My Kids Hate Me (Flash Fiction)

I love telling short stories when the narrator doesn’t even know what’s going on. It’s one of my favorite methods of plot exposition. I think it’s so easy to deceive ourselves, and that it happens every day. I like to analyze why people feel the way they do, or what makes people behave the way they do, so you can see why this kind of writing appeals to me. It’s kind of sad sometimes, I know, but so is life.

The following was my first attempt of a prompt suggested by The 3 A.M. Epiphany. I didn’t stay within the parameters, but I did want to continue the story to see where it led. So, if my writing partner is reading this, don’t worry – I started over today, and now I’m obeying the rules, lol.

I have 2 daughters, and they both hate my guts. Even though Rich says I’m exaggerating, I know he’s wrong. I have proof. For instance, my 70^th birthday just passed me by, and it didn’t occur to either of them to stop by for a visit or even call. My whole life is passing me by, and they don’t care a bit.

I have been up all night wondering how in the world they could disrespect the woman that gave them life. I’m sure it’s nothing I did. They must have gone astray somehow – had friends who taught them to hate their mom, or read the wrong kinds of books or watched the wrong kinds of movies. I’ve noticed that most moms in movies don’t love their kids at all, so maybe they’re just getting their ideas from Hollywood.

I can’t stay focused enough to figure it out; I’m too upset. So I have decided to write down what I know and see if the answers come to me.

 

Myra

Myra, she’s my oldest. She’ll be 49 in a couple of months, and she has no clue how good she’s got it. Her husband Frank works a full-time job, and she just sits around all day watching reruns of Golden Girls and sewing afghans. (She’s always been a loner, staying home when her sister and I went out, keeping to herself in her room, barely making an appearance for meals.)

She never had any kids – I guess she doesn’t like the idea of being a mom, since she hates me – and she doesn’t even know what it’s like to have to hold down a job.

Anyway, maybe I can guess what her problem is. When she was real little, she was the only child I had. We spent the first 8 years of her life playing Barbies, coloring together, enjoying games of hide-and-seek. I had to work outside the home, but I always made time for her.

But then Kelly was born, now she was a sick baby, so I had to let Myra sort of figure things out on her own after that. I’m sure it was good for her to finally take some responsibility. I had been molly-coddling her for almost a decade, so it had to end some time.

Myra kept nagging me and demanding my attention, but Kelly was a full-time commitment, and I was real tired when I wasn’t fitzing with her. One day though, she just stopped asking me to play with her.

At the time, I though she must have finally grown up, gained some independence. But that’s probably when she started hating me. Like I said, I’m not sure she ever really understood that I just didn’t have time to cater to her anymore.

Kelly

So I already mentioned Kelly, but she’s my second. I would almost call her my problem-child, except that none of it was her fault. Like I said, she was a sick baby, but that never really got better. Well, anyway, by the time we all learned to cope with her condition, she hated everyone, and me the most.

I tried to give her everything a little girl could possibly want, because I seriously didn’t know how much longer she’d live. I gave her extra candies and hugs when she was little, and all of the latest gadgets and fashionable clothing when she got older.

Myra never cared for any of that stuff. In fact, she moved out before Kelly turned 9.

Out of the blue, Kelly started asking for things that I just couldn’t afford, like that trip to Europe with her friends. She should have realized how much I loved her when I took that extra summer job to pay for her trip to California, but she had already missed her senior class trip, and I guess she never forgave me for that.

 

Well, I won’t lose any more sleep from now on. If they hate me, it’s their own fault for not realizing that I was doing my best for both of them. I can see that bending over backwards to show them that I loved them never did a lick of good, so why even try anymore?

photo credit: dmitryzhkov <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/67084790@N03/33209720101″>4_DSC8944</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;

 

 

They’re Coming

Another writing club session has come and gone. Here’s my unedited response to yesterday’s writing prompt: Describe a thunder or lightning storm from your front porch or window.

The thunder rumbled in the distance, and Mary’s heart quickened.

“It’s getting closer,” Joe remarked. He opened the screen door, although there was really no need. They had removed the screen some years ago to use for filtering the bugs from their rainwater. All that remained was an empty frame that could be walked through. Joe insisted on opening it though.

“Mommy, they’re getting closer.” Megan toddled over to Mary’s lap, a half-eaten piece of toast in her hand. Mary scooped up the child and held her close.

“I know, baby. It’s just the storm. It will be over soon.” Mary brushed the crumbs from the front of Megan’s over-sized t-shirt, the only thing protecting her from the elements. It had belonged to Frank, before he disappeared two years ago.

“No, Mommy, they’re coming. They’re getting closer.” Megan wrapped her sticky fingers in Mary’s hair. How long had it been since they’d even had access to soap? It was time to make another trip to the spring. After they weathered the storm.

“No, honey, it’s just thunder.” Mary hated lying to Megan. She was hoping and praying that the storm would change direction.

“But, Mommy, the colors are red…” Megan whispered.

Mary’s heart nearly jumped out of her chest. “How do you know?” She forced herself to ask. She wanted to throw up.

“See, Mommy?” Megan pointed as another flash of lightning lit the sky.

“No, baby, only Joe can see that.” Joe and…Frank had been able to see the color shift too. But had they ever talked about the colors in front of Megan? They had always done everything they could to protect her from the truth.

Another crash sounded, closer this time, disrupting Mary’s thoughts.

Joe appeared behind her suddenly. He must have stepped through the door frame. Something about that bothered Mary more than anything. He was finally ready to leave his fantasy world of normalcy and security. He raised his rifle and stared into the horizon as a tear escaped from Mary’s eye.

Another streak of lightning burned into Mary’s vision. She closed her eyes, but could still see the image. It was accompanied by the dreaded crash.

In unison, Megan and Joe murmered, “They’re here.”

 

Okay, so these are my thoughts: First of all, I would go back and change Megan’s name. I didn’t think of it at the time, but I don’t like having two female characters whose names both begin with the same letter. I’m afraid the reader might get the two of them mixed up. Secondly, I might have Mary refer to Megan as “the baby,” just as though they never bothered naming her. Life is too tough to worry about such trivial matters. But I think this would only work in a longer piece where I have time to make Mary feel guilty that they never named her. Third, I wouldn’t have Mary refer to the red lightning as “the colors.” That’s fine for Megan, since she doesn’t have a developed vocabulary, but Mary wouldn’t think of them that way. She might say aura, or they would probably actually have a name for these entities that are on their way. Or I might choose, “But had they ever talked about the color differences in front of Megan?” Fourth, in the beginning, when Joe opens the screen door, I forgot to mention that he was going into the house. Fifth, instead of making a trip to the spring, I’d say stream or river. When I read it aloud, all I could think of was the season of spring, not the body of water. Sixth, instead of red, I might choose yellow. Then Mary could say “all lightning is yellow,” while she worried about whether Megan had the ability to see the color shift. Seventh, when Mary says, “only Joe can see that,” I need to have her arguing internally with herself too. There’s no way Megan can see the difference. This can’t be happening. She’s just imagining. She’s overheard us talking at night – we weren’t quiet enough, etc. If the Council finds out she can see the color shift, they’ll need her at headquarters. They’ll come and take her away… Last, I might take away Joe’s abilities completely, even though he is nervous about the storm. I might imply that Megan is Frank’s daughter and has inherited his “gift.”

What do you all think? Would you make other changes? Would my editing ideas make the story better or worse?

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/73003003@N07/6721566553″>lightning</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;

Writing Club

The other day I mentioned our new writing club and how much it has affected me. Well, I thought it would be fun to upload an excerpt or two from our short little writing sessions. The very first time we all got together, we all created several writing prompts and put them in a jar. My 10-year-old even got involved! He surprised me by grabbing a sheet of paper and asking, “How do you spell ‘insignificant’?” (Can’t wait to use some of his prompts!) Anyway, every time we meet, we draw from the jar randomly and write for five to ten minutes. Then we take turns reading our little creations. I knew from the beginning that there would be a lot of variety from us ladies (we are all from very different backgrounds), but I am always blown away by the depth of the ideas!

Anyway, here’s the one I wrote during our very first session (a month ago now). I have not edited it – with the exception of a spelling error – so it’s a little raw and underdeveloped. What stands out to me the most about my own writing (compared with the other ladies’ pieces) is my lack of descriptive detail. That’s something I need to be more aware of, I think. I will also try to get permission to post some of the other ones, or at least link to where you can read them:

Jenna peered through the portcullis into the night sky above. Something was happening up there. What could it be? Whatever it was, it was noisy. She could hear what sounded like big, short bursts of thunder as she tried to get a better view. 

Her nurse wasn’t in the room at the moment, so she decided to try standing. Moving through the pain, she first rolled herself into a sitting position, and then with all her effort, knees shaking as she grabbed the bedframe, she pulled herself to her feet. 

How long had it been? Months? Years? She had been content to lie in bed while nurse tended to her and brought her food. But Daddy had left with a handsome young woman a couple hours ago. They had seemed excited. Now something was going on, and she wanted to know what.

She leaned toward the portcullis, which was now eye level. She could see hundreds of people milling about on the shore. But more importantly, she could see more of the sky, and the bursts of color that were lighting up the harbor.

The writing prompt for this one was “fireworks over the harbor,” courtesy of my writing buddy over at https://bluepictureframe.wordpress.com/

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/72182050@N00/2654851160″>Fireworks Show</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;