Flash Friday Fiction: Someone To Watch Over Me

Hope Street, Liverpool, with Window and Sculpture
Liverpool — Hope Street. CC photo by Harshil Shah. Sculpture “A Case History” by John King.

Someone to Watch Over Me – 204 words

“No, it isn’t!”

“Yes, it is.”

“Nu-uh!”

“The moon is too made of cheese. How else do you think the astronauts survived up there?”

We’d dissolved into giggles. Sarah had poked me, I’d tackled her, and we’d tussled until mom yelled at us to stop.

I miss that. I miss her.

Nobody will tell me where she’s gone.

“Good riddance,” my step-dad said once, when he thought I wasn’t listening. Mom had pain in her eyes, when she thought I wasn’t looking.

“See that face?”

“What face?”

“The one right there, can you see it? The Man in the Moon?”

I’d squinted, contorting my face, trying to see what she saw. “I see it! I see him!”

She’d ruffled my hair. “Wanna know a secret?”

A secret? From my sister? “Yes!”

“It’s not a man.”

Oh. “Then what is it?”

“It’s me. Watching you, Em. You can’t hide anything from me.” She’d curled her hands into claws and attempted a monster face. It didn’t work. I’d just laughed.

At night, when he comes into my room, I don’t laugh. I don’t even close my eyes anymore. I look out the window, at the moon. She knows. She’s watching over me.

Someday I’ll join her.

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And boom, there’s my 200 (+/-) word effort, using “moon” as a setting, and the photo prompt from which to launch my story. What do you think?

Blast on over to Flash Friday Fiction to read other entries, leave us some comments, or perhaps submit your own tiny tale.

Flash Fiction Friday: The Tracks of my Tears

Rain (Liberia, Guanacaste, Costa Rica). CC2.0 photo by NannyDaddy.
Rain (Liberia, Guanacaste, Costa Rica). CC2.0 photo by NannyDaddy.

The Tracks of my Tears (202 words)

I can forget until it rains. Because when it rains, the red appears. Or reappears, I should say.

They claim it’s just different-colored cement. But I know better. I know it’s blood. I know who’s buried underneath.

It was a moment of rage, of insanity, of desperation, the night I killed my wife and children. Too long without a job, too long without a paycheck, too long without respect.

I’d bathed my sorrows in the last of the gin, her voice echoing around me, taunting me, goading me.

“You’re no man,” she’d screamed. “You do not do right by your family. You are killing us, with your booze and your laziness. Killing us!”

I’d needed to silence the voice, silence the condemnation.

So I had. A gun in the drawer, for self-protection, I’d always said.

I protected myself, all right.

No one saw me. No one knew. I said they’d gone on a trip to visit family, back in the Old Country, and never come home. Knowing me, my failures, my shame, everyone believed.

Only I know they are there, in the soil under the square, hidden there before this had become another vast wasteland of pavement.

Only I, and the rain.

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This week Flash Friday Fiction has us focusing on theme, namely “a fleeting moment.” Using that idea, plus the photo prompt, we were given 200 (+/-10) words to draft a story. What do you think of mine?

I hope you’ll follow the link above to read and comment on the other entries, or perhaps even submit a short (very short!) story of your own.

Flash Fiction Friday: Not Far From The Tree

Kinderspiel. CC2.0 photo by Hartwig HKD.
Kinderspiel. CC2.0 photo by Hartwig HKD.

Not Far From The Tree (209 words)

“God, Dad, you’re such an a-hole.”

He watched his son storm off, all thunder and lightning. Seems it was always that way lately, always gray where he and his eldest were concerned.

When had the clouds come? When had the sun stopped shining? When had the ground beneath them cracked, shifted, to become a barren, parched landscape of lost moments, dying of thirst in spite of the insults and epithets that rained down daily?

Sometimes, just for an instant, he saw him again as a baby, crawling away with such delight, only to turn and cry because he’d gotten too far. Or as a toddler, racing free across the playground, only to demand daddy’s help on the slide or the swings. Even as a grade schooler, his son would come to him, seeking shelter from the bullies.

When had the weather changed?

He wished he had an olive branch to offer, some shade from the storm.

His colleagues assured him these tempests were normal, that eventually all would settle down again, that calm waters would return.

He knew they were wrong. He knew if he couldn’t fix this, couldn’t shore up their crumbling relationship, one day, his son would walk away and not come back.

Just as he had.

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This week’s required Flash Friday Fiction element was to focus on conflict, specifically a man-to-man conflict, incorporating the photo prompt (literally or figuratively) into a 200 (+/-10) word story. I opted for man-to-almost-man. What do you think of my efforts?

I hope you’ll join us over on the official Flash Friday site, where you can read (and comment on) others’ entries, as well as check out the fabulous tales from weeks past.

 

 

Flash Friday Fiction: Signs of Spring

Caution: Radiation Controlled Area. Creative Commons 2.0 photo by Oleg.
Caution: Radiation Controlled Area. Creative Commons 2.0 photo by Oleg.

Signs of Spring  – 160 words

We are trapped in a nuclear winter, she and I, our marriage long since rusted over at the edges.

I stand at her door, wondering how much longer I can endure this monkish existence. I’ve know others who’ve turned elsewhere for comfort, for solace, for a bit of human touch.

I don’t want to be one of them.

I raise my hand against this barrier, which, like her heart, might as well have a “CAUTION: KEEP OUT” sign emblazoned across it.

How do people come to erect such walls between them? Two halves of a whole becoming like magnets that repel each other where they used to attract.

There is no hope for an armistice here. Our tongues launch missiles on a daily basis. Our arsenals overfloweth.

The knob turns. A crack appears.

“Damian?”

I stare into her eyes, at once familiar and foreign.

“Can we talk?”

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Wahoo! I love Flash Friday! As I’m still serving periodically as a judge through November, I’m not eligible to win, but that doesn’t stop me from scribbling down a 150 (+/-10) word story every week anyway – it’s just that much fun! Come join us, won’t you?

Flash Friday Fiction: Power Play

Georgian writers Ilia Chavchavadze and Ivane Machabeli playing chess, 1873 St Petersburg.
Georgian writers Ilia Chavchavadze and Ivane Machabeli playing chess, 1873 St Petersburg.

Power Play – 160 words

It’s not easy facing down a King. You’re taught your whole life to believe they’ve ascended to power through innate talent, faultless character, Divine Right.

One day you realize: it’s all a stroke of luck. A matter of heredity. Sure, sometimes the Queen is captured by someone else. But mostly it’s the gene pool that determines your reality, your fate, your destiny.

There comes a time in every person’s life (most say around age thirteen) when you’ve got to decide for yourself: do you stand for what the King believes? Or do you strike out on your own, make your own choices, become your own Knight (shining armor optional, depending on the state of your room)?

The King will resist your efforts towards independence. The Queen will block you in. You will realize checkmate is inevitable when the keys to the Kingdom (in other words, the Royal Chariot) are revoked. You must acquiesce, at least a little longer.

Game over.

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This week’s challenge in a 150 (+/- 10) words? Write a story based on this prompt that includes something about a nemesis, but that does not include the word “chess”. What do you think of my take?

Please come on over to Flash Friday Fiction to read and comment on the other entries, as well; we writers need all the feedback we can get!