Poll

Which one is the best?

The Child Within
4 (21.1%)
Give Me a Chance – Or How Not to Impress Your Brother
2 (10.5%)
Untitled
5 (26.3%)
Bus Rider
8 (42.1%)

Total Members Voted: 17

Voting closed: August 31, 2012, 07:39:33 PM

Author Topic: Voting #51 Flash Fiction  (Read 1159 times)

Offline 510bhan

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Voting #51 Flash Fiction
« on: August 24, 2012, 07:39:33 PM »
Choose the story you think is the best -- just the one vote.  ;) Poll will close in a week, 1st September 2012


The Child Within

It's dark in here. I am alone, yet not alone, hanging on every whisper to determine my destiny. The erratic beating of her heart and the muffled voices reveal a tenseness in the air outside. Her jangling nerves send out ripples of tension throughout our bodies, and I can feel her pain and torment ebbing and flowing in the mind she shares with her soul. She softly cries, desparately trying not to disturb me. Her mind is overloaded with thoughts, which are tossed backwards and forwards between life and death. "Get rid of it", he says, "It's not right that you should keep it. You will feel better afterwards". Little does he know. I guess he is her husband. Maybe he is afraid I will turn out to be like my father. Maybe he is jealous because he's infertile. Not long now, we are in our twenty fourth week and emotions are running high.

If they decide to terminate, then my earthly life gets flushed away and I will go back to the soul world, which holds its breath, awaiting the outcome. The healing process will remove the trauma of the event and I will be left with a higher knowledge that I will one day draw upon in another life. If they decide to keep me then my memory of the soul world will be blocked for the duration of this life and this event will become a distant memory that will hide away in the deepest recesses of my mind. Am I to have a positive or negative outcome? Can I influence it in anyway? Does it matter?

Should my life take a positive twist and 'he' rises to the challenge, then it is written in cosmic law that we will become a happy and inspirational family; my hidden memory will be eradicated as I am carried by the winds of time to be a successful advocate, bringing forth legislation to protect the balance of life. If he gives in to the dark side and allows his anger and frustration to dominate our life, my suppressed memory will likely rise from the ashes of my mind which will one day inspire me to become a powerful and influential writer; using the proceeds of my work to support a sanctuary for the victims of rape and abuse. Either way I will fulfill my destiny and they will fulfill theirs. It's strange that through adversity and failure we achieve success.



Give Me a Chance – Or How Not to Impress Your Brother


I was back east for the first time since 1982, to be exact more like dragged back to New Jersey and home by family business. In the time I was home my brother Keith twisted my arm in to attending an art show in the town of Clinton. Somewhere in the past several years Keith had become interested in “art”. Our taste in art is about as far apart as night and day, east and west.

I spent a good hour late on Saturday morning touring the art exhibits at the Old Clinton Mill. I was about as impressed as the young girl at the recent Olympics when told the pool was closed to her and her friends. I wasn’t.

“Well what da ya think, bro’?” I looked back Keith was standing just behind me.

“Okay.” What else did he want me to say?

“Okay?” he barked lifting his sunglasses to look at me. “This is some of the best art outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art!”

I cringed. People looked at us wondering what all the commotion was about.

At that moment his girlfriend Terry walked up to us. What those two saw in each other I never knew. They were two opposites to be sure.

“Arguing all ready,” she said slipping her arm around Keith.

“Just opposing opinions,” I said defensively.

We walked outside past the reception desk.

Keith asked: “Okay so what’s wrong with it?”

“Wrong with what?”

“The paintings.”

I drew in a breath knowing my answer would mean another family feud and we wouldn’t talk to each other for another five years. Break my heart.

“Some of these painting would look good as lithographs in Wal-Mart’s Home Décor section.”

He mouthed, “Wal-Mart! You gotta be kidding!”

“Okay,” I conceded. “Some of it is French impressionistic. What I mean is it captures the momentary and transient effects of sunlight by painting en plein air. The painter or artist portrays overall visual effects instead of details.”

I was stretching my limited knowledge of art as it was, yet standing my ground just
the same.
“Where the hell are you coming from?” His eyes were wide with indignation behind his sun glasses. He still did not get it. “That’s some of the best art work in the county – and three states for that matter.”

My thought at that moment was: Okay, I got the bull by the horns, now what do I do with it? I was about to enter the world of art criticism. I gestured for Keith to follow me. The three of us walked back inside. I looked the art over until I found the one I was looking for.

I indicated the art work in question. “This appears as if they just threw a pail of house paint at the canvas and called it art.”

Keith was seething. I showed them another. “This is an impressionistic work. I like it. The work reminds me of Claude Monet’s 1872 work, Sunrise.”

Good thing I knew something about French art, otherwise I’d have been in trouble.

Two days later to me, happiness was New Jersey and the town of Clinton in my review mirror as I drove west across the Delaware River to pick up my wife and daughters from her parents. Hello Colorado, I’m coming home.


Untitled


Katherine stood on the edge of the embankment; her legs wanted to give way. She so desperately wanted to turn and run.

“Detective, over here.”

Katherine stopped. 10 years on the force and she still hated those words. The only words that could stop you in your tracks. That feeling. . . it’s over. . . This time worse than ever. She felt herself pale, sweat beads forming on her hairline. She massaged her aching head her engagement ring catching in her hair. “Damn thing."

“A baby?” she questioned, looking over to the lieutenant. He nodded slowly. Katherine felt sick, her stomach churned. All the bodies she had seen, the decay, the rotting corpses but nothing prepared you for a baby.

As she reached the edge of the embankment, thick and heavy with overgrowth, she felt her legs give slightly. Shaking her head, she braced herself after all a woman on the force was still judged. She braced herself again and peered over looking down into muddy brook. At first, she couldn’t see anything; relief sprang to the forefront of her thoughts but then the lieutenant ambled down the side and lifted the thicket. . . Wrapped in what could only be called a makeshift blanket was the shape of a baby's body. Katherine looked up and held the lieutenant’s gaze. He was waiting for instruction.

Her chest heaved, her bosoms tight against the crisp white shirt.

“A doll?” she asked her voice barely a whisper.

“Pardon?”

“Could it be a doll?” she shouted steadying herself. “Never mind,” she said. Always trying to prove her worth in the force, she knew it was her job to investigate, wasn’t fair the young lieutenant having to see this. Hiking up her skirt and taking off each shoe she edged down the steep embankment, sludge gripping to her bare toes as she reached the edge gravel tore at her feet, the lieutenant grabbed hold of her hand tight as she slid down through the mud. . . Then they were level. She nodded and lifted back the thicket again. A stench filled each nostril as she bent down, slowly peeling back the greying blanket her heart ached, she sank to her knees overcome with emotion, tears flooding down each cheek.

“No!” she screamed, reaching and holding her chest tight. “Can’t breathe,” her shirt felt wet. She looked at the lieutenant whose gaze was now firmly on her chest. Looking down each breast leaking, every mother’s dream. . .




Bus Rider

He got a job. Finally. After applying for at least eighteen others, Warren Peabody finally landed one. Not the best job in the world, for sure, but it gave him a steady paycheck. No more skimping on groceries. No more missing rent payments. No more, “I’m sorry, but your qualifications don’t quite meet our needs.”

On his first day, he donned the only clean clothes he owned, hurried to the bus stop, and waited. And waited. And waited. And cursed. And apologized to the woman next to him for cursing.

As he was about to start running, the bus appeared. “I’m very late,” Warren told the small crowd as he not-so-subtly edged his way toward the curb. “It’s my first day on a new job.” He was met with a sea of shoulders and elbows and comments like, “That’s not my problem, pal.”

He waited until the bus doors opened, and tried again to squeeze through, but it was like trying to move a stone wall, and he was the last person to board. “Hell of a day to be late,” he told the driver.

“Ask me if I care,” the driver shot back. “This is my last day on the job. What are they going to do, fire me?”

“Yes, I know,” said Warren. “I’m going to be the new driver on this route.” He turned to face the crowd of passengers. “Did you all hear that? I’m going to be the new driver on this route.” He smiled, strode smartly to the rear of the bus, and slid onto a seat at the opposite end of his future.



Offline 510bhan

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Re: Voting #51 Flash Fiction
« Reply #1 on: August 31, 2012, 07:14:14 PM »
C'mon folks not long left till voting closes!