Ripping | Eclipse Flash Fiction

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There’s a ripping and it seems to come from around the sun.

The child’s words were clear and matter-of-fact.

“What . . . what did you just say?” I asked her. She looked up at me, her eyes placid.

“What did you hear?” she intoned.

I gazed back at her for a full 30 seconds. She never looked away. I wondered then if I had heard anything at all. But something was there. I was starting to think I should not have looked directly at her for so long.

It seemed maybe heard wasn’t right. It was more of an appearance. I saw the edge of a circle, ragged with blinding light fighting a stony obstruction that was trying to smother it, the painful saw-toothed edge of a migraine aura. I considered the stony thing might be my own skull.

Everything was both transport and trap. I could see nothing but bluish white-hot light, even when my eyes were closed. I stumbled away from the child and  found my way down the stairs using only the sense of touch, a nauseous lump firmly set in my upper throat. I found a telephone and called a friend for help. I was blind.

***

There’s a ripping and it seems to come from around the sun.

“What did you just say?” Jesse asked.

He handed me a cool washcloth. “And put this over your eyes, it will help. These auras don’t just go away at will, but they go eventually. Just try to relax and keep your eyes closed. You were mumbling about something ripping. Are you okay?”

I kept my face behind the washcloth as I said, “There is a little girl here in the office somewhere. I don’t know who she belongs to, we have to find her parents before we go. I don’t know why she’s here.”

He rested a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll look around, okay, but I don’t think anyone else is here. Your car is the only one in the parking lot this weekend. You’re working hard, too hard if you ask me. It can bring on these migraines. I’m going to drive you home so you can get some rest. I need you to rally for the eclipse viewing party on Monday. It’s going to be sick.”

Now I took down the cloth and labored to raise my eyelids so we could look at each other when I said, “I think I’m going to pass.”

###

Note: I wrote this bit as part of  friend Eric Douglas’ eclipse-themed story challenge. Please visit Books By Eric for more tales.

Some wise words of advice regarding memoir

“…I had to admit that I was often spending too much time telling stories about the past and remembering myself as the younger person I once was. I was not spending enough time thinking about what had really happened to me and the questions that were raised.”

We'll Be the Last Ones to Let You Down

doorway Your memoir needs to include the outside story as well as the inside story.

Photo Credit: Wiebke Flickr via Compfightcc

I’m prepping for my beginning memoir class at The Loft Literary Center (6-8 p.m. Wednesdays for six weeks, starting July 12), and I thought I’d share a handout I’m planning to use.

I excerpted some passages from “Let Me Think About That: The Memoirist as Ruminant,” by Joyce Dyer (The Writer’s Chronicle, September 2013, pp. 90-99). These passages highlight the importance of reflection in memoir. Memoir requires a duality: the story AND the reflection, often referred to as the outer story and the inner story. Memoir needs both to work. A memoir can be crafted from any story, even something that at the surface seems “small” or “quiet.”

Excerpts:

“We need material—particular and original material—to chew on. Without it, any thoughts we might have will be bare—hackneyed or…

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“It’s Not Mama” – Advent Ghosts 2016

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It’s Not Mama

 

When she was out of town, he slept with Jack..

An unexpected, steady thump. Had she made it home? Christmas Eve. Flipping on the light, he rolled over to see the last wag. His companion’s body went rigid, he lifted his head, his ears flat against the skull.

Beyond the window there was no car. No footprints. No one. Just the snow.

“Quiet, baby. It’s not Mama, yet.”

The animal stood, emitting a nearly silent howl, sound he felt in his stomach.

Jack leapt off the bed, his face to the wall. His trembling body was the only sound now.

###

This is an exactly 100-word flash fiction piece for a tradition of writing ghost stories on Christmas Eve. We acknowledge a sinful and hopeless world, and welcome the dawn in full awareness that Christmas day brings us light.

Advent Ghosts 100 Word Storytelling is put on by Loren Eaton at I Saw Lightning Fall. See other entries there.

Bring on the Ghosts: Advent Storytelling 2016

Welcome to Advent Ghosts 2016, the eighth annual shared storytelling event at I Saw Lightning Fall, Loren Eaton’s blog about “narrative, genre, and the craft of writing.” For the uninitiated, Advent Ghosts seeks to recreate the classic British tradition of swapping spooky stories at Yuletide. However, instead of penning longer pieces, we post bite-sized pieces of flash fiction for everyone to enjoy.

Ghost Winter Flower by Henrik Thorn

To learn more about this tradition, read the article here about this “lost tradition.”

This is my fifth year writing for Advent Ghosts. In my first year I pulled some edited lines from a ghost story I wrote about meth addiction. It is called “The Escape.”

In 2012, I decided to try Loren’s model of writing one piece inspired by secular Christmas traditions, and another from sacred texts.

Unwanted explores the terror we feel when an unexplained and damaged presence penetrates the safety of our families and our homes.

For Later is my take on what I’ve always seen as a poetic and disturbing element in the gifts of the three kings to the baby Jesus.

I again used a sacred story’s inspiration for 2013’s “Vacancy.” I’ve always had a fascination with the innkeeper from Jesus’s birth story. I fantasize about a moment in which the larger narrative clicks for him, as it did for shepherds and kings.

2014 found me writing about the last heartbeat of a last creature. As natural as it would be, the feeling of loneliness in even a non-human animal felt very real to me that year.

I took a break in 2015. Before Loren took the reins over the more graphic content, I was feeling out of place with the tone of some of the pieces.

But this year, I’m back. I love the restriction of the 100 words — no more, no less — and how it pares down the writing to something essential. No frills! Plus, there’s nothing quite like being part of reviving a lost or fading Christmas tradition to get my inner nerd all a-tingle. Charles Dickens, I love you.

Enjoy this year’s submission, which will post not long from now, and if you like creepy little tales be sure to visit Loren’s blog, too! Just when I think I’ve read the most shiver-inducing tale, they get, well, more shivery!