the fling

The Fling

Flash Fiction

For the most part, I wasn’t picky.

It’s only temporary, I decided. Where’s the harm?

The attraction was mutual, the bond unimportant. I flirted with commitment, but, really, what a joke. 

In the beginning, we played make believe, filled the roles we said we would. There were problems they said they’d fix, but, of course, what a concern: my eyes saw roses where thorns sliced skin.

We shared secrets, we shared lies. Yes, over time, we convinced each other we’d be fine. 

The days are running out now and I feel them letting go. I’ve dug in my heels, I’ve begged with sad eyes, but here now, what a child I am to miss the presence of such failed ties.

Their fingers fall through my grasp now, and, really, who’ve I to blame?

In desperation, I scream, “Stay!” but off in the distance, they just can’t miss me now that I’ve gone. 

Rounding the corner, they sneer, I’m just another promise you’ve made but won’t keep.

brick wall

Brick Wall

Flash Fiction

They build you, brick by brick. 

You’re a pattern to master, an un-objector, a work of art made by them. You’re not hard to assemble, you’re sturdy when needed, you’re protection for the frail. 

Shh, we must be quiet now: a simple sigh can cause a crash, a confused glance could crumble their creation. Each attempt from you to join in their construction is met with a slap of cement to seal you in. 

No, you are not important now: be still, don’t smile, coax the brick in place. It’s a pattern, a rhythm, a routine.

There, now you’ve done it: the last brick to seal your fate.

You take pride in their accomplishment, but they themselves don’t know: “Well, hey now, what about you?”

You do your best to curve your lips, to pick up a brick to lay it down. But the construction they’ve built, they’ve taken too far: your presence is made of bricks, your body an impenetrable wall.

the witch

The Witch

Flash Fiction

She’s not there every day, but when she is, she doesn’t leave you alone.

She is not nice to you, she doesn’t love you, she doesn’t want to be your friend. She calls you names, slaps your fat, makes you question your hair, your nose, your lips — those little tiny features you hoped might one day be loved for their charm. She puts you under her spell and, despite all your usual defenses, she takes control of your body and all you can do is watch. 

The Parasite is in control. 

Her games are not for the feeble-minded: she curves your innocent fingers into a fist and beats your stomach, she makes you gag at the sight of yourself in the mirror, she takes scissors and razorblades and your own dull fingernails and pierces the flesh all over your body.

The Witch is in control now. She smiles in your face while you lay exhausted, weak, and bleeding.

The deed is done, the games have been played: she rests next to you now, holding your hand, knowing you’re defeated.

the circus

The Circus

Flash Fiction

We’re standing facing one another, each equipped with various objects, ready to play our game. 

A whistle is blown and we’re off: we throw them in the air with ease, at first. The crowd is cheering proudly and we puff our chests in response.

He fumbles an object and the crowd groans accordingly, but his fumble causes me to miss and the crowd erupts in laughter: I’ve dropped all the objects now, but the clatter works to my advantage. Wild-eyed and distracted, he tries to keep the rhythm, but they’ve all gone wonky and he can’t keep the objects balanced. He’s losing them all now and I stare in horror as they all come tumbling down upon him. 

Him and they clatter to the ground, soiled and disgraced.

In the confusion, I offer a hand, but his stare suggests he can’t register a response.

Howling with laughter, the crowd cripples his once proud gait. He jolts to this feet and, with bowed shoulders, darts from the circus’ center.

Cheering and whooping and whistling, the crowd’s elation fills the air. I look around to them all, but cannot bring myself to bow. 

Dear Sirs and Ma’ams, have I won?



Flash Fiction

You’re underwater, but it’s okay: you’re not drowning. You see yourself all around, floating in bits and pieces and strands.

You’re not exactly alone down here, though you’re not all-together, either.

Your body feels as it should, so you question your need for air. How silly they all are, you think, to have feared this blue orb

You’re not exactly yourself down here: your suspension has warped your view. You see peace in this still solution; you’re at home in this salty box. You know you must have found God in this poison: you’re no longer wondering what’s up top. 



Flash Fiction

It’s wrapped around me, so close to my skin that it’s become my outer layer. It’s with me everyday and I’m told by the people with clipboards and glasses and white coats that I’m not supposed to take it off. Mine kind of looks like theirs, except theirs lets them scratch their chin, make little notes, open doors. I sit with mine, I’ve made my peace with mine, but I wonder if they’re grateful for the breeze they feel, the buttons they can adjust, the way it looks hung up on a hook after a long day. 

Mine sweats with me, breathes with me, screams with me. It shakes when I shake, shivers when I shiver, lies motionless when I lie motionless. I guess that’s the thing about mine: it knows me better than theirs know them.