Flash Fiction: Enough About Love

Their footsteps echoed on the steel floor beneath them, a metal clang swallowed by the empty streets. It was morning yet, the sun barely risen, the pinks and oranges reflected back from the galvanized walkway.

It’s a fine morning, they think, all the better for its silence.

Even the shopkeepers kept their signs on ‘closed’ this time of day, no need for morning services. With biological immortality, the need for breakfast and early morning jogs had become a matter of choice rather than an imperative, a notion that shopkeepers were less and less willing to cater to.

But that was okay with the traveler. They liked the peace and quiet.

They slowed in front of a two-story building, coated in two-toned checkered steel. Despite the sun’s rays, the metal siding was cool to the touch as they tapped the voice box next to the doorway. There was a delay, then the door opened up to the sight of their mother, still in their nightclothes.

“I brought you some food, mother, for the party tonight,” they said, knowing not to expect much in the way of conversation this early in the day.

Mother nodded and reached for the canvas bags, set them inside the doorway before turning to their child with a frown. “And what of your date?” she asked with trepidation. “How did it go?” It was an old conversation they’d had many times on their mother’s doorstep.

“There was no such date,” they reply. “And there never will be.”

Their mother shakes her head and rubs at her crusted eyes. “I don’t understand. You’ve been given their name, why would you not want happiness?”

They shrug and refuse to meet their mother’s gaze. “I’m happy enough. I’ve heard enough about love.”

Mother sighs and leans forward to give their child a warm hug. “I just want you to be happy,” their mother says, but they know not how to explain.

Later, nestled in blankets in front of a multimedia screen, their thirteen-year-old dog on their lap, they smile remembering.

An end to death. An end to war. An end to famine, sickness, persecution, and the most important of them all, an end to heartbreak. That is what the future of humanity promised. All it took was a fingerprint, and your soulmate could be found.

Their mother had tricked them into providing the fingerprint, but no trick could make them contact their other half.

“What have you against love?” their friend had asked before kissing her boyfriend. They’d separated after a moment, and she’d asked, “Why wouldn’t you want to be happy?”

“I’ve heard enough about love,” they’d replied in their quiet way, smile still soft.

Because the promise of humanity was a lie, but not one they would mourn.

There had been no other half.

There is only the love they have, and what they choose to do with it.

After all, they have enough love.

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Flash Fiction: Prince of Glass

This flash fiction is a love story to my wife, who passed away suddenly almost three years ago. She was a huge fan of Fall Out Boy, but passed away before their newest album,  Mania, was released. She would have loved the album, so I wanted to include snippets of my favorite lyrics to pay homage to a band that inspired her so much.



I’m just young enough to still believe but young enough not to know what to believe in.”

The first words I remember telling you are branded in my memory. The fire of youth burned in us both, but the flames only licked at ashes around us. You understood what I meant. The light in your eyes was the brightness of stained glass. 

I’d learn another day, another month, another year later as we lay in bed, curled under throw blankets and heads drowning in your soft pillows, that you felt it then. When ‘I’ had become ‘we.’

“I knew it had to be you then. You’re just the last of the real ones.”

That’s how memory goes, isn’t it? We remember the moments, but the whole, like a forest, is lost in the trees.

I remember the first time I knew I was in love.

You drain the fear from me,” I had thought as I walked at your side.

That was before. Before I wondered about the things that you do in the name of what you love. What happens when together becomes the one that was lost and the one that was left behind.

In truth, some princes don’t become kings. Some fairytales are never told, and others quake in the face of life and tragedy.

Those days after you died, all those who loved and supported me concrete pillars around me, it all felt dim. There’s nothing more cruel than to be loved by everybody but you. To know that tomorrow will rise without you in it.

But you only get what you grieve. To love, be loved, is to have and lose.

As the years went on, the distance between us, it sharpens me like a knife. The world tried to burn all the mercy out of me. I became hardened and cold, and for a while, everything felt like thorns in my chest. A frosted glass instead of the beautiful rose windows I’d come to love when you were with me.

I’m struggling to exist with you and without you. I can’t bear the memories, but their absence would leave me empty, and I can’t stand the idea of losing what little is left of you.

It’s like I woke up on the wrong side of reality. Like there’s no discernable explanation for how you could exist one moment and not the next. How there can be a world where you’re there, and then one where you’re not.

I’m looking through pieces of broken hourglass, trying to get it all back. Put it back together but the shards cut at my hands, and as the sharp pain raches my nerves the pain leaves me shaken.

The only comfort is the certainty that if I can live through this, I can do anything

If I can take the broken pieces of glass, bend the metal of my nerve and determination into some semblance of a frame, I can make beauty from broken glass.

If I can only.

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Flash Fiction: Demon Inside

It grips me in a chokehold, the breath hanging suspended in my throat.

I let the tears fall like a downpour. It’s a wasted effort to hold them backit takes so much of me to focus on breathing. The rhythm of in and out is stuttered by hiccuped sobs.

I’m in this same room, the same bed. The same feeling, like a flash flood.

Distant memories hold themselves up like strips of film in the light. My eyes track the memories at the same time my body understands that the world is not so filled with beauty anymore. Not so filled with that person in my memories, but rather there’s a demon-shaped hole where they should be.

The following day, I go to the craft store with a singular purpose. I find the woodworking aisle, filled with unpainted slabs of wood in different shapes; hearts, circles, frames. There’s a box about six inches square, with a small metal latch.

I debate if I should paint it, but decide that would be a deed for another day. For now, my only worry is getting it out of me.

The next time I feel a fit coming on, I rush to my room where it is perched on my dresser. I grab it in cupped hands, sit cross-legged on the bed. I unlatch it, baring the raw wood inside.

I let the demon out.

It pours out of me in tears, choking sobs, hands clenched tight. I focus everything into putting the demon inside that perfect little box.

When I’m done, chest heaving with no sobs left to give, I shut it. Close the latch. Place it back on my dresser.

I do this for days. Weeks. Months. I do this for a year before one day, I see the box and know that it is time to paint it.

I scrounge up every penny I can because I need to do this right. I paint it glossy black. When that is dry, I take a brush with delicate gold leaf paint and create sprawling vines from the latch that crawl over the edges.

At the very top, I paint in scrawling letters: Memorandum Est.

The box sits on my dresser for a week before I feel the need to exorcise the demon again. The process of bringing it out takes more effort as the months go by, but leaves me shuddering to my bones every time.

Until one day, I look up at the dresser and don’t feel the need to exorcise it at all. Instead, there is something else I know I must do.

I take the box and sit on the bed, my back along the headboard. I stare at the box in my hand, tracing the letters with my fingers, the vines with my eyes. I unlatch the brass, pulling the lid of the box back.

It’s time to heal.

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Flash Fiction: “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. I jump into action, hold her cheek, ask her if she’s choking, did she eat something she wasn’t supposed to.
She only shakes her head, tears running down her cheeks.
“Please Erin, no! Someone, please!” I don’t know who or what I’m crying for, only that I want whatever is happening to my little sister to stop.
But there is nothing there to stop.

Maybe that’s why of five siblings, it was only my sister and me left.

“It’s a curse,” she says. It’s barely a whisper, but stuffed into the cathedral as we were, even a whisper is like a prayer to my ears.
“Wonder who will be next?”
I spy from the corner of my eye one of them sneaking a glance towards us.
To me.
“Bet it’ll be the oldest. She’s always getting in trouble. Maybe she’s the one doing it.”

Funny how scarcity breeds dependence.

“It’s just us, now.” Eileen grasps both my hands in hers on the sheet, our foreheads near touching as we stare into each other’s eyes.
“We have to stick together.”
I don’t comment on the tears, and she doesn’t comment on the lack of mine.

I suppose they thought I’d be the one to save them.

“It’s the only way to save us both.”
It’s a lie, and she knows it. I don’t trust this man, his honeyed words, this convenient solution.
One that means not destroying the curse, but forcing it to move on. To another family, another child.
“You’re wrong. It’ll damn us both.”

They figured I’d been the seed to sprout their saving grace.

“Stay with your sister. It’s the only way.”
“That’s a lie and you know it.”
The backhand is instant, as if she expected my outburst. It sends me sprawling onto the floor, holding where her hand landed with something akin to resolve.
“Don’t you dare say that, ever again, you hear?”
I won’t.
But I won’t need to.

But me?

Their voices are hushed, a whispered conversation behind closed doors. They think I don’t hear.
I do.
“If it comes down to saving one, save Eileen. I hope it won’t come to that, but we need to be prepared.”
There’s a pause, then a determined answer.
“I understand.”

I don’t have any roots.

“Jessie, please, don’t do this!”
I move further away from the circle of salt, the runes written on the floor of the shed. I pull the sachet and dagger from out of my jacket pocket.
“Only one of us can survive. You knew it all along. You’re just mad you didn’t pull the trigger first.”
I raise the dagger in front of me, holding it over the top of my right hand, the sachet grasped in a tight fist.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t want to die.”

I owe them nothing.

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Flash Fiction: A New Mountain

(This is a submission to the Rue|Lou Prompt Flash Fiction submissions from Twitter (#ruelouprompts)

Every Thursday, Rue (@sparkswrites) or Lou (@lw_writes) submits a prompt for any writer to submit Flash Fiction for. Each piece must be 500 words or under, and either include the prompt or be inspired by it.

This prompt did NOT fit into the 500 words, but I felt it was a better story intact so I left it as-is.)

A New Mountain

I struggle through the drifts, feet burying into snow up to my knees with every step. My hands are numb from the cold, ice and snow no longer melting under them when I grasp the trees to keep myself upright. The occasional pinpricks that shoot through my fingers mean I may yet keep them, but not if I don’t get out of the blizzard, soon.

Bitterness rises in my throat like bile.

I’d volunteered to make the trek with the doctor and midwife to a nearby village to ask for aid. Our town had been wracked by sudden disease.

But it had all gone so wrong. The sudden downfall of snow caught us off guard. The midwife had fallen down a sheer drop, the doctor claiming the remaining pack of supplies for his own when we failed to find the trail back. He’d warned me off with his pistol, mad with the will to survive. I’d fled, stumbling at first through brush and trees, then mounds of snow and ice.

I found the cliff face. Peering over I could spot the lights from the town in the distance- too far. My hope drains through my skull. There’s only one person who lives anywhere near this area.

The Beast.

Or so they called him.

He kept to himself, shuttered in his dilapidated mansion on the cliff overlooking the shore, barely visible from town on clear days.

When newcomers asked of the mansion, the townsfolk spun wild tall tales, leaving those who had asked wide-eyed and fearful.

I’d never met him, the Beast. I didn’t know if it was a name or a description.

All I know is that I have to find shelter.

I approach the mansion carefully. Crumbling stone pillars nearly block the entryway, but a single lamp lights the stairs leading to the door.

I climb them, stumbling on ice, legs nearly ready to give out but so close to salvation. It warms my frozen tongue enough for me to call out as I knock with icy fingers.

At first, nothing. But then the front door creaks slightly open. I feel the warm air escape the stone building.

“Hello?,” I call out. “Can I come in? Please? Only, I’m lost, I need-“

The door is thrown open, warm arms covered in scraggly hair envelop me as I’m pulled inside. I’m hit with the heat from the fire in an instant, choking the breath from me as it battles the chill in my lungs before my body is able to adjust.

“Sit by the fire,” he says, voice a deep rumble that I feel in my chest like a strike of fear.

He pushes me into a chair, moves towards the fire with his back to me. He’s tall, shoulders sloping into a mane of black hair that’s half tied at the crown of his head. He leans down, grabbing several pieces of wood in a hand covered in black fur with veins of white, ending in sharp claws.

I rub my hands together, trying to warm them and hide the tremors of fear my fingers would betray. When he turns to me, my brow furrows, but no other emotion is betrayed.

His face is… inhuman, as expected. Strong jaw, fangs peeking between furred lips.

But what I didn’t expect was the concerned, gentle, very human emotion on his face. A strange juxtaposition to the animal ferocity I’d last seen on the face of the quite human doctor.

“Who are you?” I know the better question would have been what but I’d been struck by his expression.

He seems as surprised as I am at my non-reaction to him, but if it seems to amuse him because he smiles. He moves to a large, sturdy armchair next to the fire that creaks as he sits.

“Who I am does not matter.” he starts. “How have you come to this place? You don’t seem prepared to travel in a storm.”

The story falls from my lips in a rush, my words a waterfall that I couldn’t hold back had I tried.

He’s quiet after my story is told, claws idly scratching at the wood that makes up the arm of his chair.

“I am what I have been made,” he says. “I don’t know how or why. I only remember this place, like a waking dream.” He pauses in his scratching, staring into the fire.

“You are welcome to stay until the storm passes, I have food and wood to spare. But what of the doctor? What would you like to become of him?”

“I hadn’t given thought to it,” I say. “Were he to die I would not mourn. But were I to see him again, I don’t know what I would do. It’s his word against mine. I would gain nothing by sharing my story.”

He’s quiet, long enough that I too turn my face towards the fire, close my eyes. I can see the flames flit through my eyelids, and I breathe in the wonder that is warmth and safety.

“And if he were to not make it through the night? Were he to find himself prey to some… beast. What would you say then?”

My inhale is sharp, but the cold fear I expect never comes.

Bitterness and bile.

“I would be grateful to such a beast,” I whisper. “If such a thing were to happen.”

He nods, and I can see a ripple in his muscles as they tense. He stands from the chair, then walks back towards the door we’d come from.

I find myself filled with no regret, no urge to call back the words I uttered. Fear flutters in my chest, but not for me. Not for the doctor, either.

“Be careful,” I say to the Beast. “He has a pistol.”

“Me?” He smiles, all fangs. “I’m only going out for firewood.”

He grabs a mammoth velvet cloak from a stand next to the door, throws it over his shoulders. He is there, and then like a shadow, he is gone. The door closes on the wintery landscape with a slam behind him.

I stare at the fire in his absence.

Sometimes you fall to rise onto a new mountain. I smile, hands warmed, the fire dancing in front of me.

And sometimes, the beauty befriends the beast.

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Flash Fiction: Ten Nanoseconds

(This is a submission to the Rue|Lou Prompt Flash Fiction submissions from Twitter (#ruelouprompts)

Every Thursday, Rue (@sparkswrites) or Lou (@lw_writes) submits a prompt for any writer to submit Flash Fiction for. Each piece must be 500 words or under, and either include the prompt or be inspired by it.)

Ten Nanoseconds
TW: Child death (referenced), Grief, PTSD)

Ten nanoseconds. It’s my mantra. My saving grace and my kryptonite. It alternates between a lifeline and the rope to hang myself with.

Ten nanoseconds. That’s how long I had to move, to make the decision between my life and my daughters. Elijah calculated it, thought it would help. From footage from a nearby traffic light, he’d deduced that’s how long I had to think clearly enough to pull my daughter from her fate. To save her.

He believed it would help me come to terms with the idea that there was nothing I could have done. But no matter the logic he throws at me, that it was impossible for me to change the course of events, it doesn’t matter. It becomes a vice- ten nanoseconds for my daughters’ life.

Today I live a half-life. There is a part of me still living in those ten nanoseconds. It’s a perpetual, infinitesimal loop of the living, breathing me and my daughter during a time where I could have made a difference but didn’t.

I make lunch plans. Work the same nine to five job I have for fourteen years. Go to dinner parties with people that knew her, knew my daughter, and can’t understand that there is a part of me that died with her.

I get good at it, pretending. Those ten nanoseconds, that place I live, I bury it deep into myself where no one can find it. Until the people around me tell me how proud they are of me for surviving. Until my husband hugs me and says we can make it through this and we will do the best we can to make her proud.

I get good at it. But not perfect.

I excuse myself from lunches to choke back sobs in the restroom. I explain I have an early morning when out at dinner in order to go to my car, turn off the interior lights so I remain unnoticed and sob hard enough that I wonder if I’ll ever breathe the same again.

The years go by and those ten nanoseconds become a festering wound. It’s a blackened part of my heart that won’t mend, and the longer I live, the deeper the hurt becomes.

I lash out in anger for odd reasons, or no reason at all. Instead of words of comfort or condolences, I am met with misunderstandings and resistance. I feel like you’ve left, a friend tells me. I don’t feel like I’m connecting with any part of you anymore. Where did you go?

It never left her, I want to say. I’m still buried with her.

I lose friends. Family. My husband. Those ten nanoseconds take everything from me, and then they take me too.

I stand on the cusp of destroying myself and starting the climb up a sheer cliff of pain. There are no easy solutions, no answers.

Ten nanoseconds. Enough to save me, or enough to destroy me.

Which should I choose?

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