Fiction, Flash Fiction, Microliterature, Passion's Invocation, slapdashsaturday

Survival Skills

  Survival Skills

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Sara lay on a dirt and rock floor, too stunned to discern one pain from the next. 

 

One moment she had been hiking, laughing with friends, and planning to stop for the night. The next was an ill-fated step that sent her falling, immediately dropping through trees and then tumbling hard to land with an abrupt thud. 

 

Sara surmised that she must have fallen into a canyon, below the mountain they were hiking, but couldn’t imagine she would have survived the fall. Her backpack was still with her. It’s a plain miracle, she mused, Thank you, Jesus!

 

She looked up, trying to see where she had fallen from, but it was too dark to determine. Slowly, she pulled her aching body to a sitting position as breathing was restored. 

 

She ran one hand over her head and arms, checking for blood and broken bones. “Even my bruises have bruises,” she muttered, peering into the murky darkness miserably, searching for anything resembling shelter. Unable to make anything out, she extracted a flint from her backpack.

 

A welcoming warmth illuminated the night and a long, low scream was wrenched from her soul as she realized she was not sitting in the safety of a canyon floor. The fall had cast her onto a small shelf on the side of the mountain. The darkness she had stared into would be sudden death with a single step.

 

By Wildfire8470

 

 

#amwriting #amwritingfiction #lotsofbooklove #saturdayflash #saturdaysharetheloveday #SlapDashSat #writingcommunity #writerslift #writelife #writerslife #amwriting #amwritingfiction #lotsofbooklove #saturdayflash #saturdaysharetheloveday #SlapDashSat #writingcommunity #writerslift #writelife #writerslife

 

 

 

 

 

Flash Fiction, Microliterature, Microliterature, Passion's Invocation, Psychological Fiction

Gennalise Chalcedony

Gennalise Chalcedony

Gennalise

Shelly was seventeen years and three hundred sixty four days old, a straight A student and the apple of her father’s eye. She donned her school uniform hoping it would be the last time, and thinking, I’m so excited and nervous I could just throw up.

 

 

She wondered how she would lie to her parents. She had never done that before. To focus her mind on less unsettling thoughts, she got up to retrieve her books and spun her head, throwing a wide smile into the mirror with a backwards glance, trying to imitate a movie star she had seen at the theater. Not bad, Miss Gennalise Chalcedony! Not bad at all!

 

 

She called herself by an alias she’d thought of. One more fitting for the big city and the grand  stage. “You know,” she whispered in her southern drawl and winking at her reflection, “for when you’re a big star!”

 

 

She smoothed her hair and tucked some escaped  tendrils behind her ear. She was the picture of innocence as she ascended the stairs for breakfast. Her stomach churned, knowing this would have to be a perfect performance.

 

 

Shelly mumbled her way through breakfast trying hard not to meet her parents eyes. They were always so ebullient in the morning, effervescent with questions about her daily goals. Any other time, she would have felt refreshed and welcomed the attention but this day, not so much.

 

 

She managed to escape their barrage of morning questions, saying her stomach was upset. At least, I didn’t have to lie about that, she comforted herself, surmising, I’ve always been a nice Catholic girl. I never once told them a lie but, suddenly I’m waist deep in lies! God, I no longer need a push broom. I need a snow shovel!

 

 

She rolled her eyes trying to calm her fears and rubbing the bills together for the bus ticket she would purchase, whispering, “I hope you’re right, Mr. Samuel. Smoot but, you wouldn’t be funding my audition if you didn’t have a really good instinct about me. I’m going to be a huge star!”

 

 

 

By Wildfire8470

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© September 6, 2019 at 2:16 AM – All Rights Reserved

Reproduction or republication of this content, without written consent from author,  is prohibited without permission.

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Microliterature, Miscellaneous, Nonfiction

Dear Future Me

Dear Future Me,

 

 

Re:  Labels


The actuality of those times when the story running through mind, set on continuous loop, is ‘not good enough…no…not even close to good enough… You will never be good or enough…’ is that you have allowed too many toxic voices to inhabit your heart and mind rent-free.

 

 

People in or entering your life may come with fulfilling labels: Friend, Wife, Husband, Father, Step-Mother, Neighbor, Daughter, Trusted Significant Other, or worse – Family, etc. Let’s call all of them chosen labels TBD.

 

 

Always, always read the actual ingredients. Open the wrapper, no matter how pleasing its appearance, and look closely at what is underneath and inside. Find out what, if any, agenda is included in the fine print. Be aware that every label has the potential to expire at any moment.

 

 

Appearances and labels are designed to deceive. Find the people, or person who quiets and soothes the heart, mind, body and soul; the ones with a different soundtrack.

 

 

Those are the ones that matter above everything and everyone else. If there is anything genuinely desirable in the package, you have struck gold. Recognize the value in them and nourish one another.

 

 

Accept no substitutes – ever. All else is just mind-numbing noise that costs far too much to acquire, keep and maintain.

 

 

Many chosen labels are all flash, nothing real, no substance, have no staying power, and are fundamentally bad for you. They are not worth the acquisition.

 

 

 

Find those that purport themselves to be who and what they actually are, and advertise accordingly. There is no substitute for the real thing.


Choose wisely. You’ll thank me later.

 

All My Love, 

Me

 

 


By

Wildfire8470

 

©May 25, 2018 at 2:20 PM, All Rights Reserved

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Reproduction or republication of this content is prohibited without prior written permission.

 

Tags: #microliterature, #advice, #present, #future #self, #nonfiction, #judgement, #labels, #people self-#advice

Microliterature, Passion's Invocation, Short Stuff Sunday

Not Broken

Not Broken

 

Not Broken

  

He was a pirate in every sense of the word. He came into her world while she slept and stole her away from safety. He was a literal thief in the night, stealing her virtue and then her mind. He twisted her into whatever amused him most. She followed blindly, depending on him to lead. She had not asked for his world but that was what she got. In time, she learned to tolerate his abuses in quiet servitude.

  

She lived an unfamiliar terror, never knowing what anguish he would inflict next, only knowing that he would not fail to. They had battled for her life, and for her will to live. She suffered seven years of soul crushing degradation, beating her black and blue, forcing her to bend and then forcing her to her knees, ignoring tears and screams. He had beaten her unconscious and nearly into her grave.

  

Finally, she freed her hands as he stumbled towards her. In a flash of fatalistic joy, she bolted, running for the gangplank, and flung her body overboard. She slipped beneath midnight waves, holding her breath with lungs near to bursting. Hiding in the breakers, silent for hours, she watched the search party relent and the ship sail away.

  

She washed onto shore beaten, bloody and scarred.  As she laid her head on cool, damp sand and closed her eyes, she whispered, “Not broken,” and passed out, sure in the knowledge that she would die fighting before letting him break her.

  
  

By Wildfire8470

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© March 19, 2018 at 4:09 AM
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Tags: #microliterature #microfiction #flash #fiction #shortstory #pirate #tales #heroine #enduring #spirit #message to a #tormentor #shortstuffsunday #amwriting
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

Fiction, Microliterature, Passion's Invocation, Psychological Fiction, Short Stuff Sunday

Killer Reputations

Killer Reputations

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Photo from Tumblr 

 

Brindle was all dime store cosmetic allure and overlong eyelashes dwarfing her face, attractive only to certain types of men from the wrong side of the tracks.

Everyone said she was no good, that she would be her own ruination.

She did business on her back, while dreaming of spreading her wings and broadening horizons, but she owed her soul to heroin. She had to have the drug to blur the faces and perversions that  were her survival.

But she dreamed of better things, a better life teeming with love, until she was three months gone and her fate was sealed.

They said she had dried out and gotten her act together; she bore a girl child in a rehabilitation center, still on the straight and narrow, and returned to her home plus one.

But wagging tongues and cold stares finally broke her. Paramedics found her with a needle in her arm.

Her daughter attended the solitary service, watching alone, as they lowered the casket into the earth.

Everyone said she had grown quite beautiful in her late teen years, and spoke in hushed tones of what a shame it was that she had inherited Brindle’s poverty.

She was all dime store cosmetic allure and overlong eyelashes dwarfing her face, attractive only to certain types of men from the wrong side of the tracks.

 

By Wildfire8470

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©March 19, 2018 at 12:17 AM
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#shortstuffsunday #SundayShorts #flashfiction #shortstory #psychological #fiction #human #condition #reputations #prostitution #harlots #history #repeats

Fiction, Microliterature, Passion's Invocation

Winning the Battle – Losing the War

Winning the Battle – Losing the War

 

She stood in the vessel, still in her pajamas, hearing the door tap staccato annoyance. She took stock of post-war casualties.

 

Venomous words, hurled like grenades, dripped from the air in corpuscle chunks, quivering in vast empty spaces between them, awaiting an overdue death at her feet.

 

Battle: 1

War: 0

 

 

 

by Uniqueorn

FC9248A3-2247-44E1-812C-7A05D2F48505

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Fathoms (Word Prompts which must be incorporated):  vessel, pajamas, tap.

Tags:  #Zathom #story #fight #fiction #microliterature #microfiction