"Very short fiction pieces that wish they were poems."
Write a piece of postcard fiction no longer than 300 words, combining basic short story elements with the figurative imagery, intensity, and economy of poetry.
Post it in the comments box, below, before the end of Friday, March 29th. (Late posts will not be counted as complete.)
Write a piece of postcard fiction no longer than 300 words, combining basic short story elements with the figurative imagery, intensity, and economy of poetry.
Post it in the comments box, below, before the end of Friday, March 29th. (Late posts will not be counted as complete.)
Child of the Night
ReplyDeleteThe pitch-black silence of the cold surrounds her, closing in from every angle. Crushing. Suffocating. It was long ago when the sun became some dreamed up thing above the waves. Waves that hold her down with frozen fingers clasped around her ankles, creeping hand over hand up her legs, dragging her into the depths of infinite darkness. Silver bubbles rise from her mouth, penetrating the vast emptiness to flutter frantically to the water’s icy surface. There, they’ll burst and release the air her lungs scream for so desperately into the freedom of the night while she drowns.
‘HELPLESS’
Her lids feel heavy, as if someone has knotted her eye lashes around anvils. As they close, the echoing voices that make up a scratched record inside her head become a deafening roar of dagger words:
‘WHORE,’
‘JUNKIE’,
‘WORTHLESS’,
‘GULLIBLE’,
‘PATHETIC’
Her dark hair floats around her face, stroking her hollow cheeks. She shudders at the ghostly caress.
‘UNTOUCHABLE’
A horn blares and the young woman’s eyes snap open. A man from the leather clad driver’s seat asks whether or not she’s getting in. Hungry eyes devour her. The girl wrings her hands, confused with the sudden change in scenery. Though she is no longer submerged, her lungs still grapple for oxygen. Suddenly she remembers herself and why this man is here. Who he is. What he wants. Her price.
‘CHEAP’
“Do you have it?” she asks, her voice croaking.
“Yeah, I got what you need,” the scruffy man laughs. “Looks like you’re already tripping, though.
The girl tucks her unruly hair behind an ear torn with piercings and climbs through the open door of the beaten SUV.
‘DESPERATE’
Less than a second after the door slams shut, he stomps on the gas pedal, and they’re screeching through the dirty streets of East Side Vancouver towards her nightmares, escapable only through her better dreams.
‘drowning’
Nursing Home
ReplyDeleteShe says don’t go. As if I have some sort of choice in the matter. She says I love you and I can’t say it back and here I am hoping she says something about squirrels or something else that will validate my choice in leaving her here and she tries to stand up to hug me but the nurse puts her back down in her wheelchair and straps her in this time. She says nothing but her eyes say go so I turn to leave and she says I love you and I can’t say it back because I don’t. If I did I wouldn't be leaving her here.
-Kym Parke
Sorry
ReplyDeleteIt was awkward the moment he stepped into the nearly empty elevator. That was now ten hours and sixteen minutes ago and we were still avoiding eye contact, trapped in this god-forsaken cage. The emergency operators had been no help and I was forced to suffer through this marathon awkward silence. Every so often he would open his mouth to say something and close it again like a fish gasping for air on dry land. I can see the hatred in his eyes and I can feel it in my own.
"I'm not sorry"
It was true. Now he seemed shocked further into silence and even angrier than before. He stands up.
"You destroyed my marriage!"
He was yelling now. Blaming me for his wrong doing. It's not my fault he slept with my sister's best friend. It's not my fault I care more about her happiness than his.
"You would've done it again. I had to protect her!"
He yells at me and calls me a variety of slanderous names. I don't care, I know I did the right thing.
"I had to"
Before he can counter my statement, the elevator begins to move. I get off on the next floor and take the stairs.
Sorry
ReplyDeleteIt was awkward the moment he stepped into the nearly empty elevator. That was now ten hours and sixteen minutes ago and we were still avoiding eye contact, trapped in this god-forsaken cage. The emergency operators had been no help and I was forced to suffer through this marathon awkward silence. Every so often he would open his mouth to say something and close it again like a fish gasping for air on dry land. I can see the hatred in his eyes and I can feel it in my own.
"I'm not sorry"
It was true. Now he seemed shocked further into silence and even angrier than before. He stands up.
"You destroyed my marriage!"
He was yelling now. Blaming me for his wrong doing. It's not my fault he slept with my sister's best friend. It's not my fault I care more about her happiness than his.
"You would've done it again. I had to protect her!"
He yells at me and calls me a variety of slanderous names. I don't care, I know I did the right thing.
"I had to"
Before he can counter my statement, the elevator begins to move. I get off on the next floor and take the stairs.
Break up
ReplyDeleteThe phone rang, it was him. He hadn't talked to me in a week so I knew this could be it... I wasn't ready to answer, I'm not ready for this. Nevertheless, there wasn't a way I was going to avoid this, so I picked up the phone...
"Hello"
"Hey"
"How's it going baby?!"
"Oh it's cool... but we gotta talk"
Oh no... this can't be good, whenever someone says "We have to talk" it never ends well.
My heart rate instantly went up, I could feel my right hand grip the phone tighter, it was slippery from sweat. I cleared my throat and continued to talk.
"Okay, what's up?"
"This really isn't working out, but don't worry... it's not you, it's me"
What a jerk! using the typical "it's not you, it's me" line.
I was so angry that I wanted to punch my hand through the phone and straight into his ear. Then I was so sad, my heart leaped out of my chest and shattered on the floor. There was no duct tape going to fix it this time, the pieces were long gone. However, I wasn't going to cry just yet, not with him listening.
"Oh yeah that's fine, I understand."
"Okay sweet, it's just my hamster died and I think I need some space."
His hamster?! what! That thing is the devil, it bit me and peed on me all at the same time! Now I was furious, my left hand clenched into a tight fist and my face was like fire from the heat.
"You're breaking up with me because your hamster died?!"
"Uh ya, I guess."
"YOU ARE PATHETIC!"
I hung up the phone. I felt a sense of satisfaction wave over me. I came to the conclusion that I will no longer date immature guys who play call of duty 24/7, who are mama's boys, and who have hamsters.
Silence of the Southern Heat
ReplyDeleteTrudgin' her way along the dusty dirt path, Maybell sighed with the exhaustion of another days trials. Wipin' her once cream handkerchief across her dark forehead, she walked hand in hand with her son down the hazy tree-lined lane.
Fiddles could be heard floatin' through the air, with the accompaniment of Ol' Joe's harmonica, swinin' cheer into the hearts of the outcast.
The pure sweetness of her sons voice smoothed the potholes in Maybell's world like rich maple syrup on a simmerin' summer night.
Her body ached as she carried on, but not one complaint escaped her dry lips- for all these folk were livin' such times.
The water mirage on the unpaved road turned into a vision of paradise, a heaven that she longed for but would never see.
Upon reaching the rusted screen door, Maybell collapsed into her home. Able at last to tend to her bleedin' wounds.
Yet not all wounds can be mended.
For as she gazed out the window upon the small mound of dirt, the recollection of her loss hit her like a 'coon gettin' run down by a bus. For although the heat of the south tinkered with her mind, it could not bring back her lost honey.
All that remained was her prayer to God that her son would have what she did not- a life which gave colored folk the right to live.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteThe Fall of a Canadian
ReplyDelete"I've taken your prized possession. It's one of the most valuable ones you know. A good owner would never leave it out in the open. In order to get it back, I demand $1,000 on the bench at the Vedder/Stevenson bus stop by 2:30 today."
Counting down, I only had two hours. I had to do something. It was, like this person said, my most prized possession. I've taken it into my heart. It's been here for me throughout the past couple of hours. How could I leave it just sitting there. I was so irresponsible.
The police would never take me seriously for this. They'd laugh in my face and walk the other way. There was absolutely no other choice. I went to the bank across the street and reluctantly took out the money.
After placing the money under the bench, I hid behind the bushes. Just out of view from whoever the thief was, yet I could still personally see them. When it seemed as if it had been hours, the thief showed up and returned the one object I was so desperately missing.
It's red body glistening in the sun with the white trim around it, I knew I was in the clear. Brand new, I had only bought it this morning. Silly me, I left it alone just to go get a donut. The body called to me. I ran to its side, picked it up and held it close to my body.
It was now or never. I couldn't risk losing it again. Slowly opening it up, my hopes high for what could be hiding within. My anticipation rose. I couldn't take it any longer, all I needed were those two simple words.
The time had come, opening my eyes to see what was before me, my heart dropped into the bottom of my stomach. My roll up the rim wasn't a winner. I just threw away $1,000.
-Samantha B
Ending
ReplyDeleteCally sat in the corner of the chocolate brown couch, legs crossed and trying to stay reserved. Cut off from the hands he had wrapped around her. The blue ocean on the television screen twisted and turned just like her stomach under her wavy dark shirt.
He kept leaning in and rubbing his nose on her neck and face.
She could feel the Sushi dinner swimming back up.
'It's getting pretty late' she chocked the salmon down.
'Mhmm I guess it is...'
He reached for her hand, in an effort of keeping her body from moving too far away, she smiled.
He wouldn't leave, she knew, not without a kiss.
Cally braced herself and hoped the ocean inside would keep calm.
One kiss goodnight.
That lasted a little too long.
Out the door he was pushed, to the bathroom she ran.
So close yet so far away
Her new shirt was surely ruined.
Although Cally couldn't help but laugh
This boy certainly wasn't going to last.
Moving On
ReplyDeleteAs orange flames clawed at a sky going dark, I pulled the worn velcro straps tight around my ankles and rolled down the driveway. Fire engines and frantic neighbors pushed past me, back up the street to my burning home. Some of them caught my eye, murmuring to each other or shouting my name, but they never tried to stop me. I surged onward, a salmon fighting to swim upstream.
I managed to leave them behind, until it was just me and the rhythmic scraping of my rollerblades’ rubber wheels on the road. Still, I pumped my legs faster, harder, because the smoke had kept up with me. It was the vapor of destruction, stinging my eyes and nose, alive with memories. As I breathed in, a vision of a cigarette dangling from the lips of a girl with grey eyes and legs that could never stand up for themselves bloomed in my mind. They were my eyes, my legs. My breath caught in my throat as I thought this was pointless, I couldn’t change. But the girl in the smoke wasn’t wearing rollerblades.
So I swallowed doubt and rode the back of the asphalt snake to its exhaustion, where slick city houses gave way to grassy fields and open air, where I could breathe in without thinking of who I used to be. Miles away from where I had started, my pace slowed and I reached in to the pocket of my jean shorts, drawing out a box of matches. There was one stick missing.
Grinning, I let the box fall from my fingers, watched it bounce behind my wheels and spill tiny wooden splinters across the road. It was the last time I looked back.
Rotten Disappointment
ReplyDeleteShe sits on the brown leather sofa in the embrace of her fluffy red blanket, staring at the floor. The conversation plays back on her mind like a spider that refuses to let go of her web no matter how strong it rains. She’s feeble and forlorn.
First the awkward words of two people that don’t really know each other but are tied by blood. Then the superficial questions that no one sincerely cares about, followed by the polite little laugh to comments that aren’t really at all funny, but her mother taught her manners.
When should she ask her question? Her real one, the only question of which she actually cares about the answer. The whole reason she called in the first place. But she didn’t know when to ask.
After another awkward pause, she spat it out, or else she’d lose her nerve.
Do you have his phone number? I really want to see him again.
But there was no phone number, and she’ll never see him again. He’s gone, moved out. He never even told her. She was left alone with her illusions and her disillusions.
She sits on the brown leather sofa in the embrace of her fluffy red blanket, staring at the floor.
Better late than never right?
ReplyDeleteAnnie’s hooker-red Chevy pickup truck roared to life loudly as Annie and I pulled out of my worn down driveway. The summer night was hot and humid and an uncomfortable silence filled the dense air as I tried to avoid the subject of revealing my pathetic love life to my best friend. I had succeeded thus far, but the damage had been done Annie knew something was up. She always did.
“Luce,” Annie whined annoyingly, “common tell me.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I tried helplessly.
“Liar,” she accused. “You’re not as uptight as usual,” she stated confidently because she knew she was right. “Now, tell me what’s going on.”
“I am not uptight,” I snapped.
“Quit avoiding the subject, Luce.” She said, staring at me with those large, sparkling blue eyes.
I heaved a sigh and restrained myself from telling her off, because she was my best friend after all, which according to some stupid, unwritten “friendship code,” gave her the right to know what went on in my nearly nonexistent love life at all times.
“I’mkindofseeingsomeonethatIreallylike,” I barfed out all at once.
Annie slammed on her brakes and I yelped out in fright as my body lunged forwards and the seatbelt caught me right before my head smashed against the dashboard of the truck.
“What in the bloody hell is wrong with you!?” I shouted.
Annie, oblivious to my outrage was staring at me with a Cheshire cat grin as though it was Christmas morning and she had received the gift of her childhood dreams. All because my love life was finally starting to take shape.
Magda's Garden
ReplyDeleteTo her, there was nothing more satisfying than a day in the sun. Magda would spend day after day in the tall grass and corn husks, hidden like a misspelled word in a brail book. She would spend day after day, just breathing in the sandy heat, listening to the sway of the corn in the breeze, and she did.
She was planted in the garden like the dusty vegetation she had seeded. Magda had a real talent for gardening, which made up for the lack of talent around her. Magda’s garden became more of a home than her own house. In time, it became her home, when she was nailed there.
The rusted iron nail in between her vertebrae ached her back, keeping her as erect as the stake she was nailed upon. Her limbs flopped at her sides, giving in to each wisp of the wind, shaking strings onto the dirt around her.
They bring her in every winter obviously, for who would deprive one of such favored holiday months, but Magda would prefer to tend to her garden, even in the snow, even if that meant she would destroy herself in the making.
When that first sun ray begins to defrost the soil, she pieces herself together again. Stuffing taught hay under her flesh, stitching buttons to her eyes and to her father’s old peacoat, which busted at the gut with leftover straw.
When she looked presentable she was lifted and nailed back in her garden. Hung and waiting, protecting her pride and joy.
Protecting her home.
If my Gram possessed any enduring quality it was her lack of patience. I used to think it rude of her to snap things like "Excuse me some service please!" or "I'm a senior citizen, could we pick up the pace? I don't exactly have the rest of my life you know!" at poor teenagers working low wage jobs and young adults trying to get through the day. Maybe it was because I could sympathize with the young generation. I knew what it was like to be worn down by the constant flow of rude and ignorant customers and not only that but the pressure and stress that followed that caused most to make a few mistakes while on the job. The last thing some people needed was an old lady berating them to hurry up. That lady, for most, was my Gram.
ReplyDeleteOne day while we were prowling for food in Capers I asked her "Why are you so impatient?"
At first she was confused, claiming she didn't understand what I was talking about. I explained the incidents I'd witnessed in the varying shops and grocers in which she would have the young workers at her mercy.
Finally after thinking for a moment, she said "Sarah, when you're sixty-five and counting, you don't wait around for people do to what their expected to do. It's their job to serve customers and if they aren't doing good enough I'm going to let them know."
I was shocked by how blunt her words were. "But some people have bad days," I reasoned, "sometimes you have to have compassion for people who may be a little slower."
"That's not my problem," she replied, turning to observe a cluster of apples.
I didn't understand how she could be so cold for the longest time, until I placed myself in her shoes. I suppose when you get to a certain age you realize you don't have a lot of time left to live, and petty things like waiting for service become tedious. As a young person I had no problem waiting for anything really, but maybe I would if I were sixty five.
-Sarah Porter
Mommy Told Me
ReplyDeleteMommy’s always tell their children that they are special. I guess I’m different, because all my mommy says to me is how she should of gotten rid of me 3 months in. I asked my teacher Mrs. Allan what that meant, Mrs. Allan was my favorite teacher she taught me 2 x 2. She was the best grade four teacher. Mrs. Allan brought me to this white room with all these important men staring at me. They took me away from my mommy. They made me live with daddy. The next day at school I asked my best friend Tommy for lunch. My Daddy only packed me with a sealed can of tuna. I’m allergic to tuna. Tommy gave me half of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. After school, Tommy asked for me to come over. I couldn’t though, because daddy said he had to speak with me. Daddy never called me special, I guess I’m different. Daddy said that Mommy should have gotten rid of me three months in. Anger erupted in Daddy. Mrs. Allan asked me how my eye got all bruised. I didn’t tell her. Why should I answer her questions, if she never answered mine?
By: Catarina Corriveau