Flash Fiction: Framed

The thing about death, Liza thought, is that every new experience feels like the hardest one you’ll have to go through.

She set the crocheted throw into the ‘keep’ box, tucked safely next to the small pile of yellowed paperbacks and porcelain knick-knacks. After the arrangements, the funeral, the will, the estate, and divvying up the various items of value, it had fallen to Liza to sort through the rest of her father’s miscellaneous belongings that were left in his three-bedroom ranch home.

She heard a scuffling, and two quick barks in the other room, and sighed. And oh yeah, that thing too.

Along with his belongings, she’d been tasked with either adopting or re-homing her fathers’ one hundred pound plus Old English Sheepdog.

It’s not that Liza hated dogs. It’s just that this particular dog had tried even her father’s patience, who was known for his ability to train even the most stubborn or cognitively challenged dogs. Shena had proved him wrong at every turn, made worse for the fact that she didn’t fully realize her own size. There was already a pile of broken antiques that Liza was forced to delegate to the trash pile that had either already been broken when she’d arrived, or subsequently broken in Shena’s excitement at having another person in the home again.

She sobers at the thought. A kindly neighbor had been stopping in to take care of Shena, but she’d been alone a good portion of the time since Liza’s father had died. Shena’s excitement had been palpable, and the guilt was like a gnawing beast in her gut, the grief slithering into her veins around it.

There had just been no time, no matter her feelings now. Her father’s death had caught everyone off guard.

Defeated, she drops the coffee table book into the ‘donate’ pile and sighs. I won’t be getting much more done today, she thought. My heart just isn’t in it. The more she went through, the closer the memories, and it was like a blindfold around her eyes. They stung, her throat closed around the grief.

She was drawn from her thoughts when she heard a crash and jumped to her feet. She rounded the corner in time to see Shena’s tail disappear under the desk in her father’s study, but it was too late for her departure to make a difference. One of the small bookcases was overturned, the books halfway spilling out of the shelves. But what caught her attention was the shattered snowglobe, the carpet a wet stain with white sparkles and a smiling snowman scattered on the floor surrounded by glass that had fractured into a hundred pieces.

She felt light-headed, her face heated in anger for a moment before the blood seemed to drain from it completely. There was no use getting angry, and though anger was easier, the overwhelming sense of loss was more than she could bear.

Liza leaned against the doorjamb and slowly let herself fall to the floor, legs crossed and hands dropped onto her knees. She leaned her head back and let the tears fall down her face, felt the heat like a balm on her cheeks. Her eyes burned with the sheer unfairness, not of some silly bauble crushed on the floor, but the loss of a great man who meant so much to her.

The sobs wracked her body in a way she’d never let anyone else see. She was alone, no one to pretend for, no one to save from her misery. She wailed out her pain, crushed into herself as she cowered into the doorjamb, held her arms to her chest.

When the sobs died down and the tears were a trickle, she felt the soft brush of fur on her forehead, and looked up to see Shena sitting in front of her. She wasn’t yet ready to forgive her and debated shooing her away when she saw she was holding something gently between her teeth.

She reached for it, and Shena let it go into her hands. It was a wooden frame with a photo, a bit bigger than the palm of her hand. She vaguely remembered seeing it in the living room. Looking closer, it was a picture of her entire family on her father’s last birthday. It was the last time when her immediate family had all been together, brothers, her father, and herself.

Curious, she opened the clasps on the back of the frame and found several other photos behind it, dating back several years, each featuring the entire family. She replaced the photos and clasps and turned the frame over.

She brought it closer to her face, realized that there were the tell-tale signs of teeth marks along with the wood—not just from today, but as if Shena had done this before.

A smile played on her lips and she gave Shena a fond look. “Trust dad to train you to bring him a photo whenever he was upset. Of course, he wouldn’t brag about something like that, would he?”

Shena butted her head against her cheek, nose wet and fur tickling her face. She giggled a wet sound that was equally laughter and sob. “Alright, alright,” she said and reached out a hand to pet her. “I guess you and I are going to get better acquainted then.”

Liza looked down at the photo, at the smiling face of her father, his square jaw, and close-cropped white beard. Happy.

“Family is family.”

<Back to Flash Fiction>

Stories

Here I have a variety of lengths and genres of stories that I’ve written and are available for free on this site, categorized by length.


Very Short Stories
These stories are about a paragraph long, and so are succinct and meant to grab you’re attention right off the bad.


Flash Fiction
Between 250 and 1,500 words, flash fiction is a step up from Very Short Stories, for breaks at work and when you’re waiting at the doctors office and need a quick fix.


Short Stories
Meant to be relished, short stories are longer and more involved, complete. In this section are also stories performed on podcasts.

Flash Fiction: We’re Only Braiding Roses

She wove in flowers and baby’s breath into the braid in my hair as I let the tears fall on the plush rug.

“It’s like braiding roses. Beautiful if you can make it work, but watch out for the thorns.”

I let out a sound somewhere between a snort and a sniffle that only makes me wish for a handkerchief. “Couldn’t you just cut off the thorns?”

She’s quiet for a moment as she braids, the feeling of her fingers in my hair soothing despite the terror wrapping like vines around my lungs. When she speaks it’s quiet and I can barely hear, but her reply is without any heart. “It’s a metaphor. You don’t remove the thorns from metaphors.”

We have run out of options. 

“Just mind your words, do as he says, keep yourself sparse until you know what kind of man he is. That’s what I did with your father. Maybe you’ll find yourself lucky.” We both know from the reports from the guards and nobles we’d bribed that this was unlikely, but she holds out hope. Has to for her own sake. I won’t disavow her of the belief, even when it turns out to be false hope. 

He is the worst sort of person, the man I am to marry. Quick-tempered, drunken tirades, a womanizer. A terrible ruler who is likely to run his kingdom into the ground.

But a treaty is a treaty, and my father won’t be moved.

“You’ll write,” she says with finality as she lets the braid drop. “And I will visit, of course.”

“Of course,” I repeat with no vehemence. I stand from the bed and wipe the wrinkles from my dress.

A lamb to slaughter has never looked so beautiful.

He hasn’t revealed his face.

The fact shouldn’t have bothered me, but it does. I had a story I’d run a thousand times in my head, that as they opened the towering doors to the cavernous hall with its cold draft and monstrous tapestries that at the end of that aisle I’d see the face of the man I was to marry, and it would be like a doorway to the life I wanted to live would be locked away forever. A key sliding into a lock and melted away that I could never retrieve.

But even that was forbidden to me. It would be another few hours it seemed, possibly after the wedding itself, when I would see his face, as he wears armor of all things. The tradition isn’t unheard of, but certainly a helmet isn’t necessary.

If the wedding guests are surprised they don’t show it, but then again, who would show surprise at the chosen wedding regalia of a king?

My father walks me down the aisle, me with an unnecessarily long train of blood-red velvet behind me that sweeps up the petals the flower girl has dropped before us. It all seems such a cruel farce that I want to vomit.

When we reached the end, at the moment when he is to give me away, I plead at him with my eyes. He looks back at me with no expression, but pushes away my arm with a strong grip, towards the arms of my suitor. There is no missing his intentions.

The rest of the ceremony passes by at a crawl, each word tiny cuts onto my shivering skin, and I feel a cold sweat along my neck. I want to scream, to choke on my own spit, to run. But I am surrounded by guards that I am sure my father will have no trouble using against me.

“I pronounce you wed. You may kiss your bride, my king.” I can feel the color drain from my lips, but I turn to my husband.

“If it is no offense to the church, I will save that for a more private affair,” my husband says, and I choke back relief, as brief as it will be. Instead, I am lifted by my knees until I am being held in a bridal pose. I squirm and instinctively move my arms to grab at his shoulders, hating myself for the action but wary of falling.

There are chuckles, and then cheering, but then my husband raises his voice to speak over the crowd. 

“I thank you all for coming. As it were, my wife does not look well. I fear the excitement has gotten to her. I would bring her outside so she may breathe before the festivities. Please, welcome yourselves to the dining hall, and we will join you soon.”

The terror is like ice in my veins. We are alone, and I’ve never known fear such as this. “Please,” I start, “let me down.”

We are in a side corridor, far from the wedding party. I know not why we have wandered off so far, but It can’t be for any reason I’d be happy to hear. Part of me wants to at least know my torture before I am to feel it.

“It’s me, Cael! I’m breaking you out of here!” My husband—or is it?—lets me down on my feet, and I turn to the stranger. They remove their helmet with difficulty, and I gasp as their face is revealed.

Mira?!” She is one of the squires, a young woman who I often snuck out to train with as a child, before my father had caught wind of it. We yet spoke though, through coded messages and late-night walks. “If you’re found you’ll be hanged!”

She smiles wide, showing her missing front tooth where one of the knights had knocked it out after she’d scratched his sword polishing it when she was younger. “No one’s going to find out, least not until it’s too late, because we’re making a run for it. I got two horses all ready to go, come on!”

She grabs my arm, and I don’t struggle as we run through corridors, sneaking past guards all the way to the stables where indeed there are two horses saddled and ready to ride.

It’s then that we hear the alarm.

“What’s that?” I ask, sudden suspicion clouding my mind.

Mira scrunches up her nose, baring her teeth and sticking her tongue through where her tooth is missing in amusement. “Probably found the king.”

“What do you mean found the king?”

Mira pushes me up to the saddle and pats my leg. “Well, I had to get to the wedding somehow. I snuck into his quarters and trussed him up like the pig he is. Guess they got impatient and found him.”

I can’t repress the laugher that follows, as Mira mounts her own horse.

When we’re both mounted and ready to go, the alarm of the guard ringing in my ears, I turn to her before chaos falls.

“What if they find us? Where are we going.”

She pats her horse on the neck, and this time there’s no teeth in her smile, only a soft blush and a hint of embarrassment.

“We’re going to Leoria. They won’t mind we’re married there. And you’re royalty. They’ll protect us.”

I raise an eyebrow at her, returning her smile.

“We’re married, are we? We didn’t kiss on it.”

She turns away, her face turning redder by the moment, and I let out a loud, throaty laugh before I kick my horse into a canter, then a gallop, leaving behind the only home I’ve ever known for the only home I’ll ever love.

<Back to Flash Fiction>

Flash Fiction: Weather The Storm

By the time it was Elijah’s turn to peel off his headphones and unpin his nametag for lunch, the rain fell from the end of his nose in a steady drip, and his clothes clung to him like a second skin. The seat of his desk chair squelched when he rolled it back to stand, the wet wheels squeaking over the soggy carpet.

The cloud had accumulated over his head shortly after he’d arrived at the office, sometime between when he’d put his lunch into the overstuffed refrigerator and snuck away from a one-sided conversation with two overly-enthusiastic interns. It had been small at first, cotton candy in texture and white as cotton. He’d spotted it in the reflection of his still-dark computer screen, but shrugged off its presence as no harm done.

It was after his second phone call but before Deborah had finally snuck into her cubicle almost an hour late that the first drops had started to fall. He felt it like pinpricks along his uncovered arms and face and barely-there touches over his shirt and pants. It distracted him enough that he misquoted a price to a customer, and had to quickly backtrack before he dug himself into a hole he couldn’t dig himself out of.

He hoped his manager didn’t catch wind of it.

That thought seemed to be like poking a dragon though, because the rain kicked up and the air around him started to move like a current—as if he were at the center of his own little hurricane. His bangs fluttered in the slight wind, the rain soaking through his clothes within a few minutes. When the rain started to drip on his paperwork, he pushed everything to the back of his desk, hoping to save what he could. He snuck a peek at the cubicles around him, but no one paid him any mind.

Now it was lunchtime, and Elijah’s teeth were starting to chatter from the air-conditioning cooling his soaked clothes and skin. He left damp footprints on the thin carpet in his wake on his way to the restroom. His only saving grace was that he’d yet to draw attention to his unfortunate circumstances. There had been no questions or reprimands, which he silently thanked whatever gods he could think of for. Admittedly, he couldn’t think of many. He idly wondered if that was how he got into his current predicament.

Once in front of the restroom mirror, he groaned at the severity of his situation. The cotton candy cloud had become a dark, woolen swirling of grays and blacks, lightning striking along his hairline, lighting the edges of the cloud, and sending some of his hair to stand on its ends.

The rain was near torrent level now, his bangs drooping wetly into his face. His shirt was soaked through, outlining his shoulders, chest, and gut, his blue tie near black in its water-logged state. He could feel the water dripping down his face, his arms, his legs into a puddle on the sink and onto the tile floor.

Elijah was at a loss. He couldn’t recall how to handle the appearance of your own personal rain cloud, and he wasn’t sure what his next steps should be. Should he call off? Go home and call the doctor? Was it a physical illness or mental? Was it an illness at all, or divine intervention?

With shoulders lowered and face in a sullen droop, he pulled down several wads of paper towel, trying unsuccessfully to dry off his hands and his arms, but it did no good. They quickly became soaked again, and he gave it up as a lost cause.

When he got back to his chair, to his water-logged seat and damp desk with puddles under the mouse and keyboard, he was hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion. He sat hard into the seat, sending water squelching in sudden drips to the floor, and the noise seemed loud in the near-silent room, the click-clack of keyboard keys the only other noise.

“Elijah?” He jumped and turned, feeling relief to find his co-worker, Jamie at the entrance to his cubicle. They’d always got along, acquaintances if not nearly friends. “You doing okay?”

The question caught him off-guard, but his response was immediate. “Of course. I’m fine.” Even as he said it, he knew it was the wrong answer. Her raised eyebrow seemed to echo his feelings, so he sighed and turned his creaking chair to fully face her.

“To be honest, I’m struggling. Have been for a while. I think it’s getting to me today.” As he said it, he felt something lift. The rain started to stutter, the lighting and thunder near his ears quieting.

“Maybe we can grab dinner after work?” she says, leaning against the wall of his cubicle and giving him a soft smile. “I got some time, and I’ve always meant to ask. You’re the best salesman we have, so I’ve always been kind of intimidated. But you’ve seemed down lately. I’ve been worried.” The way she tilts her head, her eyes earnest, and brow furrowed makes the rain turn to a drip.

“I’d like that,” he says, and he means it. The rain stops. “And really, I admire your attention to detail. You’re so organized, I’ve never been able to keep things straight like you do. Maybe we can help each other too.”

She nods, and her smile widens. It’s slightly crooked, one cheek raised more than the other. He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice before. “We can do that, but not tonight. Tonight, let’s focus on what’s getting you down.”

With that, he doesn’t have to look to know the cloud dissipates like a waking dream.

Hours later, his desk dry and his seat left with only a few damp spots, he wonders at rain clouds and how sometimes the answer to rainy days is knowing that someone else will stand with you in one.

<Back to Flash Fiction>

Flash Fiction: “Watch Us Fly”

Eleven, he thinks, more than last year, less than the year before. He marks the number on the small spiral-bound notebook that sits on the weathered table next to him. Beside it, a half-full glass of amber iced tea, the many ring stains next to it telling of many such mornings.

The monarch butterflies flit between the flowers of the tall milkweed in the garden in front of him, several yards away but close enough for him to keep an accurate count. The orange of their wings gleam in the light as they flutter around the deep green-veined leaves, a nonsensical dance Kenji can’t begin to understand. He doesn’t try. He enjoys their flight and the crisp floral scent on the breeze, all the same, the light trilling of songbirds nearby their soundtrack. 

The noonday sun has yet to arrive. He knows he hasn’t seen the end to the newcomers—eleven so far today. It had been sixteen yesterday by the time he’d taken the last syrupy sip of his wife’s home-brewed iced tea.

His mornings consist of sitting in his bamboo rocking chair on his covered patio, tallying his monarch butterfly sightings, that he would later upload to the citizen’s science website he frequented on monarch migration. It was a duty he undertook for several years now, to catalog how many monarchs he saw in the spring, summer, and fall on a daily basis, to help track the health of the population. To make a difference.

Kenji had planted the milkweed several years back, nestled in a pristine garden bed complete with a baby blue butterfly house his son had built for him the previous year. He’d learned milkweed was the only plant that monarchs laid eggs on, and was food for their caterpillars; a necessary plant for the species survival. It had been his way of doing more than sitting idly.

The morning ritual had the additional effect of calming him, though as of late there was an undercurrent of worry. Even though the numbers for this year were promising, he couldn’t shake the icy knots in his chest that told him they were fighting a losing battle.

But his family had never been the type to quit. They’d fought losing battles before.

His great grandfather had stood on the shores of America and seen an opportunity, when others had seen him as just another immigrant. His grandfather had left behind the weathered doors of the Manzanar internment camp as a child, returning to a town that no longer saw them as neighbors but as the enemy. His father had become the first of his family to go to college, bringing his family into a new age of financial stability. He himself had become an engineer, ensuring his own children would have opportunities he never had, building his own home from the ground up. And now, his own son, a business owner. A father himself.

Each generation flew further along, passing along the next leg of the journey, just like the monarchs laying eggs in the milkweed, each generation flying towards the fields of Canada. Four, five generations to meet their mark, ever closer to a place they could call home.

Now, as he sits on the whitewashed porch he built, he counts another butterfly, twelve, thirteen, and remembers—the battle may not always be brief, but home is always worth the fight.

<Back to Flash Fiction>

Flash Fiction

Here are a variety of flash fiction stories I’ve written, most of which were written for the Rue|LouPrompts Series.

Fear Not the Gods
“I often wonder what the Gods thought would happen upon their return. Maybe they thought we needed guidance, that their magnanimous but firm hand would turn the human race into something of universal beauty…”

 Flappers & Finches (All That Glitters Isn’t Gold)
“She glittered like gold, and I was the magpie. It could have been love, but gold changes hands, and birds are born to fly. She was gone by morning…”

Framed
The thing about death, Liza thought, is that every new experience feels like the hardest one you’ll have to go through.

 I’ll Be Your Misfit
“It wasn’t that the dog was ugly, per se…”

A New Color of Sunrise
“I’ve been staring at my account for half an hour, but it doesn’t change. No matter how much I will it, no money magically appears...”

No Roots
My mother once told me, ‘you can cast seeds, but you don’t know which will sprout.’
Her face is draining of color, lips turning blue as I watch...”

Sleeping Dogs Don’t Lie
“The biting air prickled the skin on his face. Caleb saved his hands by burying them in his coat pockets, but the cold still penetrated down to his bones…”

A Space Between the Stars
“‘You’re as dumb as an ox, Cam.’
The other kids, his teachers, his parents, his best friend- they were all in agreement...”

 Watch Us Fly
Eleven, he thinks, more than last year, less than the year before. He marks the number on the small spiral-bound notebook that sits on the weathered table next to him.

Weather the Storm
By the time it was Elijah’s turn to peel off his headphones and unpin his nametag for lunch, the rain fell from the end of his nose in a steady drip, and his clothes clung to him like a second skin.

We’re Only Braiding Roses

She wove in flowers and baby’s breath into the braid in my hair as I let the tears fall on the plush rug.
“It’s like braiding roses. Beautiful if you can make it work, but watch out for the thorns.”

 With the Pieces
“It was a Tuesday when her heart broke…”

Flash Fiction: “I’ll Be Your Misfit”

It wasn’t that the dog was ugly, per se.

It’s fur was sparse, mismatched lengths in a mottled grey and brown where it hadn’t been shaved. It’s skin was pink with tiny bumps raised along the shaved areas—the adoption card said it’d recovered from mange. It was medium height, longish but not long, with legs that were shortish but not short. An in between that wasn’t quite enough of either to be cute, but rather came off as odd. In the low light of the shelter, it’s eyes—her eyes, the car said—seemed jet black, like they would suck your soul from your chest. Like she could devour you with just those beady black eyes from where you stood.

Okay. Maybe she was just a little ugly.

But so was he.

He bent down low on his knees, sticking his fingers between the links of the fence. “I’ll be your misfit if you’ll be mine? How does that sound girl?”

She didn’t move. She stayed laying down in her bed, staring at him with those dark, abyss eyes.

Her eyes weren’t black.

He didn’t learn this until the following day, as he sat eating his cereal at his kitchenette table. She’d spent the previous day sniffing through the house room by room, nose to the ground. He’d not been able to shake her from her task.

Today she stared at him—or more likely, his food—with honey brown eyes that melted his heart.

“Where’d those come from?” he asked her, knowing not to expect an answer.

She licked her lips, and he snuck her some toast under the table, even though there was no one to be sneaking from.

He was surprised to learn when her fur started to grow back that the mottled colors were actually a mix of black, white and brown splotches, along with tufts of grey from old age.

By the time it had grown an inch, it looked endearing, and she’d begun to sleep in his bed. When his niece had been spending the night and opened his door to ask for a glass of water, she’d growled at her loud enough to send her running to her bed. He’d tutted at her and left the room to calm his niece down.

When the fur had grown several inches, and she had become fluffy enough for the hair to stick to the couch, Lilah—as he had finally named her—fell asleep on the couch with his niece, and barked fiercely at his brother when he’d come to pick his niece up.

On her adopt-aversary, he went to the local dog bakery to get a special treat for Lilah. He became overwhelmed quickly at all the dog biscuits, peanut butter baked bones, scones, pretzels, and pupcakes, enough that other customers began to take notice.

One in particular took pity on him. The stranger came over, smile wide, shoulders relaxed and held out a hand towards the array. “Having trouble? Want some ideas?”

He let out a sign in gratitude. “Thank you, that’d be a big help. I just adopted Lilah a year ago today, and I can’t decide what to get her.”

The stranger chuckled and nodded in approval. “I love to hear about fellow adopters, and yes, it can be overwhelming. This may sound weird, but all the food can be eaten by dogs and humans, so me and my dog Leto will share a few treats together. The Strawberry Lemon cupcakes are great, so are the Carob Chip and Pretzel Bars. Oh, and we like the Dill Peanut Butter Pretzels. But we’re kind of misfits.”

He smiles, leaning in closer, and hopes that Lilah doesn’t mind sharing.

“I love misfits.”

<Back to Flash Fiction>

Flash Fiction: Sleeping Dogs Don’t Lie

The biting air prickled the skin on his face. Caleb saved his hands by burying them in his coat pockets, but the cold still penetrated down to his bones.

It had been a terrible start to his new job. Possibly soon to be his old job if things didn’t change. His boss had taken him aside at the end of the day to warn him of his poor performance—as if he hadn’t known himself.

Walking towards his subsidized apartment along the deserted street, it took all of his willpower to keep the damning thoughts at bay. He’d messed up, and now the best he could hope for was a minimum wage job serving white middle-class accountants and doctors their morning coffee. It was a dead-end job, and he knew it.

Maybe it was better to just give up now.

Rounding the corner, he jumped as a dark shape ran towards him, his mind only retroactively registering that it was behind a metal fence. The shape, a black and white, hulking pit bull, stopped at the edge and stood up on his hind legs to try to reach him, his whole lower half shaking with his tail. He was panting with joy in his eyes as if he had been waiting just for Caleb.

With a worn smile, he reached his arm forward to let the dog sniff at his fingers. It’s mouth closed and head tilted as he—she?— did just that. Once the dog was satisfied that he was an acceptable companion, it bumped it’s nose into his hand, demanding pets.

Caleb’s smile became warm as he scratched behind the dog’s ears. He twisted the collar around to read the name on the metal tag: Daisy.

“Hello, Daisy,” he said, “It’s nice to meet you. You have such a beautiful smile sweet girl.”

Daisy licked his hand at his crooning, rubbing her head against his palm to keep him petting her.

And if he entered his apartment with a smile, no one else would ever know.

His visits to Daisy on his long trek home became routine. By summer, she waited for him like clockwork at the fence. In turn he brought her dog biscuits, toys, and bits of rope they played tug of war with.

Work got better. Actually, everything got better. By fall he had a job offer one town over that promised paid time off and benefits. He was being given a second chance, and while he was overjoyed now that his future seemed to only be getting brighter, there was another bright spot in his life that he would miss.

The day the moving truck was loaded, he knew it was time to say goodbye. He had bought a large box of peanut butter cookies meant for dogs from a local bakery, complete with a red bow on top and a card. It may have been overboard for someone who wouldn’t understand the gesture, but Daisy meant more to him than she would ever understand anyway.

Except Daisy wasn’t in the yard. It wasn’t unusual—he rarely ever saw her this time of day, so he shouldn’t have been surprised. But that didn’t move the lump forming in his throat.

Making an impulsive decision, he decided that if Daisy couldn’t come to him, he’d go to her. He rounded the corner to the building that was connected to the gated yard. It was an attached brick home, two stories with the black metal gate along the side. It wasn’t cheap, even for that area, but he was filled with an overwhelming need to see his rescuer before he left.

Gathering his courage, he walked up the concrete steps and knocked firmly on the door. He heard noises coming from the other side, and after what felt like minutes a stocky, white-haired older woman wearing a soft gray knit sweater opened the door.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice congenial but confused.

He floundered for a few seconds before he offered her the box. “I live in the apartment a few blocks down, but I’m moving away. I just wanted to give these to your dog, as a thank you.”

The woman shook her head, mouth thinning. “I don’t have a dog. You must be mistaking this house with another.”

Caleb furrowed his brow, mouth gaping at the unexpected answer. It was a strange request he was making, sure, but this was unexpected.

“Daisy isn’t your dog? Then who’s dog is she?”

The woman’s eyes widened, and she brought her wrinkled hand to her chest. She inhaled with a start, tilted her head in question. “Daisy? Whenever did you see Daisy?”

Caleb lowered the box of biscuits, his heart pounding with fear. Did something happen to his Daisy? “I saw her just yesterday, in the yard.”

The lady wiped at her eyes, shaking her head and mouth quaking.

“You must be mistaken, young man. Daisy died four years ago.”

<Back to Flash Fiction>

Flash Fiction: Flappers and Finches (All that Glitters Isn’t Gold)

She glittered like gold, and I was the magpie. It could have been love, but gold changes hands, and birds are born to fly. She was gone by morning.

I kept the delicate silver charm bracelet she left on my nightstand. Its chain shone in the light, a dove charm with jeweled eyes hanging from a link. I used the excuse that I didn’t have a way to contact her. I didn’t even know if that was her real name. The chain was too big for my thin wrist, but I wore it anyway.

In my memories I see her as a peacock, tail feathers dazzling in the light as she danced. But then I berated myself for my callousness. Peacock’s are beautiful, but dumb as hell. We hadn’t spoken enough for me to gauge her wit, but I don’t want to let my bitterness shadow who she could have been.

But the bitterness caught on my tongue when we met eyes at the next soiree (or so the invitation called it.) Her blue jay eyes offered no recognition to my own longing gaze, and the moment passed without the promise of a second one. I lose myself in the liminal space between the time where my heart beat with hope and the disappointment when hands that weren’t my own guided her on the tiled ballroom floor.

I’m no fool. I can rationalize that a one night stand isn’t the best foundation for a love story. But it wasn’t the memories of the room with a view that replayed in a loop in my mind.

We’d talked. Thrown together by happenstance, bumping into each other in a crowd too large and too loud for someone who spends their days in the quiet of the forest, cataloging bird populations and mating habits of chickadees. She saw something in my eyes, pulled me away from the dizzyingly glamorous lights. We spoke in hushed tones— first the weather, then our careers, an avalanche that dragged me down into conversations about our childhoods and our greatest fears. When there was finally a moment of silence between us, the room was quieter, the lights softer, the room emptier.

It seemed natural to spend the night with her but now I wonder if that had turned what could have been a love sonnet into a haiku of wit and impermanence. I was familiar with loneliness. The longing was a new agony.

I sat down my empty champagne glass at an open spot of a table lining the ballroom, adjusted my sequined and tasseled dress, black with geometric patterns in gold. My fingers itched to pull my hair free from my feathered headpiece, but it could wait until I reached the cool of the autumn air and the sparsely lighted cobbled street.

After I offered the host my thanks for the party—that more than likely cost more than my research budget for the year—I got my black fur coat from the doorman and made my way into the biting cold of the night.

I’m at the corner, turning my head to watch for passing cars, when I heard the voice. “Anya!”

I inhaled frigid air as I debated whether to ignore her approach or turn, but I am the hummingbird to her flower. I turned.

She was alone, walked towards me at a pace that had me worried about the height of her heels. In concern, I met her halfway. I found I couldn’t school my expression, and I feared that my annoyance and hurt were betrayed on my face. She smiled though, perfect white teeth and flawlessly red painted lips.

“I was hoping I’d see you tonight,” she said. There’s hurt transparent in her next question. “Why didn’t you come?”

I froze in confusion, caught in her brightness, and confused by words that don’t match my perception. “Come where?”

She pouted, and I wondered that she made it seem like a flirtation. “To my gallery opening. I waited for you, but you never came.”

I clenched my eyes, eyebrows furrowing. “You never told me about that. Or at least, you never told me when or where it was.”

She clicked her tongue in annoyance, and the noise is so like a birds twitter that I find myself falling already. Again. “I left the invitation on the nightstand. I had to leave for an interview with the press and I didn’t want to wake you.”

My chest constricted, and it felt like there’s ice in my veins. “That was yours?” I ask, and I suddenly feel like the biggest fool.

She laughed then, and the sound is like a songbird. “It was under my stage name, goodness me I forgot to tell you.” She leaned forward into me, the fur in our coats mingling, her hands guided mine to her waist. “Aren’t we the most awkward dame’s in the city?”

I gave her a lazy smile, held her close. “The most awkward peacock’s is more like it.”

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Flash Fiction: With the Pieces

It was a Tuesday when her heart broke.

There was nothing significant about that particular Tuesday. She wouldn’t even remember what day it was, if she hadn’t written it in her journal. She found it so odd that it would break on such a day, as Tuesdays have little to no meaning besides being the day after Monday, and far too early in the school week.

And yet, that was when her heart broke. It shattered into pieces, the sound a muffled cracking of glass. She took the pieces and placed them in a plastic sandwich bag, hoping the sharp edges wouldn’t break through. It wouldn’t do to lose pieces of her heart to a hole. Bad enough she’d broken it in the first place.

She placed it in her dresser, under socks and unmentionables, thinking surely her little brother wouldn’t get into it there. She feared he’d cut himself on the sharp edges—or worse, lose or break a piece.

She didn’t know what could be done about it, though, her broken heart. There were plenty of theories amongst her pre-teen girl friends, but no solid evidence that any of it worked.

Dating was one option, but she had no interest in anyone, girl, boy, or otherwise.

Her mother and father may have something to say about it, but she was too afraid to admit she’d broken something so important. No, she had to figure this out on her own.

But as many things do, the broken pieces of her heart wrapped in plastic in her dresser grew forgotten over the years. And what of it? She did well in her classes, she didn’t have any close friends but she made do with acquaintances. The teachers, her family and friends, they all loved her. What did it matter if she couldn’t love them back?

It was something her second girlfriend says that reminds her of the secret hidden in her dresser drawer. “I feel like you’re so disconnected,” she had said. “That you don’t let anyone in.”

This reminded her of her shame, because how can you feel connected to anyone without a heart?

Later that night, she pulled the plastic bag out of her dresser drawer. It was worse for the wear, years of being pushed back and forth between socks and underwear had worn down the sharp edges. She laid the pieces out on her bedspread, and found they didn’t even fit together anymore. How to fix something so broken?

She pondered on this for a while, dismissing ideas as they came. Finally, she thought that maybe she could glue it all together and hope for the best. But first, she needed to do a test- it wouldn’t do to mess it up on her first try. Not that it could get any more broken, but she didn’t trust in her own abilities to hold it steady.

And so she went to her desk, grabbed several sheets of crisp white computer paper, and traced every piece. When that was done, she thought she might as well decorate it, seems how art was one of her favorite subjects, and leaving it blank felt like a waste.

And so each piece took on a new theme- flowers, hearts, clouds, rainbows. When it was all done, she took clear tape and taped it all into a 3D montage until it’s stood on its own, a sort of delicate paper sculpture. She was ready.
But she was also tired. And so she replaced the pieces of her heart into a baggie, and put them back in her dresser drawer to start putting back together tomorrow.

The next day, she placed her schoolbag over the back of her chair, and stared at the paper heart. Just as she decided it was time, her mother knocked on the door, and came directly in—a habit she’d promised she’d stop doing, but that was her mother.

“Did you see that your father-” she starts, then sees the heart on the table. “Well isn’t that just gorgeous sweetheart?” Her mother walks over, leans forward to look at the diagram of the heart, beautiful in it’s simple and varied decorations. “It’s beautiful darling. We should hang this up in the living room, fishing line from the ceiling ought to do it.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but stops. Inside her chest, near her lungs and just under her ribcage, she feels a flutter. A wisp of feeling.

In a moment her mind is set. “I’d love that,” she says, to her mother’s surprise. “Can I help?”

In the following years, decades, and lifetime, whenever she felt those moments of darkness, when the hollow where her heart used to be aches, she picks up pen, pencil, paint—whatever she can find—and she creates with the heart she’s missing.

And she feels.

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