#flashfiction

Adventures of Smithsonian Mug Continued

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Does everyone out there in this great big world of ours feel like they never have enough time? Or is that because I’m an over-committer. I’m loving this free MOOC (massive online course–or something like that) I’m taking, and I’ve been spending a lot of my free seconds online with the class. And so today, I’m going to share the second piece I wrote for the class, in which the mug I personified becomes an object of conflict and desire. The assignment was to have two people fight about the object. I chose to do this with the mug as simply an object, not personified as in the last assignment.

Oh, and if you’re a visual person here is Grandfather Mug and Red Tall Mug from the last story “Smithsonian Mug.” You may want to read that one before you read this, but they can stand alone too.

Red Tall Mug and Grandfather Mug

Cracked Up
About 500 words

“I know I left Smithsonian mug on the shelf. Have you seen it, Rob?”

Rob sat at the table and upon hearing my words shifted his eyes and turned his back, ever-so-slightly, away from me.

“Haven’t seen it.”

I glanced at the pot of coffee, only two-thirds of the way full, instead of brimming over the top like normal. The rich aroma of brewed beans led me to Smithsonian mug.

“Ah-ha!” I said. “You have it.”

“It’s just a mug, Lauren. Get another one. Red tall mug is in the cabinet.”

“I don’t want red tall mug. I want Smithsonian mug. Smithsonian mug belongs to me. I bought it! I want to feel the curve of its warmth against the palm of my hand. And Smithsonian mug wants to be there too. I can tell.”

I slammed my fist on the table, and Smithsonian mug wobbled as black coffee spilt from its edges onto the white surface of the breakfast room table.

Rob’s startled eyes opened wide. “Smithsonian mug doesn’t want to be corrupted by milk. Black coffee only.”

“What are you talking about? Smithsonian mug loves milk. The feeling Smithsonian mug gets when he’s filled with coffee and then slurps up a teaspoon of milk. It’s like how a child feels dipping an Oreo and waiting for it to get just the right amount of soggy before popping it in his mouth.”

“Fine, you can have your precious mug!” Rob said.

He stomped toward me but didn’t see the Barbie doll on the floor until it was too late. It happened in slow motion. He tripped one leg held askance from his body as his arms flung out from his side, trying to catch his balance. Smithsonian mug flew through the air, coffee splashing the sage green walls of the kitchen. The deafening roar of the crash filled my ears as the precious mug shattered into small pieces across the tile floor. Smithsonian mug was no more.

“At least we can’t fight over it anymore,” Rob said. “I’ll get the mop.”

Some comments I received about this, is that my hand on the table was too startling and did not flow with the fight. I could see that, but anyone who knows me knows that I sometimes react more strongly than the situation calls for. My husband is also like this, and sometimes he’s non-nonchalant, like he is at the end of the story. Still, it gave me something to ponder in relationship to my story-telling skills, which is the point of the class after all.

What do you think? If you’re a writer, leave me a comment-story about an object that’s being fought over! I’d love to read it.

Did you know The Devil Within ebook is on sale until October 17th! Pick up your copy on Amazon: http://amzn.to/1QU3axK.

The Devil Within Cover

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Don’t Be A Chicken

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I’ve been remiss in posting the last few days! Work and life have been crazy, and my kindergartener, sweet darling that she is, is having a terrible time adjusting to school. So my mind has been elsewhere.

Today, just so you know I still exist, I’m posting a piece I wrote for Finish That Thought. I made some minor tweaks, as I had a few typos originally. This piece won me the contest this week, so next week I’ll be judging! Any of you writers should make sure to enter.

Don’t Be A Chicken

Oh no, please no, I thought as I ran toward the Kentucky Fried Chicken. Or I should really say ran toward the train wreck that was once my diet. It was the smell of fried chicken. I’d whiffed the scent on my way home from the gym. All those hours, sweating in the gym to look good for Marco, and now I was about to stuff my face with a big-fat grease-filled chicken bucket. At least I could say the potatoes were a vegetable. Wait, were they?

Sweat poured down my face as I neared the KFC. I slowed to a light jog. At least I could justify it by saying I’d ran all the way here. How the scent of KFC could travel three whole miles down 83rd Street and alight on my nose the moment I walked out of the YMCA was beyond me. And I’d made the three miles in record time too: 25 minutes. Heck I’d be ready for a marathon soon—right after I dug into a huge bucket of chicken.

I opened the door and the wonderful scent of fried food wafted toward me. I inhaled deeply. This had to be heaven. After all the salad and fruit I’d been eating, I couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into a nice moist chicken leg. I didn’t even care if the scale reflected it in the morning. To heck with Suzie and her weekly weigh-ins.

Bucket in hand, smile on my face, I turned scanning the restaurant for the perfect place to devour 3,000 heavenly calories of perfect bird. And then—there he sat. By the window with the big swirly K. Marco. I couldn’t care less about being near him still wearing my soaking wet pink workout shirt. It wasn’t the sweat dripping off my face and forming puddles on the floor. No—here I stood in KFC holding a chicken bucket for one, and already gnawing on a chicken leg before I’d even found a seat.

He waved at me frantically, and I did what came naturally, pretended he didn’t exist. Maybe I could fit into the trash barrel. Maybe I’d drop the chicken bucket on the floor and run back into the heat, but then the sweet aroma tickled my nostrils again and I knew I needed another bite.

Wait a minute, Marco was committing the sin of fast fried food too! I smiled and waved like I was a desperate preteen girl who’d just gotten her braces removed. Oh, those kissable lips. And then, wait, what? He motioned for me to come sit with him. And before I could stop myself, I’d joined him. Giant bucket and all.

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Wind of Change

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Today, because I’m still not ready to review my current Southern Fiction book, Cold Sassy Tree, I’m putting up a piece of flash fiction I wrote for Alissa Leonard’s Blog the other day. I took Special Challenge winner on this piece (a prediction had to be included). And I had a lot of fun playing with voice in this story. Enjoy!

Wind of Change
499 words
@laurenegreene
Special Challenge accepted

The seller of marmalade arrived just after the tornado. In fact, Grandpa’s house had been smashed to bits and poor Lily Blue’s body weren’t even found yet. But don’t worry your pretty little head about her. She was just a cat.

Grandpa had predicted it would be a big ‘un, and he was right.

“Right as rain,” he said, stroking his whiskers.

I rolled my eyes, because everyone knows rain can’t be right.

The marmalade man must have thought we had a boat-load of money, because he showed up and set up a wooden stand packed with jars of jelly. Sign said: 2 for $0.10. But Grandpa’s cash was gone with the house. Grandpa said I should have said Gone With The Wind, on account of it being a tornado and all. I ain’t read that book, and I probably never will ‘cause I hear it’s for girls.

I took to standing ‘round the marmalade man as Grandpa hammered nails and tried to fix us up some shelter.

“You from these parts?” I asked.

“No. I’m from New York.”

Darn Yankee, I thought, but I had ‘nuff sense not to say it.

“Do people buy marmalade?” I asked.

“More than you think.”

“You travel ‘round the world selling this here stuff?”

“Last year I sold Bibles, but then those Gideons started giving them away for free. Imagine that.”

“I’ve lived here my whole life. Just me and Grandpa,” I said.

“Where are your parents?” the man asked.

“Up’in left when I was just a babe. Grandpa says, ‘Good riddance, never needed them nohow.’”

“You have the world in your heart, I can tell,” the seller of marmalade said.

I looked at him real funny-like, cocking my head to the side. “What’cha mean?”

“You look like a traveler. How’d you like to be my sidekick? The road gets awfully lonely.”

Grandpa done predicted that I wouldn’t stay in this here valley town my whole life. I looked over my shoulder at him, and I picked up a jar of marmalade running my finger ‘round the silvery-looking top. Grandpa was busy nailing two four-by-fours together. He wouldn’t live forever, and there weren’t much for me in the pile of wood that remained.
“I think I’d like it right fine. When we goin’?”

“Tonight. You be here by the light of the moon.”

The marmalade man packed up his table and jams quicker than you can say, ‘my dear aunt rose,’ and all but disappeared. The thought of the world filled my ‘magination as I worked beside Grandpa. By the time the sun set, we had a shelter.

“I reckon I was right and you’ll be moving on.”

“How’d you know?”

“I’m smarter than I looks,” Grandpa said. “You go on and git. Nothing here but a dead cat and a pile of bones. But never forget where you came from, you hear.”

By the light of the moon, I left. Like Grandpa always said, “Storms be bringin’ the wind of change.”

What do you think about the main character? Did I do his voice justice?

Don’t forget No Turning Back is on sale for $1.99 until August 21st! You can pick it up at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

No_Turning_Back3

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I’m A Winner!

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Last week I wrote Xs and Os for Mid-Week Blues Buster 3.07, and I found out today I won. For those of you who write flash fiction, you should try your hand at MWBB. They use a song prompt, and it always makes my mind spin a story. 3.08 is going on right now! I was super excited to win, since this was the first flash piece I’d written in some time. I’ve been so busy this month.

Here’s the cool badge I won:

bbster

Not only have I gone on a semi-second Honeymoon with my husband in Punta Cana (you have to go there), but I published a book, The Devil Within. My mother-in-law came in town, and we took the kids to Stone Mountain. And this coming week I’m going to the Midwest Writer’s Conference. So much going on!

And today, I’m celebrating another accomplishment. I went for a run and did 2 miles in 11 minutes 44 seconds. This has taken me forever to accomplish. And now I can work on increasing my mileage over the next few weeks and speed. I’m intending to do a 5K sometime later in the year (because you know, I don’t have enough on my plate). I mostly run because it helps keep the weight off and I’ve struggled with weight for some time. I also do it so I can organize the thoughts in my head. Running is great for planning and plotting out works-in-progress. Today, I worked on figuring out the next steps in the new Southern Lit novel I’m working on. More details on that later, when I’m at a point where I feel like I can share.

Xs and Os

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I haven’t shared my flash fiction in awhile, because I haven’t been writing it as much. Between promoting The Devil Within, editing Little Birdhouses, and writing my no-name work-in-progress I haven’t had time. But this week, I decided to write for Mid-week Blues-Buster.

The song this week is Little Blue One by Cowboy Mouth, which is an upbeat song about a sad subject. When I heard this song, after not having listened to Cowboy Mouth for years it took me back to a crowded concert venue in Atlanta in the late 90’s or early 00’s, where I’d gone to visit my childhood friend, Stacy, at college. I hadn’t heard them before I attended the concert with Stacy and Andrea and a few other friends, and I immediately liked their music.

Fair warning: the subject matter is about divorce or the end of a relationship.

Here’s the song if you’d like to have a listen:

So here’s the Dear Jane letter…

Xs and Os
554 words
@laurenegreene

Dear Jane,

The dream again. Your face. But when I wake up you’re not beside me in the ocean swell of what-used-to-be our king sized bed. The room wreaks of your ghost. I pretend not to think of you. I tell my repetitive thoughts to still the image of you in my mind as I pour two cups of coffee instead of one for the third time this week. Without thought, I pour the second one down the drain. I think about picking up the extra cup and smashing it against the wall, but instead I set it in the sink and think about how you would have told me to “just put it in the dishwasher.”

The photos of you and me in the Caymans eating turtle soup. The smile on your face is eternal. You don’t live here anymore with me, but every waking moment I have to tell myself you’re gone. Today, I’ll take the photos down. It’s been six months, and I know you’re not coming back. I’ll put them in boxes, and I’ll wrap them up, and it will be like our life together never existed. That’s what you wanted.

When your text pinged my cell at 2 AM, I had to stumble from the couch where I’d fallen asleep watching Geraldo. I knocked the half empty bottle of wine onto the rug. You remember that rug, don’t you? We spent four hours debating on whether to get blue wool or the checkered cotton at Pottery Barn. I, like the sales clerk, wanted to gouge out my eyes with knives before you’d make up your mind. Back and forth. Wishy washy. That was always your way. Maniacal laughter erupted from my lips when I thought how ironic it was that this rug, your baby, your precious, had been left in my incapable hands. It’s in the green trashcan waiting for pickup on the curb now. So long sucker.

The laughter turned to tears when I read your text. “I want an annulment.” The words stung. Married for six years and just like that you wanted to pretend we didn’t exist. Well maybe you didn’t exist, but I did. I waited for you, lost in your blue world of depression as you were. I stuck with you when no one did. I made sure they pumped your stomach. I made sure you didn’t die on the pink title floor of our bathroom by sticking my finger down your throat. Covered in your puke and half-digested pills, I helped get you to the hospital. I saved your life…literally. And I helped you find your way. Even if that way was away from me.

So, my little blue one, now that you’ve found your way you want to pretend that none of it ever happened? Move on, put me behind you and that period of your life when you couldn’t control yourself. You couldn’t control your emotions.

The answer is no. I’ll grant you a divorce, but not an annulment. Because not every day was filled with vomit and fights over rugs. I walked on the beach with you. I kissed you under a gazebo. I imagined our life together, complete with babies, and I thought I’d be with you forever. I can’t pretend that never existed.

Xs and Os, the answer is no.

–John

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Thought of a Day: The best way to help a newbie author like me is to read, review, and recommend their book!

Cold Heart, Cold Mind

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I wrote for Finish That Thought today.  I’ve been taking too many breaks lately, letting the urge to write slip away form me. This week, I’m trying to get back on the wagon (so to speak).  I have editing of my next book to do, and I keep putting it off.  I’m going to try to set some goals over the weekend, and I’ll post them here next week.  I’m goal oriented, and when I track I do so much better.  Plus, blogging! I haven’t been doing it after the A to Z Challenge nearly as much as I want to. I’m hoping with summer quickly descending on us and the absence of afternoon activities for the kids that I’ll be more productive.  We shall see!

Cold Heart, Cold Mind
@laurenegreene
495 words

I had not felt this way for a long time, but then again it had been a while since I’d been back. Dad had cut the topiaries into animal shapes, and covered with snow, they reminded me of the scene from “The Shining,” so I kept a safe distance, hugging the side of the hedge as I walked to the door. My heart pounded in my chest like a million drummers in a band. The snow fell around me, and I shivered as I stood there trying to build up my nerve. I felt like a little kid again, lost and alone, not to mention freezing—Florida was so nice this time of year, I wish I’d never left.

If I stood there one more second, I might turn into an icicle, or worse yet I might freeze in one position snow-covered like the topiaries dotting Dad’s yard. I knew he needed me. My comfort. My presence, but the truth was I didn’t care about him anymore. Ever since he’d left Mom, I’d told myself he didn’t matter.

But then Janie had called six months ago and said Grace had died. Dad had dementia. She would arrange a nurse. Even nurses needed vacations, and Janie was out of pocket this week, in Disney World with her husband and three kids. I guess she deserved a vacation too.

I rubbed my hands together, they seemed frozen solid, and I wasn’t sure if the fist would form so I could knock on the door. The topiaries were so well trimmed. Was that part of Hanna’s job description or had Dad kept up with them, even in his confusion? Finally, I knocked.

Hanna came to the door, wearing a white nurse’s cap, like someone out of an old-timey movie. From behind, Dad wrapped his arms around her and squeezed.

“She’s a hottie, isn’t she?” Dad asked, as Hanna pushed his arm from her waist.

“Bill, I’ve told you a thousand times, I’m your nurse not your wife.”

“Where’d Grace get off to?”

I stood in the doorway, my eyelashes nearly frozen. Winter in Michigan was hell.

“You must be Christina. Thank God you’re here.”

Dad scooted around Hanna and screwed up his eyeballs as his mind whirled like a hamster on a wheel, trying to locate me in a sea of frothy memories.

“Tell my friends to come in too, Grace. They’re covered in snow,” he said, waving to the topiaries.

“They’re better off outside, Dad,” I said as Hanna scooted out of the way, and I stepped into the warmth of the house.

“Dad?” he asked.

“It’s Christina, your youngest daughter,” I said.

“I don’t have any children. Just ask Grace,” Dad said.

“She’s dead, Dad,” I said.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you Christina. I’m leaving in ten minutes. Let me show you where your dad’s meds are,” Hanna said.

Dad stared at the topiaries. The only friends he had, left out in the cold.

Z is for Zoe

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All good things must come to an end. Today is the last day of the A to Z Challenge. Crazy! This month flew by. Today I wrote about a little girl Zoe for a flash fiction challenge over on Micro Bookends. Enjoy. I have a pounding headache this morning, so I’m off to catch a few more Zs and see if I can sleep it away.

Runaway
@laurenegreene
107 words

Wild feelings flitted through Zoe’s mind as she walked through the ancient and abandoned sewer system. She stopped and stared up through one of the openings, the glare from the sun blinding her for just a minute. When she looked down black spots speckled her vision, and she thought she might faint.

She’d show them. She’d never come back. She’d live in the woods for the rest of her life. She knew how to survive. A ladder at the end of the tunnel reached almost up to the sky. She would climb out from the darkness of the underground transformed into an adult, no longer a child.

Yvette

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I can’t believe the A to Z Challenge is coming to an end tomorrow. I’ve loved doing it. I thought about writing, “It’s not over YET,” as my “Y” post, but I had some flash to do, so instead I just named one of the characters Yvette.  I think I’ll do a reflection post on Friday about the A to Z Challenge. I’ve enjoyed the experience so much.

Without further ado, here’s the piece I wrote for Mid-week Blues-Buster. The song, to me seemed to be about internal demons, but it spun a great little thriller piece in my head. This is one I may develop further at another time.

Peace at Last
@laurenegreene
639 words

 

The rain rushed in as Yvette tried to kick in the door with her heel.

“Let me do it,” Steve said, pushing her out of the way.

We thought the house was empty. It’s true what they say—when you’re wrapped up with the wrong group of friends, you never realize it until it’s too late. That night, as the lightening crashed down around us, and the moss on the oak trees swayed like ghosts dancing in the rain, fate started shaking its ugly fist.

Steve and I both had pistols. Yvette and Coco raided the kitchen. I didn’t know why in the hell they always went there first. I followed Steve toward the bedroom. The house was dark, but looked lived in. A magazine was tossed on a coffee stained table in the living room, a stuffed bunny abandoned on a multi-colored rug. We rounded the corner, and looked up stairs that led to a loft, but continued past to the master bedroom. If the girls had told us food was simmering on the stove, we would have walked out the door, but that’s not what happened.

They were in bed, and the commotion had awakened them. A terrified look on their faces like a deer right before he’s hit by a car.

“I thought you said no one was home,” I said.

“Shut up,” Steve said.

The half-naked man and woman in the bed shook, huddled together with fear. Steve had his gun out now, and so I took my gun out too.

The half strangled word came out of their mouths, “No,” before it was cut off by the sound of the bullet crashing into the man’s skull and the woman’s scream, which I quickly silenced with a bullet of my own. My heart raced in my chest like thunder rolling down a mountain, and I couldn’t believe what I’d done in that split second. Now, I wasn’t just a thief, I was a killer.

“Oh my God, we have to get out of here.”

Steve laughed. That nervous type of laugh, you know the one a kid has after he’s done something he’s not supposed to.

“We killed them, Ollie.”

My face blanched, but I refuse to look back at the bed where Steve was staring.

“I’m going.”

“We came here to rob the joint and that’s what we’re going to do.”

The girls were sitting sullenly in the living room.

“What happened?” Yvette asked.

I was too stunned to answer. A few minutes later Steve came out with a bag full of Lord knows what. I didn’t want any of it—I just wanted to rewind time. My head was spinning with the knowledge of what we’d done.

And then we heard it.

“Mommy.”

We all looked up. A little girl, no more than four stood up at the top of the loft stairs looking down at us. Steve pulled out his gun, but I grabbed his arm.  It happened so quickly, when he pulled the trigger, the bullet traveled into my skin and through my side.

“It’s just a flesh wound,” Coco said.

“I can’t believe you were going to kill that kid,” Yvette said.

“Let’s get out of here,” Steve said.

I stood, blood dripping everywhere, and I looked up the stairs to see the little girl’s wide blue eyes looking down at me, like an angel from above beckoning me to join her. Coco, Steve, and Yvette were gone by the time I stumbled over the side of the couch. I tried to stand, to get my footing, but I slipped on something wet. When I hit the floor, the blood pooled around me like embryonic fluid. When I closed my eyes for the last time, I felt the little girl’s hand on my face, soft and warm. Peace at last.

Salvation

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Today I wrote for Mid-Week Blues-Buster. I skipped this one last week, because I just had so much going on. But I love Johnny Cash, and I couldn’t pass up a chance to let his music inspire me.  Today’s MWBB was inspired by the song, “Ain’t No Grave,” by Johnny Cash.

Salvation
@laurenegreene
618 words
The worms of cancer had spread through Dad’s body, wriggling their way through his intestines and then up to his brain before he even knew they existed. Simon said Mom fainted when the doctor gave him three weeks.

“Hell, three weeks and I’ll be up dancing a jig,” Dad said.

But, of course, he wasn’t. Hospice came with a hospital bed, and they set it up in the guest room. And a week later I took leave from work, and traveled the five hours to the town that held remnants of my childhood. I fell into my twin bed at midnight and turned out the lamp still adorned with a pink shade.  I dreamt about the bullies who used to live next door. I woke up with tears in my eyes, after dreaming about how Dad used to take Simon and me to get ice cream every Sunday after church.

As the colors of dawn were spreading through the sky, I tiptoed to my father’s room like a child just woken from a nightmare. Simon was sitting on the edge of Dad’s bed, and he turned and looked at me with a grimace on his face.

“The nurse had to go to the bathroom.”

“What’s the song?”

“Ain’t No Grave by Johnny Cash. Dad’s playing it on repeat. I guess he wants to be a zombie or something.”

I laughed at my little brother, and came up to sit next to him on my Dad’s bed. I glanced over at Dad’s sallow cheeks, and listened to his raspy breathing, noticing how his chest was still rising and falling like the waves of the ocean just outside our front door. He was asleep and soon he’d be asleep forever.

“The song’s about salvation. Dad wants Jesus to meet him in heaven.”

“The song’s about someone wanting to live forever. Big headed and all that,” Simon said.

Tears sprang to his eyes, and I wrapped my arms around him. We sat huddled together on the side of the bed as Dad’s breathing rattled on, listening to make sure it didn’t stop. The nurse came back in, and she nodded at us then parked herself in the corner chair with her knitting needles.

“How’s Mom taking it?”

“Best she can. She thought there would be more time.”

“Don’t we always?”

“The nurse,” Simon said, nodding toward the woman in the corner, “said it would be soon. He’s not doing well.”

“So no jig dancing for him?”

Simon laughed and we hugged each other harder. Silence descended on the room, as we sat there listening to the clock tick through the early morning. The birds came out and began singing their songs of spring. Dad opened his eyes.

“My little girl.”

I scooted toward him. He wrapped his bone thin arms around me, and I let him hold me. I stopped crying and pulled away.

“Remember that time you took Simon and I down to Cheaha to spend the night. Mom refused to come. It rained all weekend, and we were miserable, but you were intent on staying. You wanted to show her all the fun memories we were making?”

We talked all morning about memories from our youth. “Ain’t No Grave” played in the background of our words. Dad asked Mom to read John 3:16 from the Bible.

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.”

“That’s what the song means,” Dad said to Simon and me. “No need to fight about it.”

Then he turned his face away from us, looked at the white wall, and the rise and fall of his chest ceased.

 

Oliver

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I was going to post a longer piece I wrote, “Oberon.” It’s about 1,000 words, but I really need to work on it some more. I originally wrote it for Chuck Wendig’s Terrible Minds Flash challenge, but I decided not to post it, because it needed more than 1,000 words.

Instead, I wrote a story about Oliver today for Flash!Friday. The setting had to be in a kitchen. And here is the photo prompt of a Prison Guard from the public domain.

Prison Guard

Tuber Tears
@laurenegreene
209 words

“Oliver, chop up the onions,” Momma said.

She stood near the stove, stirring the soup. Poppa was on duty again, and had been for the last two days. Momma worried about him. The phone was secured to her ear, the cord cutting a trail through the kitchen.

“Oy, weapons made out of pencils. That’s what killed Solomon, I heard. Ian’s job is going to give me a heart attack. I swear, I’ll kill him if gets hurt and leaves me to fend for these eight kids on my own.”

Tears streamed down Oliver’s face. He wiped his eyes with the sleeves of his shirt. His sister toddled in, and Oliver pushed her out of the galley kitchen that seemed crowded with him, Momma, and the voice of Aunt Tessa coming through the phone.

“Is this enough?” Oliver asked, his eyes red-rimmed.

“Why you interrupt me? No—we have to take some up to the prison too, Oliver. Keep cutting and keep your snot out of the food. Tessa—yes, sorry. Why God didn’t grace me with a girl before number six is beyond me.”

The tears burned his eyes now. He thought of Poppa with a pencil stuck in his neck as he scraped the onions into the soup.