Flash Fiction Friday--A Room with a View

Gains And Losses
KRISANN GENTRY

Fair cousin,

As ancients we, along our plain and path
hath traveled long and weary. Reaching on,
in sound and light, in ether and in song,
now back to you with hopeful messages
intended for your journey. Do take heed.

A little older than you am I, Dear,
as are my sisters, too. Colder, wiser,
thinner we have grown, so trust our warnings
Darling, do. We are not yet near our death,
Beloved, but less afraid of it than you.

Sweet Erde, moving farther from innocence
with each revolution, into a kind
of a sophistication. Sometimes grand,
sometimes sad. Adding riches, robbing wealth.
Always knowing, never comprehending.

Abrasive adolescence was never
the design, but here we are, emerging
as from a chrysalis, fighting toward
the debut of your brilliance. We blinked; you're
as blinding as the moment we first saw.

You were glorious then. So favored and
full. Surely as blessed as our year is long.
The skies danced in anticipation for
what you would reveal. We didn't know how
dark, Lovely, and how bright your days would prove.

We see now the turmoil. Your soul reeling,
the swelling chaos state, building behind
swirling blue. Struggle surely lies ahead,
but we plead - do not despair. Banish the
thought that you are lost from your ever-fixed mark.

Let not your aching burdens blister deep.
The gravity was lain in place by hand
for you. Flounder as you may under the weight of
the course, yet remain ever true. Oh, that
you could see yourself from Ganymede's view!

---

Read more stories from this prompt!
Marissa's submission
Linda's submission
Moody's submission

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is NON-FICTION.

Write a short essay from the starting point, "Party Personality."

Flash Fiction Friday--Real Estate

Webs We Weave 

KRISANN GENTRY

Marco and Nellie Fisher came to me about six months ago, in need of waterfront property to build their first custom web. Distressingly, their first home together - a rented web in the wharf district -was vacated while under renovation, and when they returned on the scheduled date, there had been a terrible mistake--the web was occupied!

These things happen all the time, I'm afraid. Management misplaces paperwork and the Fishers are suddenly out. All the more terrifying when, like Nellie, you're ready to lay your first sac. Theirs was certainly a challenging situation. They were so desperate for a home, they had actually started looking in the cesspool district!

We were in a tough spot, sure, but like many times before, Dream Weavers Realty® did it again! We found the Fishers an ideal creekside spot under budget, and closed in record time! I can't stress enough the importance of working with a knowledgeable agent.

Call me for all your buying, selling, and refinancing needs.
   Junie S. Pryder, Real Estate Agent

---

Read more stories from this prompt!
Josiah's submission
Moody's submission--coming soon.

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is NON-FICTION.

Write a short essay from the starting point, "Death." 

Flash Fiction Friday--It's Not Unusual

 Tom  

KRISANN GENTRY

     Many say they can't sleep in the big city when they first move here from nowheresville. It's all the noise from the cars, and it stays brighter too. Sure, it was weird at first, but now it's normal for me. I've never been much of a sleeper anyway, more of a napper.

     Sometimes I walk home after a gig, or after I'm finished prowling the boulevards and alleys for whatever the restaurants have to offer (the whole-in-the-wall places are always the best), and I'm reminded how I used to be amazed by the differences. Not anymore. One day I realized we had all the same stuff at home, it just looked different, and the world wasn't really that divided. Like, the mall rats I'd known; they're basically just a few years away from being identical to the bar crawlers we've got here. All the suits ignore me, same as they did in the old town. And then there are the mothers. Some of them are always trying to have me over for dinner. Others chase me away with broomsticks and curses. They don't know what kind of trouble I am or not; they just assume. Same as in the small town. Everything's the same here. There's just more of it.

     So I go out and sing for my dinner most every night. I know I could cozy up to the Italian mams and never think twice about it, but I don't want to. I genuinely want it to feel different here. My own mom took care of me at home; why would I want to domesticate myself when I came out here for my freedom in the first place? To satisfy the itch I couldn't scratch before?

     I still keep my license though, with mom's name - Jones - and the address, in case I ever need to go visit home. She'd be sad if I wasn't wearing it.
   

---

Read more stories from this prompt!
Moody's submission
Josiah's submission
Linda's submission
Jeffery's submission

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is NON-FICTION.

Write a short essay from the starting point, "an inspirational speech in under 50 words." 

Flash fiction Friday--Caterpillar

   The Biggest Little Caterpillar     

KRISANN GENTRY

     At the library one afternoon, Petey asked his mother, in the middle of the story, "Oh! Am I going to turn into a butterfly too, Mama?"
     "No, my dear," she answered. "We're not that kind of caterpillar."

     All the rumbly ride home, Petey thought about the lovely pictures he had seen in the book about the little caterpillar. He felt pretty little too, compared to his dad, especially. The baby caterpillar was bright green and a little bit fuzzy; he liked that. Petey's best friend Johnnie was bright green, too. He liked being yellow. But most of all he liked that the little caterpillar in the library book became something amazing at the end.

     "Mom? Will Johnnie become a butterfly?"
     "What? Oh, no buddy. He's not even a Cat to start with, let alone a caterpillar at all!"
     "If I could have wings, would they help me be better at digging?"
     "Probably not. There's not much dirt to dig in the air, is there?"

     He rode home the rest of the way just thinking.

     At dinner Dad asked about his day.
     "Bad news, Dad. I'm never going to be a butterfly."
     Dad almost spit his drink laughing. "Well son, you're in good company, then. None of us became butterflies, did we? We've been Caterpillars all our lives."
     "Did you ever maybe wish you would turn to a butterfly?" Petey asked.
     "Not really. I'm too heavy for working up high. Besides, I'm claustrophobic. I need open fields! Couldn't handle a cocoon for all that time."
     "I guess so."
     "If you were a butterfly, it'd be hard for you to live with us!" Mom chimed in.
     "I just wanna be awesome," little Petey sighed.

     Bedtime came and as they tucked in their boy, Mom and Dad Cat wondered what they could do to help Petey feel better.
     "Goodnight, Petey." Mom laid a colorful blanket over his usual cover.
     "Night, Petey," Dad switched off the light.
     "Goodnight." He shut his eyes.
     "Oh, Son?" Dad waited at the door.
     "Yeah Dad?"
     "We work really hard to become great every day. It doesn't happen overnight, or quickly, like to a butterfly, but it does happen. You don't have to worry about that part, okay?"
     "Okay Dad. I can do that." Petey sleepily answered as settled into his snuggly blankets.
   

---

Read more stories from this prompt!
Moody's submission
Josiah's submission
Linda' submission

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is NON-FICTION.

Write a short essay from the starting point, "acting like a kid." 

Flash Fiction Friday--What'll You Have?

  First Timers    

KRISANN GENTRY

     Anything out of the ordinary so rarely happened in Shaw County. The carnival was a big deal.

     Mabel and Jane, "the twins," as everybody called them, were just barely seven when it arrived. I remember, because their Pa forgot to throw them a party that year. Worthless drunk decided he'd handled enough birthdays on his own and took that one off, Lord forgive him, so a few of us threw a little something together with a caramel apple cake and a few noisemakers. It was the best we could do on meager means and short notice.

     We thought their eyes sparkled at that birthday party, but that was nothing, compared. You should have seen them at that carnival. We'd heard in the papers it was coming, so our committee, that's what we called ourselves, the committee--we got together and decided we needed to take the girls in to see the shows. They deserved it more than any, as far as we could see. The budget was low. We had enough for the tickets and a sack lunch, but we explained there'd be no treats inside, and they were good girls; they understood well enough.

     I fully expected those sights and sound to be a wonder to those young things, but I have to admit I myself was fairly taken aback by the impressive display. I still don't understand how they managed, in full daylight sun, to make it seem like the whole place was floating on in a mesmerizing hue just as pink as that cotton candy fluff. I can't blame the twins, really for their raptures with the place. Considering their situation, and all.

     We spent all afternoon, acting like there was no other world to return to outside. Every card show, every acrobat's turn, every wild horse ride, those girls were lost in the magic. It was long past supper, the crowds were mostly already gone home, and we were headed toward the gate, when the balloon vendor in clown makeup called out to us.

     "Good evening, ladies. I'm headed in for the night and these balloons are of no use to me. Do you know of anyone who might care for them?" Mabel's eyes went wide as silver dollars. Jane kept very still, afraid to breathe, probably. I looked around, and answered for them.
     "We seem to be the only ones left, sir."
     "I see." He acted sorely disappointed.
     Mabel piped up, "Perhaps-" she grew shy again and paused. Her sister's boldness rescued them.
     "We may be able to take them, if it could help you, sir," Janey ventured.
     "My, what an interesting solution! Well, I've got reds, pinks, and blues. What'll you have?"

     He pulled two sweets from his pocket and placed them in their hands, having carefully divvied all of his balloons between the two of them, one by one, announcing with deep bows and fancy flourishes as each color was passed to its new owner. They were smitten. He invited them back as his guests the next day, and another member of our committee volunteered to bring them. After all, we all imagined they'd never have this chance again.

     He met them at the gate and took them to the parlor. They had ice creams together, and he began to show them how to hula hoop, and a few other simple tricks. He let them ride the ponies and introduced them to the whole crew of performers, jesters, trainers and managers.

     He gave them first choice seats at the clown show, the very same one where he fell and wound up with a broken ankle. The carnival went on without him and he stayed in our hospital those months, healing up and reading books and telling stories to his daily visitors, who, he noticed, would rather spend time on his knee than two doors down in the room with the patient whose liver was failing. He helped them practice handwriting and work figures each afternoon, and they showed off their growing mastery of juggling, or balance, or any other small amusements he'd explained. The girls and he grew inseparable and got each other through what was probably the worst of their lows. He packed up to leave when the company came back through.

     I'm not surprised the twins ran away with the carnival that next year. After all, they didn't really have a father.

---

Read more stories from this prompt!
Jonathan's submission--coming soon
Linda's submission
Moody's submission
Josiah's submission
Jeffery's submission

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is NON-FICTION.

Write a short essay from the starting point, "my favorite character flaw." 

Flash Fiction Friday--Salmonella

 DEBACLE 

KRISANN GENTRY

The machines were still stopped.

The machines were never stopped.

Three days had come and gone and still no word from the plant manager. The union president was outside attempting to rally the workforce with his promises. "You all need your work to feed your families! I promise you now, somebody's losing their job over this!"

But who would be getting the ax? Who can you ask to take responsibility for this kind of mistake? After all, it had been in production for over forty days; none of the assemblers caught it, and why should they have? It's not on their task list. Before that, the test batch flew through all four levels in R&D. "This color is perfectly on-trend for this year. Guaranteed to sell."

Before that, it was in the hands of the marketing team, fresh from the design department, where some intern had scribbled into the margins one of the lunch ramblings of the just-a-little-too-inspired team lead, which definitely included the discussion of this color. "It's like a warm coral. Maybe with a touch of pinks. Walk into a room that looks like this vibrant orange, but smells like baked cookies. That's our target. Salmon meets vanilla. Salmonilla."

Whether they intended it or not, the name, having been noted on the paperwork and heavily referenced as it progressed toward production, made its way into the title of the collection (already a gross oversight), but the spelling error really brought  which was in production for nearly six weeks before the incident report was sent from House Depot HQ, explaining that a Mrs. Houghner (plaintiff) had vomited in their aisles after finding an aggressively marketed new line pleasing to her eye, and picking up the order catalogue only to find every item's color listed as Salmonella.

"Vomited in the aisles?"
"That's what the email says."
"...How many aisles?"
"At least four are mentioned."
"From smelling the paint?"
"No. Just looking at the cards. We - somebody at Mayer Design Co. - thought it was a good idea to name a signature paint color Salmonella, and the whole product line is modeled after it."
"How can that have happened? You can't be serious."
"Don't even ask. But the real kicker is that she fell in some of her vomit and had to go to the hospital, where they discovered her problem. She has PTSD. So she's going to sue House Depot and us for medical expenses and treatment. Our spelling error, or name, or whatever happened there, triggered her fall and diagnosis."
"I... I just can't believe it."

Three interns and two managers were fired that week, but the whole company went down shortly after. It was such a young design firm, and it really couldn't afford a mistake like that. The union's fines, the reprints, the lawyer's fees. Or even just the psychiatrist alone.

---

Read more stories from this prompt!
Moody's submission
Jeffery's submission
Josiah's submission

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is NON-FICTION.

Write a short essay from the starting point, "this year." 

Flash Fiction Friday--Secret Santa

Seasons greetings! Flash Fiction Friday is on Winter Break! Our break for Holiday festivities with loved ones will be much appreciated, and we'll be back to the writing action in January. When we reconvene, it will be with a slightly new format, so watch for the news on that. Before we sign off, enjoy this last offering of 2012. 

 Many Happy Returns  

KRISANN GENTRY

"Somebody call 911!" Brad coughed out his orders, choking on the thick dust still cascading down from the ceiling like a fresh snow. "Are we under attack? What in the heck is happening?!"

"I don't know!" Molly, the clerk, still clutching the receipt from her last transaction, wiped muddied, stinging tears from her eyes, trying to see where his voice was coming from. "I was just about to put this in their bag, and-"

"Holy hell, guys." Sam was back from his break, making his usual, unaffected commentary from somewhere outside the perimeter of their ground zero. "Did you know the ceiling's kinda, um, open, Brad?"

"Sam! Lock down the front door until we can get to the bottom of this. Don't let anyone loot us!" Brad's loyalty to his duty as store manager was, as ever, in tact--swimming in debris though he may have been, he still had his priorities straight. "And call the police when you - what the heck is this?" He suddenly spat a large chunk of sparkling, tinselly confetti out of his mouth. A deflated, dirt-caked yellow balloon made its way down and landed on his shoulder. "Oh. Oh, it can't be..." Memories of Brad's early training manuals suddenly surfaced, and a long-forgotten footnote now announced itself to his consciousness.

"Molly! Molly give me that receipt! Who was that?"

"I don't know! It was a woman and her kid."

"Go, find them! Find the woman that was here!"

"She ran out as soon as that stuff started falling on her!"

"Sam, you locked the doors, right? Bring the customers to me one by one."

Only three customers remained, most having left their carts full of goods behind in favor of avoiding the attempt at being unlawfully detained by the zealous shop manager. Brad went by each one, inspecting their bags, trying to find the match for the all-important receipt in his hand. Molly apologized for the confusion to each one as they were dismissed. As she began to sweep the glittery dust storm, Brad interrupted her efforts.

"We've got to find the woman who matches this receipt!"

"Is she Cinderella?" Sam's usual humor was wasted on Brad's seriousness and Molly's mood.

"She's the millionth customer!" Brad's reddened eyes grew larger, his already hoarse voice rasped loudly. "Jim and Elba, rest their souls, when they built this place, they had an idea for a prize to celebrate getting their millionth customer. I didn't know they actually did anything about it! The, the trap-door in the ceiling, oh my God, I had no idea. But we have to find her! We've got to give her her prize!"

"Okay, um, call the news?"

"Sam, you're a genius. Whomever can bring me the exact contents of this receipt, and match the identity Molly remembers, can claim it! You just earned yourself a raise, young man." Molly scowled, still sweeping thanklessly.

She came forward a week later. Her picture plaque still hangs on the wall by the cash register. "Jemma Blackner, 1,000,000th customer." She spent her $10 gift card on another bottle of shampoo, the last one having been spent on the efforts to get the dust out of her hair.

Want to make one of your own? Come back in January for more prompts. 

Happy Holidays!

Flash Fiction Friday--Migration Patterns

Not Cutting It 

 - A Monologue -
KRISANN GENTRY

It's my first time so I'll try not to squirm. Look, I'm terribly sorry for whatever comes out of me. I used to be able to handle this kind of thing by myself, and honestly, don't know what will happen. Calling in the reinforcements! Hahahahaha. Ahm. That's you, by the way. Do you have a bucket in case I get nauseous? You know, 'blouuughghghgh'? No? Okay, I'll do my best.

Okay, so my main problem is at the top. It's true that I'm plucking twice as frequently as I used to, and like I said, whatever. I was dealing with it, you know? But now it's changing it's shape. It's taking on a whole new form, and I'm just not equipped to deal with that. I certainly don't want to make it worse! Nice shape, okay? No high arches!

Do you have any release I need to sign before we begin? You know like if there's some kind of reaction. You won't burn me, right? IT'S NOT GOING TO BURN?

Sure, sorry. I'm ready. Will you count to three? I know they're getting wider, I get it; we get hairier as we age. Just make sure I don't leave here with them higher than where they started. I don't want them flying north for the summer, you know? Placement is very important.

Yes, sorry. I am, really. Okay. You can start.

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is, 

"Secret Santa."

Read Gabriel's submission.
Read Linda's submission.

Flash Fiction Friday--Figureheads of State

   I refuse to Lie, Okay?    

KRISANN GENTRY

The Macy's parade marched slowly on, and on, as it does each year. The little girl sat at the window staring in awe, cognizant of the hullabaloo for maybe the first time in her young life.

At first, her family all gathered close by, enthralled more with her delighted squeals than the activity itself. One by one the bright attractions marched by, and at each new sight she demanded more information. "Who's that, Mama!?"
"That's Spider Man, sweetie," the woman answered before heading back into the kitchen to address the potatoes.
"Dad, what are those guys doing?"
"That's a marching band, gumdrop. Your old dad used to be in one of those. It's a real honor to be skilled enough to be invited to-"
"Whoa! Whasat!?!"
"That's a giant balloon in the shape of a football. Oh, speaking of which..." he headed out to the den to tune into the game.

Her questions and joyous squeals continued and uncles, aunts, and other guests busied themselves with other matters until finally, no one was left to query but Grandpa in his recliner. She asked his several questions, but he only grunted, or snored, once groggily asking her to refill his drink, so she finally resigned to watching the spectacle in silence. No matter though, because she didn't need anyone to tell her who the last participant in the grand parade was as he turned the corner onto their block.

"SANTA!!" she squealed.
"Nothin' but a lousy figurehead," Grandpa mumbled.
"A fig of what?"
He sat up a bit in his chair. "Fig yer head. He's got no power! Listen Lucy, don't bulieve in Santa, okay? Don't even bulieve in him, okay? He's got nothing to do with it."
Lucy came away from the window and scooted in close to his seat. "I can send letter to Santa, Grandpa!"
"Yeah, and you know who reads em? Their Congressional Department of Elves, that's who! They don't even make the toys - oh they'd like you to keep thinking that - but the laborers union knows it's the sweat and tears and the strong backs of the penguins that gets the job done! And whadda the penguins get for running the show? Okay? They get labeled black collar and fish wages. Okay? A total crock."
"I asked for a mermaid doll!"
"Lemme, let... lemme tellya something about this, okay? Your letter has to go through eighteen tiers before anybody relevant even hears your wish. The Elfery Department of Baking, the Elfery Bureau of Cheer, the Public Relations elves, the productions councils. These people are just fuzzy suits passing paper around. The system is broken, Lucy, okay?"

Grandpa turned over and went back to snoring in his chair and Lucy went back to the window, giggling and waving as she watched the sleigh pull away from her sight.

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is, 

"migration patterns."

Read Esther's submission.
Read Aaron's submission.

Flash Fiction Friday--End of an Era

 Everything Changes  

KRISANN GENTRY

"Are you sure you want to open that? Once you know, you can never go back."

"I have to know."

"Yes, but when? Now?"

"Why not now?"

"Why not in a day or two. Think about things first. Decide what you want, and what you'll do if it's not what you hoped."

"That's the difference between you and me. I don't start hoping until I know. How can I know what to hope for? Until I open it, there's just this big black hole of thoughts. It not only keeps me from making any progress with this, but it sucks in neighboring thoughts too, distracting me, keeping me form being productive at anything else! I need to do this."

"I guess we are different."

"You want me to open it but not tell you anything until you're ready?"

"No, I can't handle that kind of pressure. Not knowing is one thing, but not knowing and knowing you know? Insufferable."

"Fine. Do you need a minute?"

"Wait, now?"

"Yes, now!"

"...I'm ready."

"It's a girl."

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is, 

"Figureheads of State."

Read Gabriel's submission. 

Flash Fiction Friday--Battle Scars

Presentation 
KRISANN GENTRY

He lay on his back in the center of a large slab table under several blindingly bright lights, trying to relax. The thin sheet barely shielded his body from the chill in the air, though at this point, the feeling was gone from his extremities anyway, so he didn't see how it mattered. As long as he could keep from shivering, it shouldn't affect their ability to address his wounds.

An attendant happened by with a tray of drinks. "How are you holding up?"
"Can you put the headphones in my ears? It helps me stay still."
"Of course," she smiled kindly, sympathetic to his situation. "Good luck with it today. Did you want me to adjust the glasses too?" "No, they're good. Thanks." "They'll be here soon. Press the button if you need me." Finally, the team of technichians arrived. He had come to know them well, and gave a slight nod at Caroline's gentle alert--her arm on his shoulder. "We're ready to begin, Adam. Remember it's imperative you keep as still as you can." "I know. We've done this enough times by now."

"You'll be fine," she comforted him. "Do you need anything to help you relax?" "I've got the music; I'm fine for now."

"Just say the word if you need anything. You remember my assistants?"

"Hey guys, good to be back. If anyone has to see this much of me, I'm glad it's you." The whole room chuckled. "I'm going to lift the sheet. We'll spend about thirty minutes mapping the incision points. Then we'll discuss the burns. Once we're confident in our plan, we'll begin. Please do fall asleep, if you can. Everything will go more smoothly." He did fall asleep, and awoke again nearly five hours later, stiff and sore, but amazed at his transformation; they had done it again. As impressive as their work was, he was quietly grateful this was that last day they were scheduled to reshoot the battle scenes, and for the rest of this year, or maybe his life, he'd never have to wear that much makeup again.

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is, 

"end of an era."

Flash Fiction Friday--Three Strikes

three leaf Clover
KRISANN GENTRY

In a way, we were lucky.

They say the thing you spend time worrying about never happens to you. It’s lots of somethings much smaller, or rarely, something much, much worse. But sometimes, it’s exactly what you’ve worried about for years, and you’ve rehearsed how to react, how to help, a thousand times in your mind. It’s just that doing everything right doesn’t always amount to enough, in the end.


In a way, we were lucky.

They say most marriages don’t survive the death of a child, but ours was already long over. I can remember thinking that the infidelity and the divorce was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. 
How funny, he was always looking for ways to fix us, to undo the separation, to have his dad back, to call him 'ours' again. Ironic that he actually succeeded... that for a minute, she meant nothing to him, because she could not fathom his loss. I could. It was mine too.


In a way, we are lucky. 

He'll never have to see what we couldn't be without him.

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is, 

"battle scars."

Read Esther's submission.
Read Jeffery's submission.

Flash Fiction Friday--Tall Order

Natural Selection
KRISANN GENTRY

Narrow slits in the simple structure displayed the piercing light as the governing star rose on Nuven. He hadn't slept at all.

Deep breath. Eighteen intervals of training. You'd suppose he'd feel ready. He didn't.

He wasn't born a hero. They tried to make him one. Today all would see, once and for all, if they had done.

Gravity would be different there, they said. Bone density and DNA mutations over centuries of living here... there was no way to know how it would affect us all. "That's why we have to send you. We have to know if we can go back."

"We used to be taller, much taller," they explained. "According to our research..." the details of his training flitted through his mind on fast-forward. It was all best-guesses. It was all theory... and it would all be tested. On his body, on his mind, their hypotheses would be measured. He tried again to drown out the overwhelming sense of chaos ruling his thoughts.

The campaign to select a candidate for travel lasted fifty revolutions while they waited, patiently searching for the perfect choice: a completely average, unremarkable individual with nothing to lose. They'd found him. "If you succeed, if you arrive and report with great news; the rewards will be beyond measure!" They used their best development technologies to transform him. "An investment into our future!" all decried. He doubted they would get their money's worth.

He silently rose and dressed quickly, racing against the chill of the early morning. He would report early; there was no use delaying any longer. Whatever fate was written for him would reveal itself in precious few hours.

He passed through the tunnels, his pace deliberate, from the retaining quarters into the launch deck. The team preparing the vessel was already hard at work. NSH Kestrel was ready to fly, but as he boarded and took his place at the enveloping seat at it's center, he couldn't help but feel more like the field mouse than the falcon.

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is, 

"three strikes."

Read Robert's submission.
Read Keri's submission.
Read Kindra's submission.
Read Jeffery's submission.

Flash Fiction Friday -- Basketball Socks

Sir or Madam
KRISANN GENTRY

When I was a kid, my dad had kind of a soft spot for traditions. Except, not the traditions you'd think. Other families did things because the parents' own family had done it, like Christmas trees and Turkey on Thanksgiving; my dad had a bit of a different experience in boyhood, having been raised in a small community (read: a seclusive cult on a mountain). So, when he became a father he had a lot of deciding to do. 'How does the rest of the world (not on the mountain) go about life? What are we gonna keep sacred around here?'

His answer: firsts. He tasted ice cream for the first time when Mom had a craving for it, pregnant with my older brother. Thirty six years old, the man had his first ice cream. After that, he was hooked. He wanted a new first all the time, and he wanted to be there for every first of ours. He stayed at home and Mom worked, so he could raise us, and witness and keep them all in his head--every first. And once he'd decided a first was worth celebrating, it became permanent.

My first Halloween to be old enough to choose my own costume was when I turned five. I went as a home-made dinosaur. We were almost ready to go when Dad instructed, "Son, you'll need a place to hold the candy. Grab a sock." I bolted back to the linen closet, knowing just what I'd choose; he had a set of three pair of long basketball socks for when he played with his buddies every first and third Saturday morning. I carefully laid all of them side by side, to see which had stretched the most, and chose the biggest one. I brought my selection back outside, where they were already waiting. Dad turned and beamed at me, paused a second, then beamed bigger. He took my sock, wrote my name in permanent marker across the rim, and passed it back to me, turning to lead us into the candy-grabbing adventure of our dreams. It wasn't until I saw James' pillow case, with his name also scribbled in Dad's handwriting across the side, that I realized he had said to choose a sack, not a sock. It was too late now, though. This was my first choice on my first Halloween, and I knew I would never escape it. He respected the firsts too much.

I guess that's how I got here. To manage your jelly bean factory, I would pull upon years of experience at never eating as much candy as I want.

Thank you for taking the time to read my cover letter. I hope you'll consider me for the position.

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is, 

"tall order."

Read Kindra's submission.
Read Jenari's submission.
Read Jeffery's submission.
Read Keri's submission.

Flash Fiction Friday -- Creature Catalogue

CIRCLED IN RED
KRISANN GENTRY

   The dull gray morning got brighter at 10:47am, when the shout came from downstairs, "Mail's here!" Micah's voice squealed out and his sneakers squeaked across the linoleum floor as he tore off to the mailbox, his excitement erupting from his head to his toes. Elliot planted himself at the bottom of the stairs, waiting. He didn't like being disappointed, so he always refused to admit it was coming until it was actually in their hands. He needn't have worried, though; Micah ran back into the house bearing a thick volume, slightly turned up at the edges from the rough handling in transit--it had come, just like it does every October 26.  

   The glossy photograph on the cover displayed a blurred image of twinkling lights and rich colors, much different from last year's all-text cover (an attempt to throw off the littler kids who couldn't read yet, they supposed), or the year before, which bore a vintage illustration of a Christmas morning scene. This year's cover photo was was bright, and emblazoned with tall white letters, reading, "Holiday Wishes," spread across most of the scene, and at the bottom, in small black type, was addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Hayd or current resident, 1429 Mabel Ave..."  

   The boys carefully laid the catalogue on the kitchen table and chose three markers. The blue one for Micah, the red for Elliot, and two-ended black and green, one side for the notes their mother would make after they had circled their selections, and the other for the baby, who couldn't circle her own choices yet. 

   "Remember the deal," Micah commanded, refusing to open the pages until they agreed to move forward as planned: "one favorite per page each. We can only like three of the same in the whole book. And we never look back--only go through once."

   "And no choosing before the timer runs out. Sixty full seconds for each page before we start to circle," Elliot reminded his brother of his own amendment. Micah nodded.

   "Mom! We're starting! So don't come down here!"

   They skipped past the first forty pages of girly stuff, princess costumes and pink play kitchens and doll dream houses, to what they wanted. Elliot flipped the timer from the Cranium game and they began. Micah wiggled in his seat, waiting anxiously to mark the nerf gun on their first page, having decided on it immediately. "Only thirteen second in," Elliot announced, smiling at his brother's unneeded haste. He went for the vintage-looking gum ball machine coin bank. Next, moon boots and rocket shoes and every size of trampoline tempted them, but they both circled a punching bag with two sets of boxing gloves. "We can both use this one, so it's good for mom," Elliot offered, hoping he hadn't used his first shared vote too soon. 

   On the video games page, Elliot backed down from trying to circle the same PS3 title. The seconds ticked down as he calmly watched Micah squirm, anxious to race him for it. He knew right away they shared the same favorite, and he knew too, he could beat Micah to circling it; he didn't need to watch the timer to know when he could move. The count in his head was scarily accurate. Still, he didn't want the same one enough to use one of his mutual votes, so he chose his second favorite and let Micah eagerly stare at the sand falling, and then race to select it first, beaming at his assumed win.

   Micah was the next to volunteer another shared item. "This Lego Star Wars set has six ships, so we can each have three. Mark which ones you want now so we don't forget," he directed. They both circled, and then added a star by three of their favorite kits within the giant box set. It was all going perfectly. 

   Their third and final mutual gift wish item was the easy one, the same this year as it was every year: the swimming pool section at the back of the catalogue. They both vigorously circled the biggest option, smiling and satisfied, and were about to close the book and deliver it with the third marker to their mom upstairs, when Elliot noticed something. "Wait!" he stopped Micah's hand from shutting it closed and carefully turned the last page, revealing a category they had never seen in the book before: hatching eggs, ready to be shipped, incubated and raised. The left column contained different breeds and quantities of chicken eggs, and the right displayed options for duck and quail. But there, right in the center, were the words "OWLING KIT," and the image of a large owl egg with a box on a post. 

   Micah stared at the page in awe as Elliot quietly uncapped his red marker, reached up and tipped the timer over, and stared his brother in the face, counting down with the sand.

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is, "basketball socks."

Read Keri's submission.
Read Jeffery's submission.
Read Kindra's submission.
Read Esdras' submission.

Flash Fiction Friday -- I know what I saw

Ghost Stories
Krisann Gentry

8:17am.
I was late. I ate my peanut butter toast faster as I can, but that is pretty hard, because peanut butter is sticky in my froat, so I had to get another glass of milk to eat it all, so I was still late.

8:19am.
Mom gave me a wipey and I cleared crumbs and peanut butter from my face. If I hurried, I could still make it to my bus on time. 

8:24am.
Mom buckled me into my booster seat and whispered stuff about missing the bus. She had to run back into the house because she forgotted things and her shoe broke. She is even faster than a race car sometimes.

8:32am.
We pulled up to the gate, but Mrs. Jensen has started kindergarten without me. I thought then that it was the worst day ever, but I had no idea what was waiting for me.

8:33am.
Mom smooshed my hair down with her spit again, and I hopped out of the car. She yelled something to me about coming back with the sheets, but she was driving away, so I couldn't hear her really good.

8:37am.
I ran straight here from the school. I'm so glad mom taught me where the police station was, for mergencies. The whole class was all turned to ghosts, sir. I don't know how, but they were. That's everything I saw. Don't let mom go back, or she'll be one too. Can you send the fire truck?

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is "Creature Catalogue."

For Keri's story, click here.
For Jeannine's story, click here. 
For Jeffery's submission, click here.
For Esdras' story, click here. 
For Karlet's story, click here.

First Flash Fiction Friday

Powder and Soda

Rows upon rows of bottles and jars rest along her high counter. It looks more like an old apothecary than a kitchen; she looks more like a lab tech than an artist, carefully matching a syrup or brew to one of the carefully lined-up measures, pouring a hint or a drop into a vessel and patiently observing and noting everything about it--how it reacts to the other elements, what it needs to round out its flavor profile, and other decisions important to her, but unseen by most. She is a master of these, the tiny measurements. In her mind she systematically works through variables and outcomes, extrapolating from these micro-experiments, understanding what she will need to bring to the table when the time comes to create a large batch. She fails often. She learns every time. She measures again.

She cried once, into a pile of sifted flour, and mourned for weeks. Not a single one of her fourteen varieties of salt could quite recreate the exquisite flavor, and no matter how she tried, she couldn't make herself cry enough for a test batch, let alone the whole order. “Can’t cry enough or cry too much.” She thinks of things that way. A maddish kind of scientist.

Today, she is trying something new. The lavender oil has already been rejected in favor of elderberry syrup. The powders and sodas will react as she intends; she is the director of their chemical symphony, and nothing will go wrong, she is sure. She drops two large yolks into a bowl of equal parts oil and water - the mixing bowl stares menacingly back at her for a moment. “Challenge accepted,” she smiles as she grabs her whisk and begins blending with a little too much enthusiasm.

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is

"I know what I saw."