308 WORDS

oddly specific flash fiction

[308words-blog]

Happiness In Its Purest Form

by MIA SMITH

He isn't coming, her subconscious whispered. This was too risky. Will was far too perfect, anyway. She shook her head at the thought and looked up at the sky, the fluffy white clouds drifting across the great blue expanse and briefly covering the sun.

“DAISY!"

She glared in the direction of the sound of her name, but her expression softened when her eyes fell upon William rolling the wheelbarrow toward her, weak arms almost unable to support the three wheeled contraption. His hair was a floppy golden halo around his head and his blue eyes were focused on the direction of travel. Her laugh brought him out of the focused daze he was in and his smile snatched away her breath.

“Daisy, I apologize for taking so long,” Will began, rambling as usual. “This thing's a bit much for me, really.” He laughed in between the syllables, making them ring with his nervousness, and Daisy couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s fine, Will. Just sit with me. What do you have in there?” she replied, watching while he fumbled to sit beside her in the grass. Will revealed the contents of the wheelbarrow and tugged on his ear with short glances at Daisy, seeking approval, as he always did.

“...and some watermelon. Your favorite, right?” Once she picked up on the conversation, she smiled and looked down. The slices of watermelon on the china plate were her favorite—when they met at the farmer's market, Will was selling watermelon. Her chest tightened and her heart skipped a beat at how considerate he was. How could I possibly think he would stand me up? He’s too sweet.

“Thank you, Will.” Daisy’s voice was light with appreciation and his smile shone brighter than the sun that hung dimly in the afternoon sky, casting soft orange rays of light onto the grass.

---

Mia Smith is a high schooler and an aspiring fiction author.

[308words-blog]

The North Wind’s Wife

by ALEX McCARRON

He hadn’t wanted her. Not at first. 

When he swooped down, tore the roof from their house, and rattled its walls to the four corners of the earth, he’d come for her sister, a girl as coldly delicate as a snow rose. But she held on, hard and heavy after years of tilling thin mountain soil. She held her sister fast until it seemed her bones would pull apart. She screamed, “Take me!”

The North Wind was no fool. He saw that they would both die otherwise, so he took her. 

At first, they avoided each other. In her eyes, he was old and wild. In his, she was rough and ugly. He scoured the earth while she tended his palace gardens.

One day, spent down to a breeze, he found her pruning a bush of snow roses. The North Wind saw her fingers sliced by thorns, and something stirred in him.

He took her hands in his. 

She pulled them away. “I came here to save my sister. Nothing more.”

Her blood melted through his fingers. “Go then,” he found himself saying. “I won’t keep you any longer.”

“I was never yours to keep,” she snapped. 

But when he drew back, she still felt his touch, burning her skin like snow melt. “I want to travel,” she found herself saying. “I’ve never seen much of the world. I’ll come with you, if you’d like.”

The North Wind smiled. “I would.”

She flew with him that night, laughing at his wildness while he marveled at her strength. You might see them still, on a winter’s night—side by side, wreathed in snow roses. Or so the story goes. It’s an old tale now, told to children beside a dying fire. 

“Look,” they say when northern lights ripple across the sky. “The North Wind’s wife is combing her hair.”

---

Alex McCarron loves fairy tales and fantasy

[308words-blog]

Self-Love

by ALEXIS BATES

He kissed the bend of my knee, and I thought it was love. But I am not the kind of girl men fall in love with. I am the girl they call when they’re lonely. I am the one they cry on then fuck away the sadness with. I am the girl they peel themselves off of in the morning and have the urge to kiss on the forehead before leaving. I’m the only girl men don’t feel guilty about leaving. If I was a piece of literature, I’d be a haiku.

Men like honesty and simplicity, but they don’t love it. Nobody loves honest, blunt girls that are bossy during sex. Men love collecting unique girls the way I collect rocks and leaves and flowers. I wish I’d gotten a rock or leaf or flower from every boy that told me I was different. Instead, I got a hickey or maybe a hoodie kicked under my bed. At least it wasn’t herpes.

He kissed the bend of my knee, and I thought it was love because he was covered in tattoos. Surely a man covered in permanence should be able to commit. I am a lot of things, but apparently a tattoo is not one of them.

When the man I thought might love me left, I took a shower in an attempt to wash the essence of him off of me. I made a cup of coffee with too much cream in it. I sat down to write him, then decided he wasn’t worth the words. Instead of writing him, I am writing myself. I am so much more than a poem. I’m more than a one-night stand every night. I am soft and alive which is more than can be said for the man covered in tattoos. He doesn’t deserve to know that about me.

---

Alexis Bates, 18, is an upstart poet living in Baltimore, MD.

[308words-blog]

Muses Talk

by CARLY PERINI

“She working?”

The transparent shape drifting behind the young girl sighed.

“She’s started something new.” The being rubbed her temples, closing her gold eyes. “She always does this; starts a new story before she’s done with an old one.”

“Careful,” the first being said. “She’s sensitive to our plane. She’ll get a headache if you keep it up.” Purple eyes shifted towards her human. “At least she’s working. Mine’s not.”

“Don’t you get it?” She sat beside her human, long golden hair swirling. “She comes up with new ideas. You would think with her sensitivity, she would feel me allowing her continue onward.” The golden being glared at the young girl typing furiously, brown eyes fixed on her screen. “But she doesn’t listen; she begins anew.”

The human grimaced, rubbing her forehead and temples. The golden being’s face softened.

“That’s what we do,” the purple being said. “We’re muses, we inspire. It’s up to the person to create.”

“Easy for you to say.” The golden muse crossed her legs, sending her skirt into a white whirlwind. “Your human behaves.”

The purple muse laughed, shaking her short purple hair. “My girl’s older.” She sat down beside her human, crossing long light lavender legs. “It takes time to build to the point where stories marinate in their mind without disappearing.”

The two muses sat in silence, watching the girls type, occasionally prompting them forward.

“They work well together.”

The purple muse smiled. “Yes, they do. They can goof, but keep working.”

The gold muse looked over her human’s shoulder at the new thing. The energy was reaching an end. She never finished this quickly.

The golden muse laughed, head thrown back. “You odd little imp.” The girl smiled.

“What?” The purple muse leaned forward, mirroring her human.

“She’s more sensitive than I thought. She heard us and wrote it down.”

---

Carly Perini’s life in two words: balancing act.

[308words-blog]

False Scent

by BRIAN NAVARRO

A cool, gentle breeze saturated the summer air in a fresh scent. A vibrant scent that made Damian go crazy--blood crazy--and shake in zest while he perched on the ledge of some building off Central Park. Female and young, he thought with a smug smile.

The vampire, sniffing out the woman’s position, suddenly cried foul when another scent, dirty and pungent, tickled his nose. He knew then that somewhere below a werewolf was also on the hunt for the woman. A meal for one. Me.

Damian eyed the dark world below where street lamps were no more than pinpoints on a map, sniffing here and there for the woman’s position, until finally a gust of wind told him exactly.

“The bridge,” he next muttered from a squatted position, narrowing his eyes to see her. He then morphed into a small winged creature with a pudgy nose and floppy ears.

The bat plunged into the pool of darkness, its beady eyes scouring for the wolf, while its nose remained fixed to the scent of blood. A sweeping scent of richness that only intensified the closer he got.

Swooping down from above, Damian hit the warm stones of the bridge feet first a few paces from the young woman. She was bent over and on one knee with a shimmering black cloak draped overhead while her hand arched against the pavement. Her heart was slow to beat. She’s dying. Perfect. A moment later, a grisly haired wolf appeared on the other side of the bridge.

“Wolf, she’s mine!” Damian hissed.

The wolf flashed its razor sharp teeth before howling to call his pack to him.

Yet before either could make a move, the woman straightened up, her cloak falling to the ground as a glimmer of steel rose in hand. “Boys, you’re the ones on the menu tonight.”

---

Brian Navarro: Former Software Developer, now Aspiring Author.

[308words-blog]

For Sissy

by J.T. WILDER

Eran Soror cinched his bag shut, giving it a final affectionate pat before closing the trunk. She’ll love it, he thought as he buckled up and pushed his Camry into drive.

“Alright, Sis, you ready?” She wasn’t much for words lately, but Eran knew her well. He had watched his sister’s life slowly fall apart these last few years. She needed this.

It started when she met Kevin, a tall, thickset man festooned with a lucrative position at Deloitte, male pattern baldness and a fast temper. The Christmas Sis brought him to meet the family, Eran caught the looks he gave when she caught up on the latest gossip, his eyes narrowing when names of past boyfriends were mentioned. That night, Eran heard Kevin’s terse rumblings through their shared wall. Sis said nothing. The next morning, she wore her blue turtleneck, arms crossed and sullen.

A year later, Kevin forced her to move to Chicago. He picked a fully furnished apartment on North Michigan Ave., decked with driftwood floors, limestone cabinetry, and nestled into a swaying 73rd floor. Eran knew Sis loathed heights and had dreamed of owning a ranch in Colorado. She would never admit it with Kevin around—­and he always was—but she was miserable in that noxious, thronged city.

Yesterday, Eran watched his sister weep into his mother’s chest. She had birthed a stillborn girl. Mirabella. Within a day, Kevin had shoveled her to Bridgeport to stay with us while he travelled to Curaçao under the ruse of a “mandatory” business trip. Sis was bereft and ruined. Eran knew he needed to do something.

“Sissy,” he said, “it’s all okay,” slowing to a stop beside Pequonnock River—Sis’s favorite. Eran popped the trunk and firmly kissed the bag he had prepared. “It’s all okay now,” he repeated, rolling her body gently down the riverbank.

—

J.T. Wilder is an aspiring author, an expectant father, and an unrepentant daydreamer.

[308words-blog]

Found

by NINA V. RYE

The wooden planks groaned under their feet. A swamp stretched infinitely on both sides of the path. Tony could see the murky water splash underneath. It stank horribly.

His father’s grip was firm on his arm; his other hand was holding a lantern. They had been walking up and down this unsteady path for hours, looking for Tony’s dog. It had wandered off hours ago, and Tony was very worried.

Tired and distracted, the boy’s boot caught in a small gap between the planks, and he stumbled, tagging at his father’s arm. With a curse, his father straightened him, the lantern’s light dancing crazily for a moment, and then started marching again.

They were very close to the shore, when his father suddenly stopped, tugging Tony behind him. The man lifted the lantern to better light the path. His hand shook a little, but the boy didn’t notice it. Tony’s eyes were glued to a dark shape of a dog sitting few feet ahead of them.

“Buddy!” Tony yelled, his heart leaping with joy. He tore his arm from his father’s grasp and ran towards his best friend. The dog didn’t move as the boy fell to his knees and hugged its neck.

Buddy’s fur was wet and slimy to the touch, as if the dog had been in the water. But Tony didn’t care.

“Dad, we found him!” Tony turned to grin at his father and startled at the look of shock on the man’s face. “Dad?” he asked, feeling uncertain and a bit scared.

There was a huff of breath across his cheek. Tony turned back and gaped, as the dog’s face stretched into a grotesque smile, its teeth white and sharp, its eyes bulging unnaturally.

“I believe, it is I who found you,” it said in a funny voice, and laughed.

His dad screamed first.

---

Nina V. Rye is an aspiring writer, who focuses on writing short fiction with a twist.

[308words-blog]

Siren

by JONI E. PATTERSON

Thestle nuzzled deeper into the crook of her father’s arm, her taffeta skirts rustling, sounding like ocean waves. Her fingers traced the golden braids on his cuffs and she swallowed before asking, “When do you have to leave again?”

“Tomorrow.”

Thestle looked up at him, brows furrowed.

“Shiver me, lass...” A smile hid mostly by his beard still shone out eyes that grew glassy. “You know, when you’re cross, you look just like her.”

Thestle softened. “Mother?”

His gaze turned, focusing on a memory. Thestle wanted to see it as well.

“Tell me. The story of how you met…”

“I was at sea.”

The girl nodded, this part of the story guessable, for her father was always at sea.

“My crew had come upon an accident. Ciena, your mother, she was in the water.”

“And you rescued her.”

One shoulder lifted. “It was me who brought her aboard…Everywhere was chaos, but she handled herself with such determination, bravery…She was royalty. My beautiful queen…”

Thestle beamed. “You fell in love.”

“Yes,” he replied, as though that were the simplest truth. But it was a truth with a hard ending. “And the water took her from me.”

Her smile gone, Thistle looked back to the golden braid. “That’s why you don’t let me go with you.”

“The ocean is treacherous—” his arm hugged her close “—and you’re the only piece of Ciena I have left. My most precious gift from her.”

“But…” Thestle faltered. “You love the sea. You say she loved the sea. I think it looks beautiful and if—”

“Stay away from the ocean, Thestle,” his stern voice interrupted in warning. “It’s dangerous.”

Thestle knew she should listen, but she also couldn’t help wonder that perhaps she was like her mother. Brave, determined…

Perhaps she, too, was royalty.

There was only one way to find out.

---

Joni E. Patterson is not a big swimmer, but she thinks being royalty might be fun.

[308words-blog]

Tuesday

by ALYSSA RUBIN

I noticed her as she squeezed into the seat next to me. Actually, I didn't notice her so much as I noticed her hands, trembling so hard the golden bangles on her wrists sounded like a chaotic children's handbell choir rehearsal.  

Her bracelets banged together as she struggled to buckle her seatbelt. As the plane taxied down the runway and lifted off the ground. As it cruised nonchalantly through the sky. As the flight attendant, all artificial white teeth and sharp red lines, asked, "Something to drink, sweetie?"

She didn't seem to hear over her shaking wrists, staring straight ahead, revealing nothing in her expression.

"Hey, she asked if you wanted something to drink," I offered, nudging her elbow slightly with my own. She said nothing, unflinching, as if she hadn't heard. I shrugged at the flight attendant as I accepted my coffee.

I settled back in my seat and raised the cup to my lips, but a second later the liquid was in the back of my throat and under my eyelids and scalding my neck. As I peeled open my eyes, stinging and tearing, I realized that I was looking at the aisle above me, miniature aluminum soda cans flying weightlessly through the cabin.

I didn't hear the screams. I didn't hear the giant groan of the engines as they slipped away from the body as easily as tissue paper tears. I only heard the bangles crescendo into harmony, the final movement of a grand symphony.

And then I heard nothing. Smoke burned my eyes and nose. I tried to wiggle my toes, but I felt nothing. I shifted my gaze to find them, a glint of gold catching my eye. Squinting, I made out more charred golden bands, circling a smoldering stick.

And a few inches above, her face, unblinking, frozen in a maniacal smile.

---

Alyssa Rubin may or may not exist, but she can swear at you in many languages.

[308words-blog]

The Schwimmer Principle

by LAUREN SMITH

They referred to it as the “Schwimmer principle,” after their friend Aaron Schwimmer who came up with it.

“If you think of something awful,” he told them, “it won’t happen. People always say they never saw it coming. It’s a lack of preparation due to lack of imagination. Every time I fly, I imagine all the ways my plane could crash, and I’m still here, right?”

The boys had all laughed at him, because it sounded like some power of positive thinking mojo shit that their mothers learned about at their meditation class. You know, with the ponytailed instructor that some of the middle-aged housewives were probably screwing. As in, total bull.

Mike never bought into it, but as he sat in the front seat of his car clutching the steering wheel, air flooding his mouth but never making it to his lungs, he decided to buy into his friend’s theory, just to quell yet another panic attack rippling out of his chest.

“I could…crash my car.” He sputtered the words between breaths and felt his heartbeat slow a few ticks. “Or there could be an earthquake and this parking garage could collapse.” He inhaled deeply and exhaled. Even if this was irrational, it was helping him relax. “Or I could choke on my coffee.” He picked up his 8pm container of caffeine, realizing that it wouldn’t help to slow his heartbeat down. This was ridiculous. “Or I could die of an alcohol overdose tonight. Or aliens could abduct me.” He laughed to himself, the sound reverberating around the empty car—the car he thought was empty. He was breathing normally now. The key in the ignition and roar of the engine drowned out the withdrawing of a knife in the backseat. Lack of preparation due to lack of imagination.

People always say they never saw it coming.

---

Lauren Smith can kick your ass, literally and literarily.

[308words-blog]

The Girl Who Fell to Earth

by ALEX McCARRON

Her name’s Isabel and she sits next to me in class. She says her father is Dawn and her mother is Dusk, and they’ve been fighting since the cosmos began. Last year their quarreling burst their palace walls and knocked her from the sky. Now she lives with her uncle, the North Wind, in an apartment on Euclid Street.

Mostly, I don’t believe her. Isabel says the sky is an ocean, and the constellations are like glowing masses of krill or deep sea divers. They shine brightly but they’re very, very cold.

“I’m sort of glad I fell,” she says, “because I’d become a star eventually. All they do is blink.”

“You’re nuts. Stars are burning gas.”

“Sure they are.”

I’ve seen Isabel’s uncle. He works at McDowell’s Garage and he changed my dad’s tires once. He has a long nose, blue eyes, and a wild head of hair. He’s not the North Wind.

“He works part time,” Isabel says, “because I was so sad when I first came here, before I met you.”

“He can’t be, Is. Winds can’t fix cars.”

“He’s going back to full time.”

“Come on!”

“It’s true,” she says, and suddenly she looks like she might cry. “I’m a star and my uncle’s the North Wind.” She turns and walks away.

Next morning, on the way home from school, Is comes up to me with something in her hand.

“My uncle picked it up last night,” she says.

She opens her fingers, and I see it burning in her palm. A star, a tiny world smoldering with rainbow colors like an opal. When I reach out, the cold burns my fingers.

Is wraps it in a tissue and puts it in my pocket. “Keep it in a jar,” she says. “Like a nightlight.”

Mostly I don’t believe her, and then sometimes--sometimes--do.

---

Alex McCarron loves fairy tales and fantasy.

[308words-blog]

Seventeen

by KARLEE HART

He counted seventeen. Long shadows cast themselves along the pathway, giving presence to the ghosts in the elegant branches of her yew. There was a pause as he watched them sway in the upturned breeze. They were eerie in their movements. He turned from them to catch the light glimmering through the windows in the bark, indicating shelter to those travel-worn and weary.

"Lilura." There were three rooms to her hollow--that he knew of--and she was in none of them; traversing the twisting branches that led to the bedroom would prove fruitless.

"Nicodemos." Her voice was foggy today; misty in how she breathed the late afternoon about her. A sphere of smoothed wood lay in her delicately calloused hands.

"Nico, please." He corrected her again so that she could brush him off again, passing to reach home. "Anyway, there's been--"

"A felling." The cheesecloth on her table was tattered, long strips hanging in wisps after the sphere was placed beneath.

"What? No, no one's died, not yet." He nodded absently, watching her work. He wasn't even sure what she was doing, but it was interesting. "But someone is missing! It's--"

"You must leave."

"What?"

She passed him, eyes trailing upward at the ghosts in her tree. "Before nightfall. Tragedy upon royalty is not a felling I wish to know."

"You're just worried about me," he teased.

"Yes." She set his chest on fire. He stared her down, looking for humor, but there was none.

"I'll, ah...be going, then," he stammered.

He paid no mind to the sunset, but she did. As night fell she breathed, and the holly breathed too; a soft glow through the cloth, the wood. "Off you go." A gentle push sent the soul to the trees. It settled next to another, glimmered.

Lilura only hoped the perpetrator would be caught soon.

---

Karlee Hart is an aspiring author with an affinity for the mystical and magical.