#flashwriting

[zathom37]

Don’t miss it!

[marq-notes]

Guess I'd Better Go

"Cheerio," Lonnie said, to me and Grandma. "Where you goin'?!" said Grandma. "Home," said Lonnie. She was done for the day. If she had been taking care of Grandma and Grandpa all day--and she had--she sure didn't look it; her spirit was brighter and livelier as ever. You get good at keeping up appearances. "You're takin' our car--the car we just came in?" "Oh, no, not the boat!" She meant Grandpa's Ford Crown Victoria. I laughed. It was about the size of a tugboat. "My car, I'm taking my car." "Oh," Grandma said, sadly. I knew what was coming. I could feel it brewing the moment Lonnie said "Cheerio," as she walked out the front door. "Well, you could take me with you." "I'm going to my home," said Lonnie. "Can you take me to mine?" Lonnie had already gone. "I'm sorry," I said. "But Grandma, this is your home. You live here." "I live here?" "Mm-hm." I nodded. "And my husband?" "Yup." "How long?" "'Bout fifty-four years." "Fifty-four years?" "That's right." "That's a long time. I've been around a long time, I guess I'd better go."

[marq-notes]

The Weight of Shit

He saw it in a dream vision before he saw it in the dream flesh. The tree, and the nest–cradled in a palm of branches and leaves. Something told him that it was far away, that it wouldn’t be an easy journey. He knew all along he would end up in the shit; but the shit didn’t scare him anymore; he’d been there before and sometime before that and again before that. This was life. He went back to his tea.

The tree was exactly as he had seen it in the vision. It was springtime or summer and the leaves were green or a sweet breeze blew and churned the earth beneath his feet, and for a moment he believed he was going to take flight. Then, he saw the nest. He never got a look inside–to see if there were any eggs incubating; in fact, he hadn’t considered this. What would be the importance of discovering bird eggs?

The vision hadn’t showed him any eggs; they showed him a nest. The nest. Did the vision show him a bird? Was he the bird? What color were his feathers? The vision showed him none of these things. All he had was this choice to make: to go to the nest or no. If he stayed he couldn’t, of course, know what was going to happen but he knew he would always feel the nest tugging on his spirit. So he went, or he flew…

He didn’t want to believe the vision had deceived him; that it had led him to this tree and this nest, just so he could die. He moved faster than he had in any dream, or perhaps he flew.

This was not like his other dreams. And the vision that preceded this dream was merely a glimpse, a fleeting feeling of what he might have, if only he went out and claimed it. But his hands were full and he feared he would have to let everything go in order to attain it. To carry the nest.

But it was already too late. He turned back the way he came, but before he could get anywhere he saw the shadow of something or someone, and the knife coming at his back, and he thought he felt the blade. He hadn’t the sensation of feeling before in a dream. But when he reached behind him and pulled the hilt, he felt his muscles tearing.

[marq-notes]

Gray Clouds Up Above, Metaphor for My Life

It was raining, perfect weather for cuddling under the covers and watching The Goonies.

“This cold weather reminds me of the Bay,” he said, as he packed another bowl.

He offered me the first hit; I took it, blew it out the window. The smoke seeped through the microscopic holes in the screen, then disappeared into the cold, gray sky. There we lay in his bed, the sheets wrapped around our legs like warm, silky snakes.

Outside, dark clouds rolled in from whatever direction they had come.

“The sky is like a metaphor for my life, baby,” I said, “before I met you.”

I was thinking out loud–I think? Trusted he was listening, not judging. I wouldn’t have realized I’d said anything, actually, but then he said:

“Aw, baby, you’re kind of sweet.”

“In the words of Janice Ian,” I said, “I’m the sweetest bitch you’ll ever meet.”

[cmsanimalscience]

Flash Writing  Terra

- Sophia P. 

‘Not again’ I think as an aggravating sound bares throughout the room. I close my eyes as I relinquish the last few moments of silence left in the day. I slowly slither out of my black, plastic hut only to observe a human’s face pressed up against the glass, his eyes curiously starring inside with his prying eyes. Irritation surfaces every time they peer in to watch my every move. I can feel my fury slowly building up as more students gather around me and wag their fingers at me. I don’t know what to do to get them to retreat back to their desks. I rancorously turn my body and raise my head to better observe the juvenile delinquents whose faces are against the glass. The poor kids didn’t have time to blink before I rapidly extended my body, hitting the side of the glass with unmatched momentum. The throbbing in my head pushes me back down. But when I look back up, the children scurry away in fear. Attacking the glass was definitely worth it. 

[cmsanimalscience]

Flash Writing The Turtles

- Lexi M. 

A big majestic turtle was making a hole on the beach. Her spiky legs so unique. Her yellowish, greenish colors shine in the sun. She feels happy, but scared for her eggs. She sees the big blue waves. She thinks about her youngs adventures. Any month she knows its time. The sky darkens. She walks away knowing she won’t see them again, but loves them with all her heart. 

[cmsanimalscience]

Flash Writing Who Am I?

- Emily B. 

Yellow on the top and white on the bottom, like an unflipped pancake. Head with spots like a giraffe. Nose and mouth a triangle, waiting for crickets. My tail is spongy and purple like a marshmallow. My skin is bumpy like hills and valleys. My eyes are waiting for something interesting. I drag my body in the warm sand and stop to take a nap.

[cmsanimalscience]

Flash Writing Who am I?

- Bailey K. 

My skin is bumpy like goosebumps on a cold day. My back and head, yellow-green like the sun shining through the trees. My gentle but claw-like hands move slowly yet jerkily as I drag my heavy tail along the sand. Its color, purple-gray like a sunset on a stormy day, spotted like a cheetah. Its shape like a Christmas light yet soft and squishy like a water balloon. My tongue darts in and out rapidly as I await my dinner of crickets.