Flash Fiction III

Click on the “comments” link at the end of this post, to see 3 more entries in the Flash Fiction Contest – from Scott “Scooter” Chretien, Rebekah Tarka, and Hillary Reale.

PS: To see the original prompts, click here… https://pulpcity.wordpress.com/2009/04/09/flash-fiction-creative-writing-prompts/

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3 thoughts on “Flash Fiction III

  1. Scott “Scooter” Chretien – Flash Fiction

    PARK DREAM

    While all days come, some go and some are busy and some are slow. A busy street corner with a café and movie theater has me mesmerized and standing in the middle of the intersection looking up to the stars, its night and memories of a love lost brought me here. Car horns are blasting, people are yelling for me to get out of the street, but I can not hear them, but what I do here is the words of my lost love in my head “I chose you”. The stars feel like they are draining my soul, I can’t think of anything but my lost love and I feel like life has choked my heart, but its not life it’s me.
    I feel cold now and I can’t see the night stars or lights from the cars or ever the lights off the buildings. What’s going on, why can’t I see? I went from hearing car horns to people talking…is he going to make it, why was he in the middle of the street? I don’t know what to think, am I in the ER, how did I get here? Why am I here? Where is my love?
    SCOTTY, SCOTTY WAKE UP!
    As I open my eyes I realize I’m in my car, in a parking lot at a park in East Longmeadow and my love is shaking me. Then I close my eyes again, and then open them to see that all of it was a dream and I’m still ALONE.

  2. Flash Fiction – Rebekah Tarka

    Once the frantic business man arrived at the bus stop, he was waiting impatiently for the late bus to appear. While he was thinking of how late he was going to be when he would finally arrive at wallstreet, he glanced down and what caught his eye were small, transparent pieces smoothly shinning in the reflecting sun light. He stopped thinking about the stock exchange; all the car horns beeping, and how lonely he was by working everyday from sun up to down.

    “The broken glass in the street reflects” to the tired, too busy to have a social life tradesman, images or pieces of what his life used to be before he became an associate in the business world. In one piece of glass was his home town, Becket, Massachusetts. It was just a little town in the Berkshires were he had his best friend in the whole world and they promised one summer that they would never become to busy for each other. In another fragment of transparency, touching that piece was an image of high school and his mother. His mother loved how he set positive goals for himself but she thought that he was growing to old before his time had come. He was involved in all the advanced math and economic classes at school and was even taking some business courses at a community college over the summers of his junior and senior year of high school. He was also involved in the debate team and the town paper along with the school paper and a whole slue of other things.

    The gray bus finally arrived at the stop fifteen minutes late and with many irate faces looking at the driver, crabbing at the poor service they have to deal with everyday. The run-down man in his beige trench coat and two hundred dollar black oxfords sat in the first seat on the bus. He wasn’t even in a rush anymore to get to work. Instead, he made great haste to the closing door and slid out back on to the street in the nick-of-time. He looked down at the shards of glass and strolled back to his apartment in the highlands of New York. He took out his expensive AT&T cellular phone with a touch screen and all other features he didn’t know how to use or needed because he was too occupied to fiddle with it, and called his work on wall street to let them know he wouldn’t be attending, due to an emergency. Two flight of stair cases he jumped, at three stairs at a time, which he had always used the elevator before. The heavy breathed young man had his apartment key ready for the door and once he burst through, he stopped right in the door he flung open.

  3. Hillary Reale
    Flash Fiction
    Spring 2009

    The broken glass in the street reflects the dim lights that blink
    erratically overhead. The dilapidated sign is the perfect depiction of
    the body that betrays her. Her skin, yellowed to a hazy afternoon, her
    hair unwashed and brittle, her breathing labored and uneven as the
    Hotel sign above. No need to reflect the circumstances that brought
    her to this city street. Her fate was confirmed before she could
    protest. It’s late enough to continue her search for the next elixir
    and early enough to start from the start. No difference in the hour or
    the day. It’s been the same since she can remember. The ones who stood
    beside her have been replaced many times. Over and over she has left
    them behind for her own purpose of ridding the memories they carry.
    Her shame and deceit mirrored by their presence.
    The comfort of loneliness is the desired effect of the needle she
    brings to her skin. The liquid slowly penetrates her inhibitions and
    consciousness. The mental reprieve is welcome and familiar. Her
    priorities are skewed and eventually hardened to fact. She is puzzled
    by the madness her life has become. The transformation seemed too
    deliberate and leisurely to be a mistake. The fear and vulnerability
    she felt in the beginning of her journey was carelessly substituted
    with an exterior of scars and a roughness that disputes her tone and
    stature.
    More.More.More. It’s never enough. Not ever enough to take her away
    from the broken glass in the street.

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