Tag Archive | flash fiction

Flash Fiction Monday: Cutting Corners

cutting corners

 

 

The Catfish directors pounded on the screen door.  The right corner of the screen flapped like a wire mesh shade, playing peek-a-boo with the truth hidden inside.  Carlos rocked side to side on the heels of his feet.  He removed his hat and scratched the back of his head furiously.  He kept pulling up the fake FB profile on his smartphone.

Everytime Carlos saw her bow-lipped smile, his stomach did a double flip, bile gurgling in his throat.  Eva was not real.  He was about to meet the real woman.  Carlos was no stranger to the MTV show.  He clenched his fists repeatedly, wondering what the crackerjack box-shaped house held inside.

Was the person even a woman?  Was she overweight?  The birds in the nearby date tree chirped behind him.  To Carlos, it seemed more like they laughed at him like those birds on his son’s favorite movie, Finding Nemo.  David.  He had grown so attached to Eva.  God, he even let this woman into his 4-year-old’s life.  Six months of hour long phone conversations, 3500 FB inbox messages, 5000 texts, and endless Pinterest posts of her dream boards.

Odd questions about what he would do in some town called Headly Rock, CO.  He Googled the city and had never heard of it.  Odd questions about why men behaved like they did on first dates.  Who cared?  Carlos was waiting for their first date to happen.  She always said that the muse was calling and she could not disappoint her.  Carlos wanted to know who this muse was so he could tell her that she needed to back off or get a life.

He felt like a bonafide fool.  What kind of person would do this?

 

The directors banged on the door again.  Finally, a mousy, 4 ft. 2 woman appeared.  Pencils crisscrossed like chopsticks in her disheveled ponytail.  She cradled a tablet in her hand; a book cover with Eva’s FB profile cover filled the screen.

She flashed her gap-toothed smile and stared into the cameras.  “Hi, I’m Reva Ramone, the author of Eva’s Grace.  My book just came out today.”

Carlos and the directors stood in shock, their mouths open wide like they were elongating an acapella note.

 

 

 

Flash Fiction Tuesday: Mistakenly Meant to Be

Mistakenly Meant to Be

A Flash Fiction Story That Finally Broke Through

the Writing Block of Alexandra Caselle

 

 

 

Image found on Google Images

Image found on Google Images

 

Demeter was startled by the moans that overshadowed her daily scheduled morning ones.  The winter snow fell in clumps of misshapen snowballs, building a half wall in the doorway of the cave. The loss that coated each cry was raw, much deeper than the one she has endured by losing Persephone for a larger portion of every year.  The sound caused the ground to crack in earthquakes and the clouds to hang low in completely undone, out-of-place tornadoes. Nature had become emotionally off-kilter. There was indeed a war going on, a battle where two distinct phenomenon fought for dominion.  Oh, that cry was familiar.  One caused by a member of a Hellenic fraternity.  Demeter quieted her mind and focused on the direction of the sound.  She wrapped the cowhide cover over her shoulders, the flaps roughly tapping against the blood-encrusted wound extended across her chest.  Demeter found Leda, swaddled in swan feathers, two sets of minds struggling for dominance amidst a broken one.  Leda’s eyes begged for a way out.  Demeter didn’t know what to do.  Hell, she had been searching for an exit door out of a depression so deep that it suspended time.  A snowflake sauntered through the air and landed on top of a shiny object.  Demeter smiled when she recognized it. The Fates had left a needle, one that sewed time and hope into any pattern.  She picked it up and sewed stitches inside her heart.  Once she discovered the pattern of healing, Demeter began patching it  inside the network of Leda’s loss.

 

Together, they will show other women that what was mistaken was definitely meant to be.

Flash Fiction Wednesday: The Irony of It All

 

Image taken from Google Images

Image taken from Google Images

The Irony of It All

~~Alexandra Caselle~~

(The images from this fictional story have haunted me for over two years. I agree with Stephen King.  The horror of reality and life are scarier than anything a writer can craft in his or her mind.  But the charge of the writer is to tell the story unflinchingly.  But I still flinch sometimes. I also wanted to play around with second person point-of-view.)

Your hospital window overlooks the cathedral-shaped church. Its stained glass windows decorated with open-armed angels.  You notice the homeless woman plunked on top of the mahogany bench in front of the church’s doors.  Tributaries of blood outline the soles of her feet.  Caked dirt highlights her hair, a new twist on the dirty blonde.

Business men and women, Blackberries and iPods extending as appendages, bustle across her path. The woman cradles her Winn-Dixie basket filled with dusty trinkets, faded baby clothes, and aluminum can mobiles.  You wonder what happened to her baby.  You wonder when your pimp will take your newborn twin daughters away from you, his new additions to the human trafficking game.

Your answer is delivered in a Lexus SUV that screeches to a halt near the curb next to the hospital entrance.  He jerks his lapels as he glides out of the passenger seat, his men filing out behind him.

You hover over them.  Bubbles of saliva gurgle from their lips.  You remember when innocence cloaked you as a five-year-old before your mother traded you for a ten-cent bag of cocaine.  You reflect on the thirteen years you have served as a conduit of pleasure.  Even though you have inoculated your emotions, your daughters have broken through your shield.

You strip the IV from your vein and gather them in your arms.  Your hospital gown reeks of dried breast milk.  It gapes with each movement, turning you into a walking peep show.  The stitches from the C-section stretch and send jolts of pain throughout your abdomen.  You struggle with the door, scan the hallways, and limp towards the elevator.

The Demerol cocktail disorients you.  You wander into the emergency room.  Tears of frustration cascade down a young woman’s face.  She moans and paces back and forth to the courtesy phone.  Coughs erupt.  She reaches out to a faceless entity.  You wonder why the front desk nurse clutches your shoulders, but no one answers her cries for help.

The front desk nurse guides you into the triage area where she discovers the truth.  As you wait for security to escort you back to the maternity ward, she switches computer screens and updates her Facebook page.  She cocks her bobbed head and announces that she just dumped her boyfriend online.  He just signed on, and the argument becomes public.  You smirk at how people function behind masks, whether they service one or many.

Surgical equipment, the tools of torture, lay on a metal tray with a starfish base.  The scalpel calls out to you.  You remember when you had your first son, bathed in the image of your tormentor.   Your eleven-year-old palms and a Winnie-the-Pooh shaped pillow returned him to his creator.  But your daughters have your spirit.  You immediately silence the scalpel’s siren.

Security finally arrives. Your pimp is behind them, a guard dog leading them to the stash.  In his tailored suit and shiny Stacey Adams, he rages about your mental state.  He urges them to let him take his children home.  You barricade your daughters against your chest.  They wrestle them from your tightened grasp.

You lunge toward the scalpel and charge at him, as the straps of the straitjacket lasso out from the guards’ wrists like spider webs, as the father of your children strides through the sliding doors cradling profits instead of progeny.