Flash Fiction: “Kill the Old Woman”
Periodically I write short (very short!) pieces of fiction. The pieces are so short that I categorize them as flash fiction. I pack as much soul-stirring drama as I can into a handfull of paragraphs. What fun!
I decided to post some of my flash fiction pieces here on my blog (I’ll file them under “Flash Fiction”). I also decided to draw illustrations for some of the pieces (which is a stretch, considering I’m a drawing novice).
To kick things off, here’s a piece I wrote last summer at a writing club gathering in San Diego.
KILL THE OLD WOMAN
| 10 August 2008
I took my finger out of her eye socket and gracefully brought it to my tongue.
I closed my eyes. I pictured myself taking off like a rocket ship, blasting powerfully into the night sky, into the Milky Way, kicking the shit out of star after star.
The doorbell rang. My heart pounded as I tiptoed toward the patio door and slipped out the back. With the adrenaline I still had left, I lept the backyard fence like a hurdler. Holy shit. I’m unstoppable.
When I reached the sidewalk, I immediately turned on my cell phone and called my mom.
“Hi, Hon,” she said, with a motherly joy.
“Hi, Mama,” I said. “How’s your vacation going? Are you soaking up the sunshine?”
“Yea, the sun feels great,” she replied, “though I wish my knee wasn’t bothering me. I can’t even play golf. Dr. Goldstein won’t let me.”
At that point in the conversation, I tuned out. My mom kept talking, but all I could do was lick the remaining blood off my fingers.
March 5th, 2009 at 11:40 am
Wow! I don’t check your blog for awhile and then I read this. I will keep repeating, “it’s only fiction, it’s only fiction, it’s only fiction.”
Someone better keep an eye on your mama.
March 6th, 2009 at 4:00 am
Well, I don’t get it…
Your mama
March 9th, 2009 at 7:13 am
Laurie– Hi there! What can I say, there’s a Stephen King or Dean Koontz in me somewhere deep down. Yikes. Fun.
Mama– I don’t “get it” either.
Love,
A
March 12th, 2009 at 6:12 am
I was thinking the Stephen King thing too. Robb would have loved it and maybe gotten it.
Ma
March 16th, 2009 at 11:50 am
poetic response to the flash fiction:
desert winds etching the sand
into swirling scratches
on these lonely bones
two years now unstoppable
these winds just pound
and pound
their suffering sculpture
they formed this shape
they shaped this pain
from brutal death came
this molded miscreant
and silence (thank god)
no answers found
no answers given
when stories turn gruesome
and shocking
like eye sockets dissected
what the
furthest memory holds
is still too bitter
for one damn book
to explain or expose
no answers wanted
no answers taken
will shield these bones
from the relentless wind
of loneliness