“I’m gonna fall, Lizzie!” I’d exclaim, my toes digging into the beam with all their might.
“No you’re not,” she’d answer from in front of me. “Just hold on to me and I’ll get you through.” Every time she’d say that. I never fell.
They tell me she’s schizophrenic. They tell me she’s better off here, with round-the-clock care in a calm environment. They tell me she needs more than I can give.
I look at my older sister. She’d been my rock for so many years, always there when I needed her, always catching me when I stumbled, literally and not.
I reach out and grab her shoulder, the gesture at once familiar and stabilizing. She looks at me with her deep brown eyes, terror written in them. Then a smile. She knows who I am.
“Julie,” she says.
I pull her close. “Just hold on to me and I’ll get you through.”
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Today’s my husband’s birthday! That means I’ve been busy paying attention to him, and dashed this story off in true haste – flash writing in all senses of the term. Still, I like it. What do you think? In addition to the 150 word (+/- 10 word) limit, we had to include something about clumsiness, whether overtly or subtly referenced. Did I succeed??
Please hop (or flip or vault or back handspring) over to Flash Friday Fiction and read/comment on the other fabulous entries!
Doffer boys, Jan 1909. Public domain photo by Lewis Hine.
Them No Good Boys – 997 words
We didn’t mean for it to happen.
Not that anyone’d believe us if they knew. Them No Good Boys, they called us, always up to somethin’. Mama laughed it off; she never saw us the way everybody else did.
We weren’t brothers. Not blood, leastways. Jimmy’s pa told him things was better when he weren’t around, so Jimmy stayed here. He carried a knife. “For protection,” he said. That thing couldn’t hurt anyone, really. No matter. It made Jimmy feel better.
Neighbor Billy was the oldest of us, fourteen. He’d lost two brothers to the coal mines already. “Next year’s my turn,” he’d say with a grin that never quite reached his eyes.
Piper was the quiet one. Maybe ‘cause he was the youngest – only nine. His da’d left when he was two. He lived with his ma and sisters out by the river. He liked our house better.
Not that we had much. Pa was always tryin’ to sell something to somebody, stuff we never could afford ourselves. Ice boxes. Auto-mobiles. Mama’d just shake her head, love in her eyes. But love didn’t put food on the table.
“Sam,” she’d tell me, “God works in mysterious ways. He finds solutions when all hope is lost.”
I wasn’t so sure. If God was takin’ care of us, how come we never had nothing? How come everyone complained about us, callin’ us delinquents?
It wasn’t like we ever done anything really bad. Stealin’ Mrs. Parson’s nightgown off her line to see if all four of us could fit in it (we did) didn’t count, did it? Or when Billy used his dad’s blacking to paint Farmer Davis’s white nag? “I told MaryBeth Whitnum he had a zebra,” Billy’d explained. The horse had raised a ruckus after only two stripes. Farmer Davis never caught us.
He knew, though. Everybody knew. They told mama we needed some sense switched into us. She’d roll her eyes behind their backs. She knew we weren’t No Good, just boys seekin’ somethin’ to do in a place with nothin’ to offer.
This time was different, though.
Piper had showed up this mornin’, his eyes worried.
“What’s up?” Jimmy’d asked, pokin’ him in the side. Sometimes they didn’t get along.
Piper glared at him. “It’s Lily.” Lily and her mama lived in a crumbling cabin ‘cross from Piper. I knew he was sweet on her. I suspected Jimmy was, too – another reason he an’ Piper needled each other.
Lily often showed up at school with fat lips or black eyes. She’d say she fell down. We knew better. Her dad was the town drunk.
“She gots a broken arm. I saw her mama fixin’ it up in a sling this morning. Lily was bawlin’ somethin’ fierce, and her mama was shushing her. I knew she was worried Hunspecker’d hear.” At the mention of Leroy Hunspecker, Piper spit on the ground.
Billy scowled. “We gotta do something!”
“What?” I asked. There was silence.
“Break his still!” Piper exclaimed after a minute, his face lighting up. “Then he can’t drink no more!”
Hunspecker brewed his own ‘cause he couldn’t afford the tavern.
So we set out that night, four rag-tag boys wantin’ to right at least one wrong in the world.
Hidden behind a gooseberry bush, armed with slingshots and Billy’s pellet gun, we shot at the wooden barrels behind the cabin. Jimmy crowed when moonshine flowed from the holes we’d made.
Then Piper ran into the yard. What was he doin’? “Piper!” I whispered urgently. He ignored me, stopping instead to pick up a rusty axe. He raced forward and began hacking at the still.
The door to the shack slammed open. “What the devil!” hollered a voice. Leroy Hunspecker emerged, carryin’ his rifle. When he saw the still, he roared. He lifted the gun, aimin’ at Piper, who scrambled for the woods.
Jimmy shot another rock, striking Leroy in the elbow. Leroy whipped around. Jimmy stood rooted to the spot, a trail of urine darkening his pants.
“You’re dead!” The voice came closer. “You hear me? DEAD!”
We watched, frozen, as Hunspecker’s foot caught on somethin’ in the yard and he tripped, dropping the rifle, which fired. Hearing the shot, our paralysis was broken, and we leapt up, racing away fast as we could.
We heard nothin’ else.
We stopped only when we reached home. Piper was already there. Lungs heavin’, legs tremblin’, we made sure we was all OK. Tears streamed down our faces, unacknowledged.
“Why didn’t he come after us?” Billy finally said. We had no answer. We entered the house quietly as we could, not wantin’ to wake mama, and headed for bed.
The next mornin’ when I walked into the kitchen, mama jumped. “Goodness, you scared me,” she said, hand over her heart. “I have news. Leroy Hunspecker died last night. Apparently he fell on an iron rake left in the yard. It went right through his head.” She paused. “Who’d’ve thought anything could penetrate that bastard’s thick skull?”
I said nothin’. What could I say? My mind raced. Did she know we’d been there? Did anyone?
She came over to me, studying my face. “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” she said after a moment, smoothing the hair on my head. “I’m glad you boys weren’t anywhere near there. He was a dangerous man.”
We saw Lily at the funeral. She stood, expressionless, clutchin’ her mama’s hand. Afterwards she came over to us. “I saw you. I saw you break the still,” she whispered to Piper, who flushed beet-red, unable to deny it. A smile spread over her face. “Thank you,” she added before runnin’ back to her mama.
I can’t help thinkin’ that what happened that night was good. Not for Old Man Hunspecker, of course. But for Lily. And maybe for us No Good boys, too. We felt we’d saved someone.
We know two wrongs don’t make a right. But sometimes they make all the difference.
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When you’re used to writing a 150 word story every week, 1000 sure feels different. But that’s the bonus challenge Flash Friday handed out to us, to draft an 800-1000 word story based on the photo prompt for the first ever Dog Days of Summer contest. Luckily we were given two weeks to complete such a Herculean task (and yes, there’s still time for YOU to enter, since the deadline isn’t until July 22nd).
And Herculean it proved to be, but not in terms of making my story long enough. Rather, my first draft had nearly 1900 words in it, so I spent the last few days chopping and hacking and chopping some more (not like Piper, though). What do you think of the result?
“Hamilton-Burr Duel, After the Painting by J. Mund.” Illustration from Beacon Lights of History, by John Lord, 1902. Public domain image.
‘Til Death Do Us Part – 158 words
She stared at the picture, tracing her finger over the tricorn on one gentleman’s head.
How did it come to such a place? How did people ever get so stuck in their problems with each other that murder seemed a viable option?
She looked up to glance around the room, her grandfather’s room in the old cabin on the edge of the lake. As a child, she’d loved coming here. It’d been all excitement and fun, splashing in the water, chasing butterflies, catching lightning bugs.
But now? Now she was here because she’d run out of options. He’d bled her of all he could, taking the house, the car, the money. The children. How had they become enemies, she and the man she’d thought was her best friend?
Tears rolled down and splashed onto the book she still held.
Maybe the better question was not how people ever got to such a place, but how they did not.
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Whew. I’m glad to be back from vacation – for writing purposes, at least. Writing on a real computer is so much easier than writing things out long-hand (sorry, Jane Austen) and typing them into a phone (sorry, Apple). This week, in addition to staying within the 150 word limit (+/-10), we had to incorporate something about friendship. Let me know what you think! And please hop on over to Flash Friday to read and comment on all the wonderful entries!!
The Days Are Long But The Years Are Short – 162words
“Oh my God!” They pushed the door open and peered into the room.
“It’s a swirling vortex of chaos, isn’t it?” He chuckled.
“I can’t even see the floor! It’s all Legos and Barbies and stuffed animals.” She pointed toward a twisted object lying amidst the ruins of her daughter’s room. “What IS that?”
“Don’t know.” He pinched his nose. “But I’m thinking she left an apple core in here again. We might need gas masks to enter.”
She sighed. “Will this room ever be clean? I’m starting to think we’re in an episode of Hoarders.”
He settled his arm over her shoulder, gently squeezing her close. “Patience, grasshopper. One day – and it won’t seem long – we’ll stand here staring at a clean floor. An empty room. And we’ll be missing these days and longing for that little girl again.”
She put her hand over his, her eyes welling up. “You’re right,” she said, leaning back into his familiar warmth. “You’re right.”
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For the past two Flash Fridays, I was on vacation in New Jersey, with no internet access other than my phone. But did that stop me from entering Flash Friday? Heck no! (It did stop me from posting my entries here on my website in a timely manner, however.)
The first story above was written for the June 27th contest. On June 27th I spent most of the day in the car. I wrote my story out by hand before we started traveling (since my husband had already turned off the internet here at home!), and then typed the sucker on my phone while whizzing by other cars on the road (no worries, people – hubby was driving!).
While I thought I’d met the 160 word limit, apparently I was over by 2. Oops. So much for in-my-head math skills. At least I included something about patience, which was this week’s required element. I’d still love to hear what you think, however.
And below you will find the picture and story I wrote for the contest on July 4th. July 4th marks the 3rd quarter of the year for Flash Friday, and I am *gulp* officially a judge for this quarter, so my stories are not eligible to win. No matter; I still love writing them. For the week of the 4th, in addition to the photo prompt we needed to include something about a woman. This one I also wrote out by hand and typed up on the phone, but at least I wasn’t in a car, so I could check and double-check my word count without feeling carsick. Still, I’m glad to be back at my computer for this week’s challenge!
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Writing the Declaration of Independence. Painting by Jean Leon Gerome Ferris (1863 – 1930). Public domain photo.
We Hold These Truths – 160 words
“Abigail wants that line to read ‘all people are created equal.’”
Jefferson sighed. “This is a hard enough sell as it is. We just can’t go there.”
Snorting, Adams turned to Franklin. “What would Mrs. Silence Dogood say?”
Franklin perused the sheet in front of him. “She’d say, ‘Stop wasting paper and get this thing done!’”
“Agreed,” Jefferson said.
“I concur with my wife, gentlemen; we must change that phrase. We must acknowledge the equality of women – and slaves,” he added, staring pointedly at Jefferson.
Jefferson frowned. “We cannot fight a war on three fronts.”
“Says the man who owns slaves.” Adams snorted.
Franklin broke in, eager to defuse the tension in the room. “I agree with Thomas. But the United States is an enlightened country. I am confident the equal rights of all people – men, women, black, white – will quickly be affirmed, after we have freed ourselves from King George’s madness.”
“New crowns for old ones!” –Benjamin Disraeli presents Queen Victoria the crown of India. Punch, 1876, by cartoonist John Tenniel.
Be Careful What You Wish For – 160 words
“I want a refund,” the woman said, thrusting the small crown toward the oddly robed gentleman.
His gold-filled grin didn’t quite reach his eyes. “All sales are final. It was stated in the contract.”
“But this one doesn’t work!”
“Results do vary.”
Her eyes flashed. “You can’t sell a faulty product! I shall expose you for the charlatan you are!”
“Madam, I’m no charlatan. I’m a genie. We’ve been through this.”
“Genie, soothsayer, prestidigitator – whatever you call yourself, you are a fraud.”
“Did you not wish yourself rid of your husband?”
Her eyes rounded. “That was an accident!”
“If you say so. And did you not want more respect?”
“That’s my point. When I wore this all anybody did was laugh.”
The man sighed. “Try this latest model? It’s bigger, rounder – has more flair.”
She eyed it dubiously. “It’s Indian.”
“Yes, and full of power.”
“Sure, and I’m Queen of England!”
“Your wish is my command, madam.”
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Ever write something, think it’s OK, then upon revisiting it later you realize there are certain phrasings or vocabulary you’d change (especially when you discover you’ve repeated something over and over)? Yeah? Me, too.
Oh well – this is the version that’s live on Flash Friday, so it’s not changing now. Let me know what you think – and please head over and read (and comment on!) the other fine entries this week!
