Category: Flash

Flash: The Big Question

Erin Penn

Heart and Books Clip Art

Image Courtesy of Kittisak at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

“So who are you voting for?”

I jerk up from my reading to see the hottest senior in school motion at my stack of biographies and autobiographies. Blinking, I refocus my eyes behind my glasses. “I’m investigating.”

Collapsing in the chair next to me, all male and taking up twice as much space as me just sitting down, Grayson pulls out “The Art of the Deal” by Donald J. Trump from my pile and starts thumbing. New ink and paper scent waft to me, my personal aphrodisiac, sending my heart double-time. The town library hadn’t been able to keep up with the demand until the most recent book order came in. They called me immediately since I donated to the special election order, and I think I have the only one still left in the building.

I set down “Living History” by Hillary Rodham-Clinton on top of “Hard Choices” by the same author. “I’ve already checked that out.”

“I’m only looking.” Grayson snaps the book closed and tossed it on top of “Seven Principles of Good Government” by Gary Johnson.

“Have you decided yet?”

His dark eyes roll before he pushes his hands through his hair. “Who knew adulating would be so hard?” He links his hands behind his head, leans his chair back on two legs, and looks at me. “I was ranting at my mom since she was forcing me to finish my homework early so I could watch the debates. I mean, what does it really matter? I’m stuck with whatever people decide, right? She stopped me cold when she pointed out my birthday is the day before the election, so I will be 18 and get to vote.” He gives me a half grin, making my heart beat even faster than opening a new book. “The next day after school, she dragged me to the board of elections and got me registered.”

“Did you do that draft registration thing too?” I smile back. Grayson and I have been teamed a lot since junior high for group projects, mostly by teachers to keep the star running-back’s grade point high, so him talking to a nerd like me didn’t make me go all tongue-tied.

He rocks a bit. “Nah. I’ll just run by the post office the week of for that one. I just got to get it done before the summer job starts.” The chair clicks as all four legs returns to the floor after the librarian wiggles a finger our way. “So what is a brainiac like you still doing in school at 18? I figure you would have skipped a grade or two.”

“An accident kept me out of school for four years. I’m lucky to be on level. My birthday is November first.”

He whistles softly. “That was some accident.”

I glance over his shoulder. “Yeah, it was.”

“No fly zone. Gotcha.” Grayson stands. “But, you know, if you need to talk about it…”

Smirking, I cock my head. “And why would I talk to you?”

“I don’t know.” He reaches behind his head to adjust the hair band holding his dreads, blushing a bit. “I thought, maybe, we were, like, friends.”

I bite back a laugh. He was serious.

I frown.

“We are, kind-of.” I stand, stacking my books. Hell, why not. If the people I am reading about can run for president, I can at least ask. “So are you taking anyone to the prom yet?” I glance sideways, causal-like.

A smile starts spreading wider and wider on Grayson’s face. “Depends. Are you asking?”

My eyes immediately drops to “A Woman in Charge,” and I gulp. Women can be anything. Firmly putting the books back on the table, I turn to face Grayson, clasping my hands in front of me. “Would you do me the honor of escorting me to the Senior Prom?”

He leans forward and grasps my right hand. Reluctantly, I let him pull it up towards him. I’m sure my face was a mask of confusion. He gently kisses the knuckles while staring down my arm into my brown eyes. “The honor is mine.”

What? He wasn’t joking.

Breathless, I couldn’t keep from asking, “This is for real. You aren’t going to a locker room and joking about this later.”

“I don’t do locker room talk.” Grayson’s tenor hardens. He hadn’t let go of my hand yet. I feel his breath brush my fingertips.

I swallow again. “Okay.” I step closer as my arm is a little uncomfortable with the way he is holding it. I apply a little pressure downward.

He guides the joined hands down but still doesn’t let go. “You have my number, right?”

I nod.

“Good. I still got yours from the science fair project.”

I nod again.

“Would you like to go for pizza?”

Pizza. A date. Think. “Who’s driving?”

Grayson shrugs, pulling my hand up a little with the motion. “My provisional license won’t let me have passengers, how about you?”

“I’ve got a full license, but no car. I was going to walk home.”

His eyes drop to the table. “With that load of books?”

“A girl’s got to do.”

Grayson grabs my other hand and wraps both around him. “How about this? You drive my car. We go for pizza. You drive home. And then I can get home from there.”

“Sounds like a deal.”

A new smile crosses Grayson’s face. I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life. “Deals should be sealed.” And his head drops until I feel his lips on mine.

(925 words – first published 10/23/2016)

Flash: School’s Weird

Erin Penn

IN PROCESS – I had a thing this weekend. Below is the first 1,200 words of the flash. More to come when I get back on Sunday.

So things had been weird for a while at school. I mean even Randalf noticed, and he doesn’t notice anything which isn’t related to the Periodic Table or Alchemy, not even poor Selena who crushed on him so badly she volunteered as his Chem-Alch lab partner for two years running until the counselor made her switch to Sculpting the Human Figure. Now I’m stuck as his lab partner, which isn’t a bad thing being a guaranteed “A” for all lab projects. It may even pull my dismal science score into the average range.

It isn’t that I suck at science-science; for some reason my mind doesn’t twist the magical applications of alchemy, astrology, transmutation, and the like. Give me an engineering project, a practical real-world application which can be presented to the nulls as a finished project without getting zinged by EEP and I am golden as a Phoenix egg. This little ability kept me from dropping back a level the last two years; I just squeak by.

Anyway Randalf turned to me while brewing a dehydration potion and asked, “Have you been getting mail?”

I look up at the fume vent, wondering if the gas discharge had gone to Randalf’s brain and shook something loose for once. Vapors curled against the flow, but the spell clearing the possibly poisonous air held firm. I wasn’t dizzy at all – not that much makes me dizzy, except for Javan who is the star running retriever and a total yum and I hadn’t seen him all day. All week actually. Just like the mail. “Mail stopped nine days ago, just after the Equinox. If you had been to the girls’ dorm you would hear all kinds of complaints from Ladybird.” Her boyfriend graduated last year, and they have been writing back and forth daily while he does his ‘tween-year internship.

“I don’t go to the girls’ dorm.” Randalf grunted.

“Then you have to be the only junior boy who hasn’t been snuck in.” I’m pleased to see his head whip up. His eyes lose focus a moment, while they adjust from staring at the green flame to looking into my green eyes.

Yes, I have green eyes, amazing, almost glowing, green eyes, just like all Barretts … and yes, I am one of *those* Barretts, number thirteen of fourteen so far. Stupid parents have effective immortality and pop one out every ten years. After two hundred years of marriage you think they would get over themselves but they are still all lovey-dovey.

I would like to have that some day.

Not with Javan. He is strictly a look type of guy, brains need not engage. Day-to-day I rather have someone like Randalf at my side, once he stops being a spaz. He grew like a beanstalk since freshman year and looks like a just-raised skeleton and is about as graceful as a newly animated bag of bones. I wonder what he kisses like.

His eyes are puppy brown by the way and are way too large for his face. But then everything on his face is too big for his face – his nose, ears, mouth, and chin complete with afternoon dark whiskers. You think a guy as good as he is with alchemy would have come up with a hair remover.

“That’s against the rules.”

I smiled slyly. “Some rules get broken.”

He frowned, returning his attention back to the potion. “I guess you are one of the ones who breaks them.”

Randalf is so much better than I at staying focused. If it had been me, the flame would still be blue. Who knew a second line existed to feed a copper mix into the Bunsen burner? “Only curfew.”

“Only curfew?” His head flopped to the side; I guess he is imitating Dr. Saunders headcock inquiry, a habit nearly everyone picks up during Modern Null History.

“Hum-hum. Who can sleep at lights out?”

“Most of us,” said a male voice without the creaks of teenage years.

Daphne’s Braids, how much had the teacher heard? “Hello, Mr. Walker.”

“Hello Ms. Barrett, Mr. Seconds.” He nodded at each of us. “Any problems?”

“No, sir.” Randalf answered for both of us. I always let him do that.

Oh, I am not a timid, shy girl. Randalf has already asked to be my lab partner for practical physics next year and I am going be totally all over that course. I mean I read null practical engineering books for fun, hiding them behind romance covers, of course, like Randalf buries his advance alchemy pamphlets in comic books. Biology and chemistry are my bane. I did okay freshman year with geology, but the second half of the year science with astrology/astronomy destroyed that grade.

Plus I am wicked in the music department, having inherited a full spectrum of Siren gifts from my father. Presentation of group papers always falls on me. And I’m second chair on the debate team as well as the clarinet. I sleep through history, much to my parent’s disgust, but do okay anyway because our family dinner talk rarely touches on anything which happened in the last decade and I haven’t forgotten much since coming to Evergreen High, especially with touch-up during the seasonal breaks.

In Mrs. Giacosta’s math class, Randalf and I have vied for the top slot all junior year. He swept the matrixes section, but, after switching to multi-dimensional charting, I knocked him out of the top slot with the last pop test. Mrs. Giacosta loves pop tests, saying life never tests you when you expect it. Those are closed book; her scheduled tests are open book.

The woman, who is also the headmistress for Evergreen, is not one to mess with. She cut her own arm off when a Ripper Stone bore into her hand, before the parasite could take over her mind.

“Sleep is essential for developing minds young lady.”

I paste on a sincere smile. “I will keep that in mind Mr. Walker.”

“If you want an extra credit project, why don’t you make sleeping draft?”

Randalf perked up. “We should have time tomorrow.” Tomorrow is make-up day for anyone who had a failed potion in the last two weeks. Everyone else in the class had at least two failed experiments, most three, which is another weird thing – the high rate of magic failure since we got back from the seasonal break. Randalf is not the only alchemy nerd in class; yes, he is the *best* of them, but Kris and Alpine are close. And it’s not just the alchemy class. I actually hit a wrong note on an simple two-octave aria yesterday. I haven’t cracked a note like that since … well, elementary levels, maybe. Everyone has been having problems.

Mr. Walker shook his head. “The extra credit project will have to be done by Ms. Barrett. You can observe, but all actions must be her own.”

We look at each other. It’s going to kill Randalf to watch me “cook” a sleeping draft. He nods slightly. I can see in his eyes he thinks I can do it if he can talk me through it. He has more confidence in my abilities than I do.

(words 1,201 – first published 10/16/2016)

Flash: Ubel and Sidero

Erin Penn

Man and woman Fighting Stock Photo

Image Courtesy of photostock at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The two turned as one when Vinny burst in the small room: Ubel, a Germanic overlord whose very name meant evil, and Sidero, a woman whom even the cadre elders treated cautiously. Ubel’s hand was wrapped around Sidero’s throat and Sidero’s claws were digging into Ubel’s chest.

Gulping audibly, Vinny announced, “The decision has been made.”

Ubel released his grip and his shirt snapped into place as Sidero pulled in her claws.

“This is not over.” Ubel whispered, his mouth line thin, promising thunder and blood. In medieval times, he had lined streets with the heads of his enemies. Whatever master brought him across had judged well on Ubel’s survivability and adaptability. The vampire had miscalculated on his ability to control his creation; the master’s name and ashes long lost to time.

Sidero smiled without teeth and nodded to the door for Ubel to go first. They stalked passed Vinny, a matched set of black and spotless white clothing, anger, and power.

Only with the dynamic couple gone could he look around the room to see what was left of the other three candidates. Pieces and parts, blood and bone, were strewn in the small room, decorating the walls and soaking into the floor. The detached head of the ancient Balash stared at Vinny from the grisly scene.

The destruction didn’t bother Vinny as much as Ubel and Sidero walking out without a mark on them.

He prayed to his unresponsive god they liked the decision the triad made on who was to be the next leader.

(257 words – first published 10/27/2013; republished new blog format 10/09/2016)

Flash: Waking up Dead

Erin Penn

Casket from EnvironmentalCaskets.com

http://www.environmentalcaskets.com/

You are born. You die. In between is when the world exists. Or that is why people say.

Maybe they believe in heaven, or hell, or reincarnation, but the only surety is the here and now. Between birth and death. That is what people say.

People lie.

Waking up inside a coffin can rearrange your world.

Trying to escape the top-of-the-line casket your family bought with the unused portion of your college fund can drive you half mad. Sure the adjustable bed and mattress are nice during the breaks between claustrophobia panic attacks, but the chemically treated interior isn’t exactly fresh air.

Eventually the white satin lining, cotton padding, strong metal interior and beautiful mahogany wood exterior gives way to your screams and pounding. To your sobs and clawing. To your whimpers.

It’s not like the fancy locking mechanism is on the inside.

You wonder if you would have to pay extra for that feature.

Of course once you break the casket, you got a pile of dirt to get through. Worms, roots and the flowers your family left. Hopefully you don’t loosen the headstone so it falls on you as you emerge.

And for that trip there is no adjustable bed and mattress to rest on. You only thought you knew claustrophobia in the casket. When you breathe dirt and can’t move your fingers because of the earth falling down, you go truly mad.

Rain fills the spaces between the dirt. Don’t even try to move after a downpour. The disorientation will make you dig in the wrong direction. But you won’t care. All you want is out.

Eventually your reach it. The surface. Hopefully it’s night, because after the endless dark of digging your way out, the sun bloody hurts. Hopefully no one is around, because after all the effort to get out, you are hungry beyond measure.

If you are lucky, you are a zombie and those worms were tasty snacks on the way up. You may be able to pick and choose who your grab.

Vampires have it much worse.

The madness makes it easier to do the first kill. But the nourishment heals you, body and mind. So you get to go mad again when you realize what you have done. What you have become.

You get to go mad every night for the rest of your life.

Vampires have it easier. Most walk into the sun before they hate themselves forever.

Zombies have to find someone to kill them.

Which is hard, because it ain’t exactly assisted suicide. The monster in your head has a will to live. It dragged you kicking and screaming through the casket, dirt and first kill. The monster that is you doesn’t want to die.

So you got to trick it. Trick yourself. Something only the mad can do. Fortunately you are already there. And if you are lucky, you have someone who loves you enough to kill you.

(words 496 – first published 5/24/2013; republished new blog format 10/2/2016)

Writing Exercise: Tools of the Trade

Erin Penn

Buffalo Skull Stock Photo

Image Courtesy of Witthaya Phonsawat at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Tools of the Trade

Writers, as all occupations, need to know the tools of the trade and be skilled in their use. For a writer, knowing the language is key. Most people have a fairly solid grasp of noun and verb by finishing primary school levels; a slightly less solid grasp of pronouns, adverbs, and adjectives; and a questionable grasp on punctuation and grammar. Language includes parts of speech, punctuation, structure (like paragraphs and sentences), and more esoteric items like figures of speech.

I’m going to concentrate on figures of speech today. These can also be called rhetorical devices or stylistic devices.

figures of speech

“any expressive use of language, as a metaphor, simile, personification,or antithesis, in which words are used in other than their literal sense,or in other than their ordinary locutions, in order to suggest a picture or image or for other special effect.”
(from http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/figure+of+speech – copied Feb 26, 2015))

Painting pictures with words is what writers do; becoming skilled with the various figures of speech will hone that skill.

Examples of figures of speech: allegory, allusion, analogy, antithesis, catachreis, euphemism, hyperbole, hypocatastasis, irony, metaphor, oxymoron, paradox, personification, puns, simile, tautology, understatement.

(from http://www.myenglishpages.com/site_php_files/writing-stylistics.php#.VO877_nF-2F and http://grammar.about.com/od/rhetoricstyle/a/20figures.htm)

… the most complete list for those wanting to go to the next level is here: http://changingminds.org/techniques/language/figures_speech/figures_speech_alpha.htm

“The four fundamental operations, or categories of change, governing the formation of all figures of speech are:

  • addition (adiectio), also called repetition/expansion/superabundance
  • omission (detractio), also called subtraction/abridgement/lack
  • transposition (transmutatio), also called transferring
  • permutation (immutatio), also called switching/interchange/substitution/transmutation”

(from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Figure_of_speech – copied Feb 26, 2015)

WRITING EXERCISE: Ready for this month’s challenge? Write a five sentence description of a character from your WIP (work in-progress) without any figures of speech. Then do it again using a least one figure of speech per sentence.

*****

Severance

Sheriff Severance was a little less than six foot tall. His wrinkled face had been exposed to lots of sun and had a permanent tan. His clothes were always dusty from the desert, worn and faded. The only thing on his person shiny and well-kept was his gun. Roy had never had to draw it on someone from his town. (words 60)

*****

Tall enough to make most men look up in the 1800s, Sheriff Severance was just shy of six foot. His leathered face was well-tanned from years in the sun, but new wrinkles had been carved deep on a face aged from the badge since the curse had consumed his town. Ill-fitting, worn clothes hung on him; desert dust clinging to the fabric with skeletal fingers sucking shine and color from Roy. Only his gun was in mint-condition, oiled and cleaned daily before he left the jailhouse. He never had drawn it on someone he knew and hoped like hell he never would. (102 words)

  1. “Shy” – height cannot be shy
  2. “Leathered” “tanned”
  3. “carved”
  4. “aged from the badge”
  5. “curse had consumed”

(ect.)

(first published 3/14/2015; republished in new blog format 9/27/2016)