Phoenixsong
beep beep coming through
- Pronoun
- she/they/any
Prefix may be less than appropriate; don't know, don't care.
Two ~200-word flash fiction things I had to write for English. Banged both of 'em out on the train to/from classes (which pisses me off because damn why can't I ever finish anything I write for myself, let alone this quickly/easily), posting them here because I can. Not only were these written quickly, but I have never done this seriously before and am probably terrible at it! Help!
...and enjoy or something?
Rated PG/K+/probably-not-that-traumatizing, I guess; the first one is kind of creepy but they're largely harmless.
I have a headache, and that high-pitched shrieking isn’t helping. The sound is like a boiling teakettle, incessant and keening, but if it was a teakettle then at least a nice, hot cup of Earl Grey would be waiting for me at the end of the ordeal. No such luck.
I try to ignore the noise even though I know I can’t, try to get on with my bookkeeping even though the awful screeching makes it all but impossible. I must at least attempt it—my meeting with Alessandra earlier today means that I should be looking at quite the windfall soon. I crunch the numbers on my calculator (eeeeeeeeee), think back to the telephone conversation with Alessandra’s father (eeeeeeeeee), glance at my desk to check my passport (EEEEEEEEEE)—
My head is pounding and I can’t take it any more. I can’t get any work done like this. I stand, sigh, take the iron poker from the fireplace, head into the back room and give the implement a hefty swing, then another for good measure. Alessandra stops screaming.
She really did sound like a teakettle. Maybe I will put on some Earl Grey. It would help with my headache.
“You know what they say about 'em these days,” he said, watching the late-night news through hooded eyes. “It's always that their mamas didn't hug 'em enough. That's what they say.”
She was only half listening to him, most of her attention on the television set. The news said they'd finally caught that guy who'd been running around cutting up little girls. It was all they were talking about on every channel, reporters and former neighbors and police profilers and doctors all saying the exact same thing—
“His mama never hugged 'im enough,” grumbled her husband. “And he doesn't have to take responsibility for nothin'.”
Billy was quiet, as usual. He wasn't watching the screen or listening to his father or the reporters; he was sitting on the couch in his dirty black clothes, looking at the cat kind of funny while it cleaned itself. She frowned and shooed the cat away.
“Makes me sick,” said her husband. He turned the television off. “Don't wanna watch 'em make excuses anymore; it's depressing. Why're you still up, Billy? Get to bed.”
Billy got up and turned toward the stairs without a word or even a glance. He was halfway to the landing when she caught up to him, bounding up the steps two at a time, and wrapped her arms around him like she'd never let him go.
Two ~200-word flash fiction things I had to write for English. Banged both of 'em out on the train to/from classes (which pisses me off because damn why can't I ever finish anything I write for myself, let alone this quickly/easily), posting them here because I can. Not only were these written quickly, but I have never done this seriously before and am probably terrible at it! Help!
...and enjoy or something?
Rated PG/K+/probably-not-that-traumatizing, I guess; the first one is kind of creepy but they're largely harmless.
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Earl Grey
I have a headache, and that high-pitched shrieking isn’t helping. The sound is like a boiling teakettle, incessant and keening, but if it was a teakettle then at least a nice, hot cup of Earl Grey would be waiting for me at the end of the ordeal. No such luck.
I try to ignore the noise even though I know I can’t, try to get on with my bookkeeping even though the awful screeching makes it all but impossible. I must at least attempt it—my meeting with Alessandra earlier today means that I should be looking at quite the windfall soon. I crunch the numbers on my calculator (eeeeeeeeee), think back to the telephone conversation with Alessandra’s father (eeeeeeeeee), glance at my desk to check my passport (EEEEEEEEEE)—
My head is pounding and I can’t take it any more. I can’t get any work done like this. I stand, sigh, take the iron poker from the fireplace, head into the back room and give the implement a hefty swing, then another for good measure. Alessandra stops screaming.
She really did sound like a teakettle. Maybe I will put on some Earl Grey. It would help with my headache.
------------------------
Hugs
“You know what they say about 'em these days,” he said, watching the late-night news through hooded eyes. “It's always that their mamas didn't hug 'em enough. That's what they say.”
She was only half listening to him, most of her attention on the television set. The news said they'd finally caught that guy who'd been running around cutting up little girls. It was all they were talking about on every channel, reporters and former neighbors and police profilers and doctors all saying the exact same thing—
“His mama never hugged 'im enough,” grumbled her husband. “And he doesn't have to take responsibility for nothin'.”
Billy was quiet, as usual. He wasn't watching the screen or listening to his father or the reporters; he was sitting on the couch in his dirty black clothes, looking at the cat kind of funny while it cleaned itself. She frowned and shooed the cat away.
“Makes me sick,” said her husband. He turned the television off. “Don't wanna watch 'em make excuses anymore; it's depressing. Why're you still up, Billy? Get to bed.”
Billy got up and turned toward the stairs without a word or even a glance. He was halfway to the landing when she caught up to him, bounding up the steps two at a time, and wrapped her arms around him like she'd never let him go.
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