#flashfiction

423 posts
  • theo_a 6w

    Why does it hurt so much, when we lose someone?
    Is it because, we cannot, and do not get to see them again?
    Yes?
    Then what about those we've grown apart from?
    Those whom we barely see or talk to.
    Those, we can see or talk to, if we so wish, right?
    Yet, the loss still hurts.
    Why?
    Is it because we get attached to them?
    Was I ever attached to that friend I lost?
    No, I wasn't, yet it hurts.
    *Sigh*
    I guess we are human after all, and these are the things that make us who we are.
    ©theo_a

  • theo_a 11w

    "Victoria"
    "Victoria? You don't call me by that name often."
    "That doesn't make it any less you name, does it?"
    Giggles "I guess not. What's up?"
    "In case we get into a relationship, what name would you want me to call you?"
    "What?"
    "You know people have special names for their girlfriend or wife or fiance, so....."
    "I know I know. I mean to say I didn't know you were considering us in a relationship."
    "I didn't say I was. It's a hypothetical scenario."
    "Oh...that's...sad. Maybe you should look for a name yourself. I don't mind."
    "Are you sure? What if you don't like it?"
    "I'll love it, I promise."

    ©theo_a

  • theo_a 13w

    'Hey'
    '...Hi'
    'Is everything okay?'
    'It could have been worse. I don't know how, but it could have been worse. So, I guess everything is fine?'
    'Okay? Looks like you're hiding something'
    'Everyone looks like a suspect to you policemen'
    Sigh 'I cherish your humour, but let's talk about what the problem is'
    '...'
    'You don't look fine'
    'I'm fine. If you don't believe me, then stop looking'
    'Oh...'

    ©theo_a

  • theo_a 15w

    I don't get why people complain I don't share my problems and my thoughts.
    I'm an introvert who writes.
    The page is always there, and always listens to me.
    What more can I ask for?
    "Don't bottle up your emotions; it's not good for your health.", they say.
    Why do you think I write?
    If you look carefully, you'll make meaning of the things I write.
    The paper is just a veil; a camouflage.

    ©theo_a

  • sarahrachelea 17w

    If you don't listen to her whisper,
    You'll hear her scream
    There's a warning before something's happening
    Too bad you didn't pay attention

    ~ the warning
    ©sarahrachelea

  • sarahrachelea 18w

    You are my life fulfillment
    My destination is you
    I have arrived

    ©sarahrachelea

  • sarahrachelea 18w

    Your love is
    The map of my soul

    ©sarahrachelea

  • sarahrachelea 18w

    I want to hold you like a bunny
    I want to sting you like a bee
    Stay near, and you'll have nothing to fear
    Be mine, and everything will be fine

    ~ bunny bee
    ©sarahrachelea

  • theo_a 18w

    "You know, sometimes I just think to myself: I'm I really making the right decisions?"
    "Why? What happened?"
    "I wonder if I'm actually supposed to do the things I'm doing..."
    "Are...you...okay?"
    "Or if there are things I'm supposed to do that I'm not doing."
    "I guess this is one of the times I keep quiet and just listen."
    "What if I'm making the wrong choices, Stephen?"
    "..."

    Turns to look at Stephen; tears threatening to roll down her eyes.

    "What I'm I supposed to do?"
    "It's going to be alright. We'll figure things out."

    He scoots over and holds her in an embrace; not too close, but close enough to make Ella realise she wasn't alone.

    ©theo_a

  • theo_a 19w

    It isn't a big family, but I loved us. Everything was perfect for me. My family is one you don't come by every now and then.
    Irene was the clown; almost always finding the funny side every situation.
    Veronica didn't seem to be around most of the time, so I didn't know much about her; she seemed to be studious and rather laborious. Edwin is the one who stuck around with me most of the time. There's always something he was complaining about, and the few times he wasn't, he seemed to be brooding over one thing or the other.
    The only problem is the doctor said all this was a figment of my imagination.

    ©theo_a

  • theo_a 19w

    "You're a poet, right?"
    Answers with a giggle "Yes, why?"
    "Then how come you never write about me?"
    "...."
    "Is it a sort of a taboo for a poet to write about the one he loves?"
    "No, it isn't." Still giggling
    "What's funny about all this?"
    "Oh, nothing. I actually left a note on your table."
    "Oh....is that so?"
    "Yes, you can check it now. Here it is"

    I love you, and this is the most beautiful poem I've written.

    ©theo_a

  • i_faha 30w

    "Doctor is in an emergency consult. He will attend to you shortly. Meanwhile, deposit your wristwatch & phone at the reception and please follow the intern."

    I was ushered into a waiting room. The walls were super clean, matt white. No certificates, no posters, no windows, not even a ticking clock. There was just a desk and two chairs in the middle of the room, all in white. And a lavatory in the corner, separated by a frosted glass partition.

    The ambience was sterile, absolutely contrary to what I had anticipated. I didn't know what I was expecting, but this was simply too eerie. Just a blanket of minimalist white.

    An hour or more must have passed, I was not quite sure. Nobody had attended to me yet and I started getting restless. All the waiting was getting under my skin, and I imagined the worst case scenarios. I was certain I was ripped off in some con scheme. What an idiot I had been, to not have foreseen this. I wondered if I would atleast make it out alive.

    I was DONE. I couldn't just sit tight anymore. I looked around the door, and tried the door lock. It didn't budge. I knocked the door at first, then slammed it, kicked it, calling for help, but nobody answered. Once I was a little calmer, I pressed my ears against the door. It was all too creepily quiet.

    Panic set in. I frantically tried the desk drawers for keys or just about anything. Nothing in it, except a few stray sheets of white paper, an unsharpened white pencil and a white steel sharpener. Under the supplies, I finally spotted a hint of colour. It was the same brochure, the one which brought me here, to "The Writers Block Clinic" .

    —faha

    #writersnetwork #miraquill #mirakee #flashfiction #31stories

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    The Clinic
    (Day 9)

  • i_faha 30w

    (Trigger warning: suicide)

    The door opened. The lights turned itself on. John's pulse, temperature and mood was ascertained by the camera, and a unique playlist of ambient sounds was shuffled by the audio system that was designed to deliver the music straight to his brain, bypassing his ears.

    A mini robot wheeled itself in with a tall frothy plastic glass of White Russian, trailing behind John to his luxurious bedroom; but John simply plonked himself on the bed which automatically appropriated itself to the ideal cooling temperature and pressure relief mode.

    It had been a rough day. John's ex, Roy, couldn't hold out anymore. Roy was discovered with his wrist slit open, in the research wing of the outer orbit complex. The investigating officer had called John for identification. All records of the expunged dead body were found deleted, except for one last folder titled John.

    John and Roy had signed up for the beta trial program, of a miracle drug along with eight others. The program definitely worked. Both of them still had the same 30 year old skin, thick wisps of dark hair and the libido of an eager teenager.

    Inspite of its success, the program was hushed and buried in the dark alleys of failed medical experiments, for it had one fatal flaw. There was no reversal, no going back, no way to quit. The only way to undo, was to do it by yourself. And with Roy no more, the eighth person had finally succumbed.

    Meanwhile, John lay there in his bed, losing track of the number of years it had been since the beginning. It was frustrating to keep playing a game with unlimited chances, and free access to everything life had to offer, except the unpredictability and thrill of escaping death.

    John tried to give up, but a strange curiosity always took over, that kept him going. There had to be a point to this unique suffering. What could be on the other end of immortality?

    Only one way to know, and the last two to go. Who would be the last man standing?

    #writersnetwork #miraquill #mirakee #31stories #flashfiction

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    Last man standing
    (Day 7)

  • i_faha 30w

    George picked up the cycle leaning against the dumpster. It was in great condition. Metallic blue, with colorful tassels attached on the handlebar. George tried its unusual hand painted bell. It rung a shrill note, of a bird's cheep. Quite jarring, contrary to the otherwise cute little thing, just perfect for little Mikhail.

    There was just one tiny problem. The side stand was missing. I'll fix it the first thing tomorrow. Mikhail would love his Thanksgiving present. The angels must have sent it, George thought to himself while rolling the bike home.

    Once home, George parked the bicycle against the cracked railings of the porch. It was pitch black by now. George hurriedly threw over a plastic sheet over the cycle and rushed home.

    Mikhail was watching Peppa Pig and didn't notice that his daddy was home. George hated leaving little Mikhail unsupervised, but couldn't afford a babysitter after he lost his job. He missed Paula a little more than usual tonight. It seemed like just yesterday when the three of them were so happy, in this small home eating gruel for dinner.

    George made rice gruel for dinner, just like Paula would. Mikhail ate quietly from his bowl without making any mess at all. George carried Mikhail to his bed. They read a story from Mik's favorite story book and Mikhail fell asleep soon after. George kissed him on his forehead. The little child deserves a smile, he thought wiping away the tear rolling down his cheek.

    George woke up suddenly. He checked his watch. It was still 2am, but there were birds chirping this early. He looked out from the window, there was nothing out there. George tried sleeping again but the chirps became more annoying and frequent.

    George headed out to the front door. Right before him stood the cycle, balanced on its two wheels, even without it's stand. The blue plastic sheet covering someone under it ringing the bell. Cheep cheep.

    —faha

    -----------------

    Day 6 and I'm already itching to quit. �� But I won't, not yet.

    #writersnetwork #miraquill #mirakee #31stories #flashfiction

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    Bye cycle
    (Day 6)

  • i_faha 30w

    Megha felt a soft touch on her shoulder and turned to her left to see. For a minute, she gawked at this strange face standing next to her, while scanning the archives of her memory. Was it him, she pondered for a moment, with her mind still zoned out and her face, blank. But she was in no frame of mind to process anything complex, and refused to acknowledge the stranger.

    "It's me, Karan, you baby hippo", the man muttered under his breath.

    She knew it. She could never forget that face. It had to be him, all of her doubts now reassured. Nobody else in this world would dare call her a hippo. As the revelation slowly registered into her consciousness, her face began to bloom into a wide smile, petal by petal.

    At once, she threw her arms around his shoulders and squealed in absolute delight. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and lifted her two inches above the ground.
    "I can barely carry you anymore, hippo" he nudged, dropping her down with a whump.

    "And look at you billo, all buff and ripped. The docile house cat from our dingy streets has grown into a menacing city tiger, growwwwl." she giggled aloud.

    Karan chortled with the same peculiar neighing sound he made as a kid, whenever he laughed with all his heart, especially with Megha around.

    Suddenly he pulled himself back with a hard jolt, when he noticed the piercing stares of everyone in the crowd.

    Megha too, was thrust back into the present. She retracted all of her ill timed joy and solemnly stepped back to stand in solidarity with her grieving grandfather, with a stifled grin on her face.

    —faha

    #writersnetwork #miraquill #mirakee #31stories #flashfiction

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    Untimely
    (Day 5)

  • theo_a 31w

    There's always that story which we start and never finish. After that nagging sentence which begs you to write a story around it, all the inspiration seem to fly out through the window. One day, just maybe one day, all that inspiration will come back, just like that pestering fly which enters the room through only God knows where, and bothers you till you let out a grunt and leave you phone and swat it dead. Maybe then, those deserted stories will come back to life.

    ©theo_a

  • theo_a 33w

    In the very beginning, before the first human was conceived, the earth was filled with so much water. The gods had to sail back and forth when they had to visit their friends and family, but they got tired of it. They started to get rid of all the water, but realised it was a bad idea. So, they decided to make a new home, far away from the earth. However, they couldn't leave earth vacant, so they created man to occupy it. The gods still feel bad about taking some of the water away from the earth, so once in a while, they let some of it fall back down, as rain.

    ©theo_a

  • theo_a 34w

    It was a long tiring day; I was dog-tired; I barely made it home.

    I heard him screech. "What is he doing up this late?", I said, not knowing who I was even talking to.
    I managed to slide the door open.
    One step, two steps, almost a third step, and he started to fall down. I dashed toward him, forgetting I was even tired, dropping my stuff in the process.
    "Judith!, look, he's walking!", I said.
    "Yes, he's growing up.", she said.

    ©theo_a

  • sarahrachelea 34w

    He's the sun
    And she's the sun flower


    ©sarahrachelea

  • theo_a 35w

    Knock Knock
    No response
    Knock Knock Knock
    Still, no response.
    They were so faint, but the whimpers could only pass for sobs; something was wrong.
    I nudged the door open.
    She sat on her bed, cross-legged in a lotus position. A pillow separated her back from the headboard; another rested on her legs, supporting her arms.
    Tattered envelopes were splayed by her side; many spilled onto the ground, struggling to stay on the bed.
    She was looking absentmindedly at the door, but was obviously looking beyond it. I didn't know what to say, so I sat by her. I felt stupid at first, then her head moved to rest on my shoulder.

    ©theo_a