the kinetic pen

wired by words


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Flash Fiction Challenge: Fruit

My recent foray into flash fiction wasn’t as short-lived as I imagined it to be, as I’m now seemingly addicted to writer Charli Mills’ weekly Flash Fiction Challenge.

The latest prompt:
In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes fruit. It can be mythological, metaphorical or realistic. Think of fruit as a way to create tension, add a twist or something unexpected to your story. Use it to define a character or make it her obsession. Is it abundant, absent or desired?

My entry:
Dabs of red nail polish line the tips of the old woman’s white sandals.

“Grandma, did you paint your toes with your shoes on?” Anna asks.

The grandmother turns her head, looking sheepish. “I guess I should take them off next time,” she answers. Her feet dangle off the edge of the examination table, her ankles creased and swollen below the hem of her dress, her toes curled into each other. She’s quiet as she waits for the doctor.

Anna can’t think of anything to talk about. She can’t stop staring at those feet, those heels like wrinkled peaches.

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A Flash Fiction First

I have a swelling folder of information on places to submit my writing, and this morning I gave myself a challenge – to not only start helping that folder slim down, but to dedicate today’s creative writing time to a style outside my usual wheelhouse.

Flash fiction.

I’d found this prompt in a Twitter post from @Charli_Mills: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story influenced by a musical score. Where do you drift, hearing the notes? How does it fire you up to grab the story and hurl it into existence? Or is it gentle, and leading you into lyrical pastures of green?

After getting comfy in my favorite chair, I wrote this entry:

Flight by Robin L. Flanigan

Terra presses the wet cloth to her skin, the color of spoiled milk, and closes her eyes, thinking about what it would be like to leave, to sweep herself off the porch and up the hill toward the clouds. Her mother did it. Her grandmother didn’t and look where that got her. She carefully doubles the washcloth and drapes it over the edge of the tub. She couldn’t care less if he will miss her. She can picture only the weightlessness, the smooth waves of her limbs as she dances through the hemlocks on her way to the next.
Written to Anand (Bliss) by Snatum Kaur

It was fun. I feel like I exercised my brain in a new way, I look forward to participating in more of these, and I feel good that I’m doing more than just stockpiling submission ideas.

If you’ve written outside of your go-to style lately, how did it go?