years dead, but sometimes she was sure she heard the sound of his feet coming up the wooden steps to the front porch.

When the children were young, the weedy lot behind the house was their own personal playground. Now it was the reason the four of them pushed her to move in with one of them, or move anywhere that they deemed safer. The area had become more commercial; her bedroom window was just a few feet from the parking lot of a Shell gas station.

The secret she kept was how the parking lot was the nightly version of the stories she’d watched when her babies were napping in the old days. Every night after the kitchen was clean and she’d had her bath, she turned off the lights, rested among her pillows and quilts, and watched through the window. Broken boards in the wooden fence gave her a TV-sized view of the nightly dramas. She’d seen mamas nursing babies. Couples courting and fighting and breaking up. People who had someone else at home stealing moments with a secret love. Drug dealers, panhandlers, weary travelers, teenagers with nowhere to go: They were all her characters.

She wasn’t moving anywhere.”

From Skipper’s new novel Shell.

I take photos. I write. My volunteer job is taking photos of rescued dogs and cats transported by the rescue group whose records I manage. Since working and volunteering don’t leave me a lot of time to write, I’m spending 2017 borrowing from what these dogs and cats are writing. They said it’s okay.