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Flash Fiction

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(no subject) [Mar. 9th, 2012|02:32 am]
Flash Fiction

annabellee
I sit down to write a letter but end up staring out at the bare trees instead. The sun is out, but its light is weak and the ground is covered in snow. The birds are still singing, though some not as loudly and some not at all. But I hear them nonetheless and I wish they could deliver my message to you in song.
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(no subject) [Mar. 9th, 2012|02:28 am]
Flash Fiction

annabellee
I have been back home for ten minutes and there is a puddle on the kitchen floor. I am out of cigarettes, the last roll of toilet paper has mysteriously vanished, and there is a crack in the hallway mirror that wasn’t there when I left.
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(no subject) [Mar. 8th, 2012|09:49 pm]
Flash Fiction

annabellee
“I want to be happy,” she said. She held an unlit cigarette in one hand and an unanswered prayer in the other. Across from her sat a very handsome man who she always called Nicholas. Inside of her was a heart that beat out of tune with life. She sighed. Her eyes scanned the table for crumbs and then traveled to meet his gaze. He was always watching her, no matter the distance she was the movie that he was always watching.

She smirked, a small laughed exploded from her mouth. Her red lips framed the sound of it like a musical work of art. “I always say that, don’t I?”

“Yeah,” he nodded with the sincerest of intentions. He loved this about her. This was her thing.

“Well, you make me happy. At least there’s that,” and she let the cigarette go and it rolled to where the bottle of ketchup stood nearly empty. “I think I’m going to quit smoking.”

Nicholas smiled. “That would make me very happy.”
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(no subject) [Mar. 8th, 2012|09:41 pm]
Flash Fiction

annabellee
The music played like a gentle wave sweeping the shoreline of her memory. Slowly, the piano, the violin, the conductor behind the soaring sound of birds in flight and hands in prayer, all helped to relieve her of the memories that made up her life. She sat still in a chair in the sunlight in mid-afternoon and thought about nothing. For once peace was upon her the way war normally falls upon the world. For the first time in her life, she was Buddha, she was the silence, she was that moment everyone speaks of but rarely ever experiences. That single moment where every other moment, and every star and every kind of love, is contained within an infinite void where nothing but everything exists in total harmony. There was the yin and the yang, the tao, the river flowing as naturally as the breath comes and goes from one living being to another. And she was on the river. She was the river and she was the flow, and for the first time in her life she realized that there did not need to be a separation between the two.
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House of Ghosts by Eric Bosse [Mar. 8th, 2012|09:19 pm]
Flash Fiction

annabellee
The blue Victorian at 1145 White Street shifts in its foundation, creaks, and settles in for the night. The boys are bundled into their beds. My wife, too, has gone to sleep. I’m alone in the kitchen, steeping chamomile tea, coughing phlegm into the lines of my palms. Toast crumbs on the table shiver when I exhale. The refrigerator groans. The candle pops. The back door swings open, and the ghost of my father’s lover stands there in the moonlight. I offer him tea. He accepts and smiles as if death were an exquisite pleasure. I pour hot water into a World’s Best Mom mug and tell him it’s been five days since the night my wife called me David. I was kissing her breast, and I saw her lips as she whispered it: Oh, David. Her eyes bloomed with the horror of her mistake. Her cheeks turned pink then a pale green.

David, I asked. Who is David?

My father’s lover’s ghost takes his tea with honey and sips with his pinkie extended. I ask if my father was passionate in bed.

The ghost’s gaze trails toward the knife block and the spice rack. He sets down his tea and beckons me to follow. We walk to the back porch. The boards squeak beneath my feet but not his.

Outside, in the yard, everything is gray — the moon, the stars, the decrepit fence. And other silver ghosts are there. My grandfather, in a powder-blue polyester coverall suit, plucks cherries from a branch of my wife’s apple tree. My childhood dog Farrell — half mutt, half beagle — naps at my feet. My high school football coach, Butch Stuemke, stands with his arms wrapped around the keg of his chest, watching me, waiting for me to throw a block or catch a pass, to do something, anything.

My father’s lover’s ghost puts a hand on my shoulder and presses me to take a seat on the steps. He sits behind me, cradles me, and whispers that I am brave to go on living. I rest my head in his lap, and for the first time in five nights I drift toward sleep. Did he ever talk about me? I ask.

Oh, all the time, the ghost says. He never stopped. You were the most lovable kid in the world. You were his cupid, his darling boy, his perfect little cherub.

I shut my eyes. Something moves in the grass. The ghost strokes my hair. I keep wondering if it will rain.

Source: http://flashfiction.net/2012/01/flash-focus-eric-bosse.php
from the book Magnificent Mistakes, Stories by Eric Bosse
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