Category: Flash

Flash: Exit Strategy

Erin Penn

Photo by ConvertKit on Unsplash

I couldn’t take it anymore and left my private space to grab Xanadu’s alarm and turned it off. They may be my favorite American, but sometimes I could ring their neck. I have to bang the curtain surrounding her woodworking space to find the overlapping cloth entrance. The white kitchen timer was set on a stool near the passthrough.

“What, oh, was that ringing?” they asked, looking up from the ten-to-one ratio rat-inspired column they were carving for the Manyard building, red paint clinging above their left eyebrow. They had finished the last of the two-foot columns for the inside atrium Tuesday and painted them with the red lacquer substitute last night. Dabbing the splinters and sawdust away with a brownish washcloth, they revealed the hand-held foot-sized zodiac-inspired art had been roughed out since I left for work. Six of the eight outside columns were at the detail stage; only the rat and pig needed the initial rough-outs. They had chosen to do those last since they were the two center outside columns and would have the most traffic.

“For an hour.”

Xanadu laughed, “Surely not.”

“It’s seven-twenty.”

“Dinner!” They set down the toy column carefully, then jumped up and ran toward the kitchen.

I grabbed their shoulder as they ran past. “I’ll order pizza. No need for another meal with sawdust in it.”

“What? Are you sure?” Their eyes drifted back to the wood carving.

I squeezed their shoulder. “Yes, I’m sure. And, no, you are not going back to that until you take an hour break – your orders.”

They closed their eyes and nodded. “I forgot to eat lunch.”

“Then you are done for the day.”

“But—”

I held up a finger. “Your orders.”

“My work gets crappy without breaks.” They pouted, crossing their arms over their leather apron. “Fine, I’ll shower while you order. No pineapple.” They stomped off to our mutual bathroom.

***

Xanadu took the last pineapple slice, leaving the bacon and cheese pizza of the two-for-one deal untouched. Rolling their dark eyes as they bite in, “I forget how great warm pineapple tastes.”

I picked up the untouched pizza and put it in the fridge for tomorrow’s breakfast. One meal down and ready for when I take over kitchen duties tomorrow. Grabbing a washcloth, I wiped down the counter and the island for crumbs and sawdust settling out from the air. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask. Do you want to go to the November Lantern Festival again this year?”

“It happens the first week of November and it is September already. There is no way we could get a travel visa ready.”

“About that.” I moved over to our pile of mail and dig down a couple of days, dropping the political flyers and store advertisements into our recycling bucket at the end of the kitchenette island before I find the government envelope. “My family really would like to see me so they expedited things for us.” I wave the fat envelope.

“But the plane tickets will be crazy expensive this close.”

“Paid for.”

Their eyes narrowed, black eyeliner turning their eyes into slits. “What’s going on?”

“My parents would like me to be outside of America during the election,” I said tapping the envelope against my other hand.

“Why?”

Stopping the nervous tic, I gave them a look, tilting my head. We both grew up political brats.

“He isn’t going to win. There is no way he is going to win again.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Sure he managed to stay out of prison so far, but there are still several court cases to go.”

I waited.

They sighed, “But even if he loses…”

“He’s promised chaos, refusing to accept the outcome if it goes against him.”

“That’s not just it, it can’t just be it.” They hopped off the stool and walked over to me and took the envelope out of my hands. “What else has your family heard?”

“Nothing they can share with me, but I am going home to keep them happy.” I shrugged. I may be a fighter of justice, but I wasn’t untouchable. “He promised to round up all the Chinese and illegal immigrants and put them in camps.”

“You are Korean, not Chinese. And on a permanent visa thanks to your family.”

“Like his followers can tell the difference between me and the Chinese.”

Xanadu ran rough fingers around the edges of the envelopes, switching to Korean to say, “The travel visa will only be good for a couple of weeks. What will we do then?”

“It’s a three-year work visa with exit and entry privileges. Father and older brother slid us in under the Manyard trade contract, since you are working for them.”

Frowning, they worked a finger into the envelope and opened it. “And how did they justify you?”

“Native son.”

They switched to American. “Right. Duh.” They unfolded the paperwork, being careful not to drop the visas while examining them. “It will take me away for the second round of project baseline work. But…” They handed the paperwork to me. “If he wins, then the only second round I will be dealing with is getting hauled off to those camps for some reeducation. I’m in.”

“Korea isn’t much better for accepting queerness.”

“Are they threatening camps? Do they have full-blown plans like Project 2025?”

“Not unless North Korea comes across the border.”

“Then we are all screwed. Everywhere.” They tossed the envelope and paperwork onto the island and stepped into my space to hold themselves against me. “How did it get so wrong?”

I hug them to my body. “I don’t know, my dragon, I don’t know.”

(946 words, first published 9/1/2024)

Capturing the Tiger and Dragon Series

  1. X is for Xenophile (4/28/2024)
  2. X is for Xylotomous (5/19/2024)
  3. X is for Xanthic (6/9/2024)
  4. Exhibit (7/14/24)
  5. Exit Strategy (9/1/2024)

Flash: It’s Not My Fault … For Once

Erin Penn

Image by Alexander Jawfox on Unsplash

Nebula formed out of the fog, all judge-y like. His side-eye is strong.

“What?” My voice breaks on the question. “I found him like this.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Really, really, really, one hundred percent.” I cross my heart, touch two fingers to my lips, and lift them to the darkening skies. “God as my witness.”

He turns his body to face me head-on and spreads his legs.

I sigh before saying, “How can you think so poorly of me? We are partners.”

The old man crashes his eyebrows together at the last statement.

“Okay, not partners, but friends,” I step around the body that recently bleed out leaving a mess all over the road, “Right, friends?”

“So what did happen?”

(words 121; first published 8/25/2024 – created based on a visual prompt for a Facebook writer’s group, aim is about 50 words)

Flash: Woke Up Old

Erin Penn

Photo by Glen Hodson on Unsplash

I woke up old. It wasn’t unexpected. It never is. Just like they tell you on the info-voyances, I had a few flashes of back aches during the winter months and more when the weather turned in the spring. For the last two weeks, my knees reminded me of all the work I did climbing up and down the ladders lighting the street lamps back in the day when I was part of the lamplighters union. Back before they changed the street lights from gas charms to electric. Loved that job and the union fought tooth and nail to keep the lights gas, but, I admit, getting one or two people shocked when an electric charm fails is much better than losing entire city blocks when a gas charm breaks down.

Thirty years plus an extra five beyond the guarantee for the second age charm. I got my money’s worth. The first one was the standard twenty after birthing and raising two children; like most people, I paired off, so I got ten years each. I can’t imagine the before-times when citizens would devote their entire youth raising children and then be stuck with old, worn-out bodies after doing so much for society. I got my age frozen at thirty, full adult brain and body strength while still healthy and quick healing for the most part.

I celebrated eighty-five earlier this year. Jasmine and her husband hosted, taking me out to the suburbs, with the grandkids and the great-grandchildren. Kevin had joined the Naturals in his twenties and refused the Charms; he died of a heart attack in his early forties, but his children chose saner religions and mixed in with Jamine’s crew just fine.

I had hoped to wake up dead. You think by eighty-five my natural life would have been over. Someone would have noticed I hadn’t reported to work, or maybe it would have been the end of the month when I didn’t pay my rent, or neighbors complaining about smell. I live in the slums, so most likely the landlord would have noticed before my neighbors. The constable would have come by, my body moved out, and the landlord would have someone else in the apartment before the end of the week.

Moving to put a foot on the floor, white flashes over my eyes and a squeak escapes. I can’t scream it hurts too much. That fall back in ought-five from the back of the truck has come back with a vengeance. I move very gingerly, learning what twists will set off the back. This was not the back pain I was expecting. Nothing like the little teaser I got before the charm failed. I managed to stand, though crooked, not willing to completely straighten out the back, and made my way to the watercloset for the morning piss, praying to whatever gods will listen that I would make it.

Breakfast then work were next on the agenda for the day. I didn’t own a scry-glass, so I couldn’t call out, not that I really wanted to. Sure, having had the age charm fail means I can transfer to the government run old age communities outside the city, but I always tried to make my own way. I paid my second aging charm out of my own pocket. The move to the slums had been a cost-saving measure to put together funds for the third charm, but those are expensive, and I didn’t even have enough for the down payment after scrimping for twenty years. The second charm had been so easy with a union job, I never expected not to get at least a third one until the union folded.

The walk down the step from the walkup was slow, but after resting at the third and second landings, I managed to get out the door and at the Wagon stop in time. The steep four-steps onto the public transportation nearly did me in. Having a grab-bar to mount them would have been helpful. Getting on and seeing all the young faces made me feel my age in a way that I never experienced before.

When I sat down at the second row, the person there hopped up and moved away like I had a disease.

Arriving at work brought a slow dismount. Going down the steps, with a jolt at each oversized thread, set off the back again. I heard people complaining I was holding things up but hold your horses. Pain in this old body was beyond imagining.

The pain teases me with memories of all the times I had been in their positions. It wasn’t many. People paid for the age charms, or went to the government camps when they couldn’t.

My boss didn’t even let me take my position on the assembly line. I could have done the job, I had been doing it for decades. He was polite. Offered to help me call the Aging Services.

His bouncing secretary, still raising his children, offered to research spells to get me back to normal. I know there are rumors of witches and warlocks having spells to restore youth and then be able to place on an aging charm. These rumors have existed my entire life and I’ve never seen evidence. Pure conspiracy theory. The young always believe them. You don’t pay much attention to the greater world until after you get the children out of the house.

Sure, Agatha has been around since the Middle Ages and Methuselah claims four thousand years, but they never were old, they either managed exceptional anti-aging charms or found the Eternal Fix.

Reversing aging once the charms failed, not an option. I was old from now until I die. I could freeze aging at this point, but who would want that?

I was debating sitting down because standing hurt the knees, but decided to remain standing because I wasn’t sure how painful it would be to stand after sitting. Standing on the Wagon had required twisting to get out of the seat.

Boss-man called the Services. The polite man and woman were both much bigger than me. I hadn’t shrunk that much, had I? I knew my clothes hung a little loser, the pants leg hung a little lower, but everything still fit mostly.

They took me back to my place, chatting all the while about how much I would love government housing. They didn’t mention how long I might be there. I heard rumors about people living past one hundred without charms, but I had never seen any. No one ever visited. Why would you do that with a young body?

We got the stuff out of my apartment, what little there was, and they helped me sign off things with my landlord. Even managed to get back my deposit, a minor miracle. Back at the Services building, we scryed Jasmine; she cried when she saw my face. They kept me at the offices for a day while we closed all my effects, either transferring them to Jasmine or placing them into an incidental account for living at the government housing.

I was surprised how little they thought I would need, insisting most everything just be transferred to Jasmine. I know eighty-five is old, but even a few months cost coin I didn’t have.

It wasn’t until they had me take the cargo elevator to the basement that I realized my government lied about providing housing once the charms failed. They hadn’t lied about taking care of us though.

(words 1,256; first published 8/18/2024)

Flash: Shiver in Reverse

Erin Penn

Photo by Maxim Nikiforov on Unsplash

This flash is from a writer’s group challenge where we had 5 minutes to write a store based on the opening line of “Even though it was hot outside, Sheila was shivering.” Below is what I hand wrote (including my scribble outs), followed by the story that developed out of it.

The write-out something:

Even though it was hot outside, Shelia was shivering in the shade. Two steps from the where she stood under the grand oak tree was bright hot sunshine hot sunshine. (Yes, I wrote hot sunshine, didn’t like it then dropped it back in when I couldn’t come up with something better.) Kids ran nearby, thro moms chasing them with sunscreen. Flowers droop bent toward the bright light while their leaves drooped from the heat.

And she shivered. Ice cold. Unable to move. Frozen in body and time since January. She could see everything, smell the flowers by day and hear the crickets by night.

Isolated from everything.

“Help me,” she wanted to whisper…to scream. Stpu

            All she had done was walk home from work across the park that night

            “Help me,

Stuck between one moment and the next; shivering between minutes.

Time for the group got called here so the “story” ended and I read it to the group. But I didn’t exactly like how it ended up. I didn’t know why she was stuck in time. I had thought maybe she had been attacked in the park that night. (Hence the cross off.) Maybe by magic, maybe by normal bad guys. Maybe someone crying “Help me” lured her in, or maybe someone had begged for help for real. Was it magic, a curse, science fiction gone wrong, what had happened? On the drive home, I figured out something. Now this concept really doesn’t have legs to become a full story or even a good short story, but I do want to get at least the answer to my questions on paper.

The “developed” concept:

Blistering late afternoon sun heated the air hazy as the sun slowly climbed in the sky. Within the shade of an ancient pine, standing on next fall’s rotting needles, Sheila shivered from the cold despite the heat everyone else was experiencing.

She had been frozen since mid-February coming home after working an extremely long shift on Valentine’s Day as a waitress. Men had left actual green-backs on the tables as an extra tip on top of generous numbers written against their credit cards to impress their dates, giving her cash in her pocket which hadn’t been reduced by credit card companies and the boss taking financial transaction fees. Sheila had been a little worried about cutting through the park with nearly two hundred dollars on her person, but it was after midnight in the middle of winter. Only the dumb and the desperate would be out, and very few of those with a storm carrying snow coming down from the north. The first flecks of ice bit her cheeks driven by the wind as she pulled her short jacket closer to her body.

The brittle winter wind kisses still stung her cheeks months earlier. Freezing and frozen, but not dead from exposure, Sheila watched unmoving as mothers ran backwards, reverse chasing sunburnt children with bottles of lotion. She wanted to scream “help me”; she wanted to be have the opportunity to fight the tears that would course down her cheeks the moment she could react instead of being stuck between minutes, observing the past.

The parking lot filled as more families loaded their cars, leaving after a long day of fun. The higher the sun climbed, the hotter the afternoon air got. Sheila suspected she would be seeing Fourth of July celebrations soon and tried to remember what she had done that day after work. Would she see herself in the park watching rockets reassemble mid-air or had she been further away, toward the river?

As Sheila observed the day in reverse, the children’s glowing red sunburns faded, to be replaced with the first smears of the suntan lotion applied over drops of mustard and salsa from their picnic lunches. Fathers returned to work and mothers fanned themselves as they set down the trash spread over the tables and picnic cloths around the park. The children returned from the playground equipment to reform everything from hamburgers to tacos one bite at a time, depending on their family’s traditions.

Sheila’s mouth would have watered if she had hunger, if she could react, other than being frozen and watching endlessly the cycle of families going and coming to the park each day. Those enjoying the Christmas lights put up by the park service had been the hardest to watch because she knew what was coming for them, what had come for her that February winter night.

Eventually the early families hasn’t arrived yet, leaving commuters jogging the circuit or walking their pets before going to work, or, from Sheila’s perspective as time slowly peeled backwards one minute before the next, went home and climbed out of their beds after a restless night sleep.

Sheila wondered for the thousandth time when this curse would stop. When she would be warm again. She watched as the morning dew rapidly condensed as the sun set into its dawn.

Would it just be a year and she would live forward again? Would it be her lifespan and she would wink out when passing her birth or fetal formation? Would it humanity arriving on the shores of American? And which version, her ancestors arriving or when humans crossed the land bridge during the ice age? When life began on land, or life began on the planet? Would she be hovering midair as the earth formed, then wait another million-billion for the big bang? And what was before that? She shuddered at the thought of just what eternity unmoving would mean.

If she came alive again when people were here, could she warn them of the future? Had she been sent back from that moment when she had ducked under the pine trees boughs to escape the wicked wind for just a moment before continuing home and saw the brilliant light and the shockwave of sand and city parts coming right at her, promising the warmth she had been craving the whole walk home, and then exponentially more, providing enough blistering intensity to strip her flesh from her bones…to help them? Be a chosen one like her friends who had time to read books talked about.

Could she help them or was whatever had struck the city written in stone?

Had she been thrown out of time and now was permanently frozen between moments?

The thought made her tremble in fear or exhaustion, she wasn’t sure which.

Wait.

She had shivered.

She could move.

As the early dawn gave way to true night, Sheila tried to step forward.

(first version of the story, words: 97; second version of the story, words: 820; first published 7/29/2026)

Flash: A Shot from the Past

Erin Penn

Photo by Veronika Galkina on Unsplash

Trigger Alert: Discussion of Human Trafficking

Jacob teased his friend. “Come on, it can’t be that hard.”

“Dude, let’s see how well you do when dealing with a place your parents trafficked you.” Brandon bit out, fighting the nausea building in his stomach.

“This isn’t the same place, not even the same country.” Jacob tried to reassure Brandon. He knew the whole story as Brandon thought it necessary if they were going to split a lease, but he somehow hadn’t put together “I may wake up screaming in the middle of the night” warning with other possible trauma impact. “It’s just a normal drug store.”

“It smells the same.” Brandon muttered, staring at the innocuous building like it was a nightmare incarnate. “They all smell the same.”

“How do you get—”

“Drive-thru.” Brandon cut the obvious question short. “Whenever the doctor prescribes drugs, I go through the drive-thru or have a friend do it. Usually Sharrah, she’s good like that.”

Obviously not his parents. Brandon hadn’t spoken to them since he escaped at eighteen. He hadn’t even returned to Cananda since he finished university. Didn’t even have contact with his siblings. His one brother had committed suicide shortly after Brandon left home, for which the guy still blamed himself but sometimes the only person you can save is you. His two sisters had disappeared into the system when the police had investigated Tyler’s death and never came out where Brandon could find them.

Jacob nodded. “Alright, well, we both need to get our flu and COVID shots if we are going to get these jobs at the hospice facility.” He paused, thinking a moment. “How are you going to handle that? Doesn’t it smell the same.”

“No. No they don’t. That place smells like old people.” Brandon ungripped his fists enough to point at the yellow-brown bricks in front of them. “That place smells like medicine and candy, bleach and rubber and perfume and caked makeup and just slightly sour milk. Nothing else smells like it, not even the grocery store.”

Although Jacob knew it smelled close to it, and since Brandon’s parents also marketed their children at that location too, Brandon had his groceries delivered when he had money. Otherwise, he begged friends, trading housecleaning for grocery runs. Jacob couldn’t imagine having grocery, convenience, and drug stores all on the can’t-go-without-reexperiencing-everything list. How could parents do that to their own children? How could anyone pay to do that to kids?

“Have you not gotten your shots before now?” Jacob asked.

“I usually have them done in the doctor’s office, but they can’t get me in for four weeks.”

“And we start next week.”

“Right.”

“Can we get them done at Urgent Care?”

Brandon wiped his lower face, clearing the sweat above his lips. “I checked. They are all out of the COVID shots and won’t have more until the next round is ready in late September. I can get flu, but that is not enough.”

“Okay, look, we both really need this job. I’ve been looking since the warehouse closed in January, and you since April, and the summer gigs are drying up. You can do this.”

Brandon’s shoulders sagged. “No, I don’t think I can.” He slammed the glove compartment in front of him angrily. “Fuck my parents.” He turned in the seat to face Jacob. “I’m sorry. You go in and get the shots. I’ll help you find a roommate who can pay his half of the rent. I’m so sorry.”

“Dude, we are in this together. I’m not leaving you behind.” Jacob chuckled at a new thought making its way through the frustration. “If only they could do shots in the drive-thru.”

“Yeah, during COVID, they would come out to the parking lot and give shots there.”

“Maybe…” Jacob’s eyes met Brandon’s. “No harm in asking, right? They might-could do it for the elderly, right?”

“It’s worth trying. Maybe not for the non-handicapped, but maybe.” The corner of Brandon’s mouth turned up in a half-smile. “Thanks. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. That you keep trying.”

“What are friends for?” Jacob asked. He turned the key in the ignition to roll down the windows then got out of the car. “I’ll be back as soon as I get an answer, but it might take a while.”

“Thank you. Really.” Brandon stared at the building, memories haunting his eyes. “I just can’t go in there.”

(words 741; first published 7/28/2026 – created based on a story prompt of: Write a story where your protagonist returns to a place they swore they’d never go back to.)