FLASH FIC FRIDAY IS HERE
PLEASE JOIN US EACH FRIDAY TO SEE WHO'S FLASHING US
Each Friday a new prompt will be posted along with the previous week's winners.
What exactly is a Flash-Fic? It's pretty much a spur of the moment, tiny story, prompted by words, images or silliness. Not sure if you've ever been on twitter when this has happened, but it's pretty awesome when it does. It also happens often in threads, with a combination of people contributing.
How does it work? Each Friday one admin of TLS posts a picture prompt here to the blog. Using this image, entries are created by commenting on this post. Submissions must be 100-300 words ONLY. No more, no less. The entries are then judged and we post the winners here, each Friday, to share with all of you.
Picture prompt and judge the week of 5/3 - 5/8 is by Surething302.
Please leave your submission in the comment section at the bottom of the post using this format:
Your name (use your Twitter, Facebook or FFN name)
Your link to your FFN profile if you choose to share it
Submissions will be judged on Thursdays and on Friday the winning entry will be posted here, on the TLS blog.
This feature is open to everyone, so come one, come all!
LAST WEEK'S PROMPT AND WINNERS
FIRST PLACE WINNER
Word Count: 300
Mondays: We steal warm, sleepy minutes from the new day to hold onto the weekend.
Tuesdays: We sneak long lunches. "Pickles? I'd rather lick the pavement." I don't test you; your smile tells me you’d really do it.
Wednesdays: You always buy me flowers.
Thursdays: Poker night. The bed dips, and your warmth surrounds me as you whisper your winning hands in my ear. "Full house, Queen of my heart."
Fridays: Date night, always ending in a tangle of sweat-drenched bodies and thumping hearts.
Saturdays: Hikes in the mountains. With a smile crinkling your eyes, you tease you'll leave me behind. You never do.
Sundays: Coffee and crumbs in bed with the crossword. You're so impatient. I can tell you’re holding your tongue on my turn. You tickle and kiss ‘til I give in.
Spring: In our garden. I watch the muscles in your back as you turn the earth. On Wednesdays, you buy me lilacs.
Summer: On our porch swing. Iced tea, fireflies, the spark of barbecues scenting the air. On Wednesdays, you buy me roses.
Autumn: Kneeling on fallen leaves. Lit by the flickering jack-o-lantern, you slide the jelly-ring on my finger. "Be my everything?" On Wednesdays, you buy me lisianthus.
Winter: Stranded in white lace. You dig us out, so handsome in your tuxedo. I become yours. You become mine. On Wednesdays, you buy me violets.
"What day is it today?" I ask, as snow falls from the silver sky.
I nod, with a heart so heavy with memories, I think it might stop.
Pushing my nose into the purple petals, their sweet scent flares you back to life for a second.
I lay my flowers on the cold marble. Two dates failing to tell your story.
You would have brought me violets today.
Word Count: 251
“I can’t remember anything without you,” I almost-whisper, and he reaches out to tuck my hair behind my ear. The gesture makes my heart hurt.
“Me either,” he says softly, his voice rough. “Maybe that’s always been our problem.”
High school sweethearts, each other’s firsts, college sweethearts, post-college sweethearts, betrothed couple, husband and wife. It’s true: he’s in every single one of my memories since I was fifteen.
At fifteen, he made me fly.
At eighteen, he was soaring right alongside me.
At twenty, we were flying in formation.
At twenty-four, I felt like my wings were being clipped.
At twenty-seven, we crash-landed.
He steps back, blends in with the scenery: autumn in New England, variegated hues of copper and green. The only scar on the landscape is the U-Haul at the curb, packed to the gills with everything that’s his but not mine. Not ours.
“Take care of yourself, Bella,” he murmurs against my forehead, and I watch as he swings himself into the cab of the truck, late fall sunlight glinting off the silver band on his finger as he slams it shut.
Starts the engine.
Leaves me behind.
I can’t remember anything without you.
I thought I wanted to fly again. To soar, unencumbered and untethered. Be reckless, free, uninhibited.
It isn’t until the brake lights illuminate in front of the stop sign at the top of our street that the realization hits.
He’s still wearing his ring.
I take off at a run.
Word Count: 290
You’re his friend. You’re the one who’s quiet and compliant. You bring an extra six-pack when no one asks. Or maybe someone has and I’ve never noticed because I’ve barely noticed you.
You wear threadbare shirts and you don’t always comb your hair and sometimes when you’re staring down at the ground you get this look on your face and I think you’re keeping a secret and sometimes I want to know what it is.
He makes jokes and I laugh, but you don’t always laugh. His sense of humor is just okay but I feel like I should laugh anyway. You don’t, though. Not always. When you don’t I’m embarrassed that I did. It’s silly.
You’re the last out the door. You hold it open for me and then lock it up for me. I wonder why you don’t have a girlfriend.
When his arm hangs on my shoulder you walk ahead. I watch the way you walk, the way your jeans slouch down a little. They’re really too big for you, but you probably like them that way.
He’s not here, and I tell you but you say you want to come in anyway. I ask you to sit down and offer you a drink. It’s ten in the morning and you ask if I have any beer.
“Sure, yeah. Here you go.”
You don’t even open it. It sits on the coffee table and sweats. There’s going to be a ring on the wood but I don’t say anything because you seem nervous. I ask what’s wrong and then you speak this song that makes me swallow hard and my stomach flutter. You contradict what I’ve always thought I wanted and I wish I noticed you before.
Perry Maxwell on FFN, perrymaxed on Twitter
Word Count: 300
Title: Wishing and Hoping
The moments are few and far between. Though, when they arrive, they’re worth it.
It was simple really. Yesterday you made coffee just the way I like it: black with two sugars. You set the cup before me and sat down across the table. I watched your eyes, looking for telltale signs of lucidity, but just as quickly as it came, it was gone.
Today we sit on the couch. My focus is on you; yours is on the television. Sometimes I wonder if you’ll ever realize you’ve watched this episode every day for the past six years. I can quote it word for word, intonating every nuance of the characters’ voices. But that’s only because my brain works; yours doesn’t. Not like it should anyway.
Since the car accident, you’ve had to learn how to live again. So have I.
I lost you that rainy night, but my heart gets ripped apart just a bit more each time you forget. Or should I say fail to remember?
Where we once we shared smiles over inside jokes, we now share disingenuous expressions of reassurance.
I’m no longer your wife, not really. Instead I’m the woman who reminds you of those items your brain can’t recall.
I do it because I love you, because I made a vow.
We make love sometimes. I pretend it’s still you in there behind those eyes. It’s not. Your questions the next morning are proof.
Still, I’m here, waiting and hoping you’ll return. If not for me, for our son.
I guess there’s a certain irony in life. He arrived the day you disappeared.
His birthday party was yesterday. For the second year in a row, he made the same wish: for Daddy to wake up, for Daddy to remember.
I wish for that too.
Word Count: 297
It’s been 271 days. I’ve counted them all.
42 days in a coma. 56 with my skull bound to keep everything inside. 68 before I could stand up to take a piss on my own. 94 before they took all of the needles out of me. 109 before they let her bring me home.
77 stitches. 51 bruises. 26 staples. 4 skull fractures. 2 blood transfusions.
She cried they day they released me and she’s cried every day since. 161 days of tears and trying to adjust to the strange new-ness of everything. My skin. Her smell. Shoelaces and forks. Alphabets and family photos. Conversation and cut-off kisses, which are what makes her cry the hardest.
When I look in the mirror, I count my eyelashes because I can barely recognize my face.
When I look at her, I count her freckles because I can’t remember her at all.
Every morning is the same. I wake up and look to the mirror, her handwritten scrawl of pale pink lipstick across the glass to remind me of my name. Edward. Of hers. Bella.
That she loves me.
That I loved her.
Day 271 is different.
Something snaps deep inside my head, painful and blinding. My brain burning as the single most important synapse of all melts back together and - bam - I just know. I lie there in bed and say her name over and over and over, savoring the way it feels in my mouth. Heavy and soft like a pearl I’ve been keeping under my tongue.
I give it to her the moment she comes through the door.
“You’re back,” she says and her smile . . . I leap off the couch and take it for my own.
I can’t remember anything, but I remember her.
The Lemonade Stand would like to thank all of the participants. We thoroughly enjoyed ALL of the entries!
See you next week!