Flash Fiction is Amazing!

Ok seriously, I thought short stories and flash fiction were a joke. But the real joke is, you don’t become a good writer until you can write a concentrated, shortened version of a story. I have learned so, so much from writing a Flash Fiction piece as an exercise in one of my writing groups. It is not perfect, yet, but I like it.

Quick list of things I learned:

-Limited words means a tighter scene, quicker pacing, and better word choice

-Cut, cut, cut

-Writing in present tense is fun, but hard

-You can say so much with so little

The theme for this flash fiction piece was “Something Lost.” For those who have had trouble with abuse in the past, just a forewarning, there are some subtle PG hints to abuse and I don’t want to catch anyone off guard. Tell me what ya think. 

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The Unnamed One

by

Jenny Flake Rabe

Today will never be like yesterday. But the next few thousand tomorrows will look a lot like today.

Thoughts of yesterday filter through my mind.

Church. Family. White Dress. A perfect day, really. And then he shows up.

He catches my eye and winks. I smile. It has been too long. Unwanted butterflies flutter in my heart, but I push them away and look forward. My betrothed is here, focusing his attention on the doors. I look away from Michael, only to find him staring at me.

“Come with me,” he mouths.  He looks at me with those chocolate-melting eyes, pleading for me to stall.

My heart thumps inside at the possibilities. I sneak out when no one is looking and we go to a room where I can’t hear the organ play.

He backs me into a wall and whispers long-forgotten sweet things in my ear.

Memories. Feelings. Promises.

He kisses me, and something in me leaves. Something pure and right. We have too much past together.

I shake my head and head for the stairs. Michael is waiting, the one that fills me with hope and reminds me I have value.

“Michael deserves more than what you can give him,” he says to me. He fills me up with words and more stolen kisses. He reminds me of what I am, of what we’ve done. I crumble at the truth, the mascara making a mess on my face.

I look for a path to freedom, but feel his steady gaze. I can’t escape the past. He won’t let me disappear again. I nod and agree to leave with him.

On the short drive, my heart breaks over and over. I can’t bear to look at the person who made me leave my one, true love. I imagine Michael staring down the aisle, waiting with eager anticipation. Our relationship had been unlike any other in my life— no settling, no broken promises, no betrayal.

Until now. I ruin everything I start.

He whispers, “We’ll do it right this time, baby. You’ll be mine forever. Things will be better.” I flinch when he runs a hand over me, like I’m an actor in his next play.

We find a wedding venue, and they marry us on the spot. He pays for a cheap hotel room, the only one he can afford. “Money is tight,” he says, “but we’ll make it.” And I smile because Michael told me this once. We had planned on being poor and happy.

Once alone, he takes what I have repaired so long ago. My body aches and I feel empty inside. I try to smile and ignore the thoughts of what could have been. But it is done. I have chosen. When it is over, we find a no-name burger joint and he refuels.

He talks, but I still don’t hear. I’m in a daze.

The night is long and I feel I’m on a rinse-repeat cycle. When he finally collapses, I breathe a sigh of relief and cry into my pillow. Eventually I sleep.

The bed shakes and I cower. I freeze and pretend I don’t care. Though in all honesty, I guess there is nothing worse that could happen. I have hit rock bottom and will be here when the layers of earth settle on top of me for years to come.

He reaches over and finds mine. My guilt chokes me. I hope that my slight touch will be enough to appease him for now. I stare down at myself and wince.

“Morning, baby,” he says to me, in that lovey-dovey voice male characters in movies use after their one night stands. This was neither a good morning or a one-night stand.

I turn on my side. Did he see my eyes? We do what he wants all morning, and I find some reprieve in a restaurant bathroom during a break. I cry and cry until no tears are left. I want to call Michael and apologize, but my new husband has stripped everything from me. I come out of the stall and a lady so dark I could have drawn her with a lead pencil stares at me.

She looks at my arms, my legs, my face. Purple and blue are not my colors. Compassion shows in the crinkles in her eyes. I try to smile, and her frown deepens. I wash my hands and go to leave, but she stops me with a hand.

She hands me a cellphone, nods, and blocks the door. I stare at the numbers and then I call. Michael picks up right away and I cry quietly in the phone.

“I’ll be there in a couple of hours,” he says. “Don’t move.”

I hang up the phone and give it back to her. “Violet,” she says, introducing herself. I nod, but remain quiet. I can’t stay in the bathroom for long. He’ll know.

I walk closer to the door, but she doesn’t budge. She dials a number on her phone and I frantically rush at her. “You can’t,” I whisper, fighting against her with my tiny fists. She takes each blow, catching them with her wide hands.

The fight in me leaves after a while. Her hazel eyes calm me, and I focus on them when I feel a scream rising. Soon, I hear loud noises outside, but she continues to bar the door. Other people try to enter, but she refuses to move.

A knock comes to the door. I hear Michael’s voice. I nod, and she releases me into his arms. I look at her over my shoulder and hope my look tells her everything I feel.

Michael holds me and a joy indescribable fills me to my toes. I weep in his arms, and he kisses each tear away.

An officer waits, but Michael waves them away for now. I squeeze his hand and he kisses my forehead. I don’t deserve him, but every day I try to prove myself wrong.