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Flash Fiction

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BridgetteH

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I have quite a few flash fiction pieces and one that got published :D Was going to leave them here and any new stuffs...
(The one that got published has some very subtle homo-eroticism, hope that's okay :gay:) .




Unknowing

"I often think I don't know how I'll get on, you know?"​

This was Stella in her late 80's, in snug, familiar house shoes. Sitting, more importantly, contemplating; paper thin but resilient. There wasn't much to get on to beyond the obligatory existence her loved ones so demanded of her. What made such a seemingly paltry task damn near impossible was the void that had taken a forceful residence inside where Arthur had always been, since her late teens. Back then the apples of her cheeks would have had a crispness of fresh fruit where they now hang languidly of time. They were inseparable. And the terminal phases they were warned of never turned in for their demise, so that even the previous month, before he eeked from her, they had the giddiness that accompanies newness. Their children, the one his obituary said "survived by" next to -- a phrase Stella had always abhorred -- were certain their mother's name would disappear from that list all too quickly. They could have very well utilized the same set of lungs, if at all possible.

"Mom, you've got to keep busy. I was thinking of taking a potte--"​

"Do you think Daniel could teach me to ride a bike?"
"A bike? No, you'll hurt yourself. But I was saying there's a pottery class I thought we could try. It's every Tuesday at the rec center."

"I just want to learn, please, Roberta?"​

These days there was an infatuation with mystery and identity, which sometimes was misconstrued as a need for separation. Arthur was finely versed in all of her. Secrets were not things they knew how to possess nor desired to have flitting around inside of them, out of the others light. But Arthur didn't know she couldn't ride a bike. He'd likely assumed, she'd concluded, that she'd known how. Perhaps it was of no consequence. It was so very miniscule, a hot speck of ash wafting in the air after a great incredible blaze.

And yet she felt this unknowing removed him, even if but an imperceptible fraction, further from her somehow. He'd already disappeared. Even his scent was vanishing and his indentation in her universe sat throbbing for attention instead of sealing up.

"Your father didn't know I couldn't ride a bike."​

Stella glanced away wistfully while her aged hands toyed with a necklace.

"He knew everything else about me."




**The bike riding is symbolism for her husband, that had recently passed, not knowing little things about her and her feeling that somehow separated them more than death already had. :(**​





If anyone else has some flash fiction to post, please feel free to add it to this thread if you want. :nod:
 

BridgetteH

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Stockholm Home
I haven't quivered beneath his shadow since I can remember because even that casted dark film has a gentleness over me. I'm a school of fish swaying submissively in the belly of his current, but I've come to yearn for his order; for the straightening of my frantic lines; for the serenity he has to offer.

His thumb slides along my bottom lip to pull my eyes up, calculating. I'm sheepish. He angers at the idolatry of it all; swearing ungodly and feverish. That's not love. That's religion.

He knows it. And I know it.

I'm still restrained, and the locks alone are evidence we are both versed in what it isn't.

"You're never leaving here. Do you hear me?"

I know.

But I can't reassure him for it will cement me here, should I utter it. And yet there is a God in this basement with me, and I can't reason with such a baseless faith.






Just a little jot about Stockholm Syndrome inspired by a movie.
 

BridgetteH

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Paying Respects to My Dead Inspiration

Before I informed him, he informed me, “Your cologne couldn’t cover your misery and you’ve got a pretentious wordy mouth.”

The only tools a writer required in their repertoire. He had a knack for knowing except when he didn’t. Yet masqueraded about with a stuffy omnipotent air. These times I saw through the cracks of his heaven-high fence and watched him tumble from his throne in such a humanly manner he couldn’t genuinely be how he presented himself.

We fucked.

Possibly fueled by the taboo student-teacher scenario worn thin by porn and given our natural tension as we butted heads endlessly. I prodded at his sexuality a time or two, and it became a philosophy lesson of fluidity and the caging human condition of today. He was married, so I assumed he was a proponent of many types of fluidity.

It wasn’t a relationship per se rather an abuse my unscathed intact-self craved for some unknown sadistic reason. I didn’t delve deep enough to answer my internal questions, including the ever-present throbbing and angry “why” that heated up my ears with blood.

He had an apartment and a house to stick his stupid money in. Two vastly differing planets this middle-aged cynic orbited. The modern apartment suited a modern me. He pressed me to the slate wall like a thumbtack then did things that made my knees unsteady.

I couldn’t hate him for his evil amidst the euphoria.

But his evil might have eaten at him. Three years of countless students, I was merely the first. Cool water he was testing with curious toes.

At his funeral, his family in grief black surrounded me as his scent lingered in my misery—a scent that burgeoned under his cultivation.

But I was making it as a writer, so I paid my respects.




I got this published January 2016, but it's quite shitty compared to my writing today and compared to another I submitted to the same site, that got rejected.
 
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