Fiction 440
Fiction 440 is Greater Lansing's flash fiction series. Writers complete works of
fiction in 440 words or fewer using three pre-selected words:
The Flashback
February 2023
Words: Forgetful, Dessert, Retired
“What
the hell is that?”
Marsha
glared at Lance as she placed the metallic boxy-looking thing on the
kitchen table. On the top of the box was a button. “It’s a literary
device.”
Lance
shook his head. “A literal what?”
“No…
well, yes, it’s literally a literary device.” She turned the box edgewise
showing the label. “In this case, it’s a flashback.”
“A
what?”
“You
heard me. This is a literary device I’m using in this story. At some point
we’re going to have a flashback.”
“But
Marsha, shouldn’t the story have started before there’s a flashback?”
Marsha
nodded. “Good point. I can be so forgetful. Let’s start the story.”
She directed Lance to stand by the counter and, leaving the device on the
table, walked out of the room and then back in.
“Lance!”
This
didn’t sound like a promising start. “Hey Marsha.” Lance tried to sound
upbeat. “What’s going on?”
“What
do you mean, what’s going on? You know what’s going on.”
Lance
didn’t know what was going on. “What are you so mad about?”
“Yes!”
Marsha’s face brightened. “THAT’S what I’ve been waiting for. It’s time
for a flashback.” She slapped her hand down on the button.
Lance
and Marsha were in a restaurant.
Disoriented, Lance looked around. “Oh, my. This is earlier today.”
“It
is.” There was disdain in Marsha’s voice. “Remember the rules of a
flashback. You must do everything exactly like it happened the first
time.”
Lance
winced. NOW he knew what this was all about. The waiter placed a salad in
front of him. Across the table, Marsha frowned. Even though Lance didn’t
want to say it, there was no alternative. “I’m sorry you have to watch me
eat this.”
“No
worries. It’s fine.” This time the annoyance in Marsha’s voice wasn’t lost
on Lance. Since this was still a flashback, Lance didn’t have a choice. As
before, he slid his salad plate in Marsha’s direction. “Care for a
crouton?”
Pursing
her lips, Marsha shook her head. The flashback ended and they were back in
the kitchen. Marsha folded her arms. “That’s why I’m mad.”
Lance
sighed. “Was it because I ordered a salad, or was it the crouton comment?”
“Lance!
We met for dessert!”
This
was true and Lance knew it. There was only one way out of this. He pulled
from his pocket a cylinder with a button on the end.
Marsha
eyed the device. “What’s that?”
“It’s a
story part. This is a “conclusion.” In this case a “The end”. This story
needs to be retired.”
“Wait,
you can’t.”
He
could. And he did. Lance pressed the button.
The End
_______
Kelly Breaks the Fourth
Wall
June 2022
Words: Willing, Grave, Filling
Beneath
roaring thunder, the wooden ship fought to stay upright against the
tempestuous waves. Something appeared on the horizon. Clinging to the bow,
Kelly squinted through the driving rain and gestured across the rolling
seas. “What is that?”
Following her gaze, Stuart peered through the onslaught of water, but he
was bereft of ideas. “Of this I cannot be certain.”
Kelly
shook her head. “Bereft of ideas?” Although properly shown, in a telling
manner Kelly was aghast. “Why would you describe it that way? Bereft? Just
say you have no idea or edit that out and leave the dialog.”
Stuart
groaned. He absolutely hated when Kelly broke the fourth wall. Once
broken, it was nearly impossible to put things back together. Feeling
aghast himself, Stuart stared at his companion. “Now look what you’ve
done.”
Kelly
considered the hole in the fourth wall. Yes, indeed, she’d done it again.
But, truthfully, and there was no reason to lie, she had no regrets. This
was a choice. A deliberate choice. And one she was willing to make.
“There’s no reason to get all upset about it, Stuart. The wall is broken
and there’s not much you can do about it.”
While
Stuart knew Kelly was right, he also knew that this was a grave
matter. A grave matter indeed. Not a literal grave although that clearly
didn’t need to be explained. “Look at this.” He indicated the three
preceding sentences. “My internal dialog doesn’t even make sense.”
“I
thought you were just filling up space trying to reach 440 words.”
Kelly retrieved a chunk of the broken fourth wall. “What is this even made
out of?”
Without
realizing it, Stuart had fallen prey to a conversational redirection. “I
don’t know. It’s said to be an invisible barrier between us and the
reader.
Leaning
forward, Kelly gazed through the hole at the reader. “Woah!”
Stuart
gestured sharply. “That’s what I’m saying.”
Turning
pail, Kelly tossed the bucket aside and became white as a white sheet
(because sheets can be many, many colors). “We need to fix this, and fast.
Things are getting worse.”
With
the up and down motion of his head, Stuart conveyed non-verbal agreement.
“Oh, my god. I could have just nodded. It is getting worse.”
Visually assessing the story controls, Kelly signaled agreement. “Maximum
verbosity has been engaged.”
With
great haste, Stuart turned it down.
“Hole,
wall fix,” Kelly said.
Groaning, and displeased by the use of conversational attribution, Stuart
turned up the verbosity. “It’s too late for that now. This story is
ruined.”
Had
Kelly been written more empathetically, she’d have felt bad. Since she
wasn’t, she didn’t care.
_______
Time for Tea
April 2022
Words: Seven, Locusts,
“Let us all have tea.”
Randall was stunned. This
was not the time for tea. Their boat was sinking and, at this rate, within
the hour they’d all be treading water. The Pacific Ocean was no place for
an unscheduled swim.
“I would rather not have
tea.” Randall thought this suggestion quite reasonable. Instead, seven
sets of eyes turned his way, all wordlessly conveying the same message.
They thought Randall to be quite daft. If there was ever a time for tea,
it was now.
“Don’t you see what’s
happening?” Randall gestured wildly, but within acceptable decorum.
Surveying their surroundings should have been unnecessary as the water had
already reached their ankles and the deck was pitched to such a degree it
required significant leaning for anyone to remain upright. Regardless,
they all appeared nonplussed. With great astonishment, Randall realized
the opposite of nonplussed is… nonplussed. While the word frequently is
used to describe someone as unbothered or unperturbed, it actually means
surprised and confused. This left Randall nonplussed.
“Why is no one ever
described as plussed?” Randall’s question was greeted with curious stares.
Having not been privy to Randall’s thoughts, none of the seven had the
pleasure of understanding what he was asking. Randall adjusted his jacket.
“Never mind me. Perhaps rather than having tea, we should explore a means
for getting off this boat.”
Glancing at each other,
the seven took a silent vote before one of them turned Randall’s way.
“Perhaps YOU should seek a way off the boat. WE are going to enjoy high
tea.”
If Randall was stunned
before, now he was quite astounded. “What will it take for you all to
understand that we are in great peril, perhaps a plague of locusts?
You cannot seriously be considering high tea at a time like this.”
“Locusts?” one of them
scoffed. “What would a plague of locusts be doing in the middle of the
ocean?”
After the seven broke into
derisive laughter, they whispered diligently amongst themselves before one
turned to address Randall. “Upon reflection, we must concur. You are
indeed correct.”
With the waters still
rising, this development was of great relief for Randall “Very good. It
behooves us to secure a lifeboat.”
“You misunderstand us. It
is much too early for high tea. We have elected to enjoy a simple, yet
quaint mid-morning tea.”
Now, nonplussed beyond
reason, Randall abandoned his companions to save himself. With the rising
waters now nearly to their knees, the seven served each other tea.
Eventually the leaning became insufficient compensation for anyone to
remain standing and one-by-one they slipped off the boat and into the icy
ocean.
_______
Envelopes
January 2022
Words: Nuisance, Duplex, Jumbled
“Maxine, the
craziest thing just happened.”
Sitting
at the kitchen table, Maxine looked up as Travis walked into the room. In
his hand, he clutched a stack of envelopes. Maxine waited for Travis to
continue, but he didn’t forcing Maxine to ask the immortal question.
“What?”
In
response, Travis gave her a quizzical look. “What?”
“What’s
crazy?”
Travis
nodded. “Oh, that. I was out in front of the duplex minding my own
business when this white truck stopped in front of that metal box on a
pole by the side of the road and jammed all these envelopes in there. Can
you believe that?”
In
dramatic fashion, he dropped the envelopes on the table. Maxine stared at
the pile for a moment, than looked at Travis. “It’s called mail.”
“It’s a
nuisance, is what it is. I don’t want these envelopes. And they’re
all jumbled up. Some have your name on them, some mine, and two are
for someone named ‘resident.’”
Maxine
wasn’t sure what the best approach was for this. She reached for one of
the envelopes. “No, Travis. See, this—
“Oh ho!
Look at this.” Travis thrust the envelope into Maxine’s face. “This one
says it’s for Maxine OR Resident. How are we supposed to know who gets
this? I haven’t met Resident, have you? Is he the guy living in the
basement?”
Maxine
didn’t know there was a guy living in the basement, but she’d worry about
that later. “No, Travis, see these envelopes they—”
With a
loud sigh, Travis shook his head. “Isn’t that a shame?”
Truth
be told, Maxine felt the real shame was this entire conversation. Sliding
the envelope in front of her, Travis tapped the corner. “This one has some
neat artwork of the American flag on it, but someone stamped ink all over
it. It’s ruined.”
Maxine
smiled. “No, that’s a stamp.”
Frowning, Travis snatched up the envelope. “That’s what I said. Someone
stamped it.” He looked closely at the envelope, his face filling with
regret. “And look, it even says ‘Forever’ right by the flag. This was
supposed to last forever and it’s already wrecked.”
Unsure
of where to start, Maxine chose the beginning. “It’s mail, Travis. People
put letters or documents into these envelopes, place stamps on the corners
to pay for them, write a name and address of where they go, and people in
those white trucks deliver them. Let me show you…”
Opening
one of the envelopes, Maxine handed the letter inside to Travis. “See?”
As
Travis read the paper, his mouth dropped open. “I can’t believe this.
Maxine, it says I may already be a winner.”
_______
Steve and Judy Wear the Same
Shirt
September 2021
Words: Dunk, Jam, Vertigo
Standing in her living room, Steve
felt real relief when Judy finally entered the room. He’d been waiting for
more than an hour. But when he turned around, he realized, to his great
horror, that the two of them both wore bright red shirts.
“Oh, no.” Steve proved unable to
contain his dismay. “It seems we are wearing the same shirt.”
While Steve thought this a
significant development, Judy appeared unconcerned. “It’s not the same
shirt. If it was the same shirt we both couldn’t be wearing it.”
Steve closed his eyes. These types
of responses were all too familiar from Judy and they drove him crazy.
“You always have to say things like that, don’t you Judy?”
Throwing her hands out from her
side, Judy stared at Steve. “Who’s Judy?”
Not this again. Every. Single.
Time. “You are Judy, Judy.”
Her accusatory glare gave Steve
vertigo. “Steve, my name is not Judy Judy.”
Steve swore silently. Why did it
always come to this? “I did not say your name was Judy Judy, Judy.”
Before she could respond, Steve
stopped her with a wave of his hand. It was a slam dunk what she was going
to say next and he wasn’t having it. “I know. Your name is not Judy Judy
Judy.”
Judy smiled. “Thank you. And
calling me just Judy is fine.”
After all this, Steve hardly cared
about her name anymore. However, he certainly wasn’t going to call her
Just Judy. “Please don’t play these games with me.”
Judy’s face lit up. “If we are
going to play a game, I hope its monopoly.”
At the moment, Steve wanted to
throw something. Partly because of Judy. But mostly because he despised
Monopoly. “I don’t want to play games, Judy. Let’s just go. Are you
hungry? Should we get a bite to eat?”
Judy sighed. “I made a peanut
butter and jelly sandwich for lunch today. There wasn’t any jelly. So I
used jam. It wasn’t the same.”
Steve had no idea what to do with
any of that. Judy’s voice cracked. “I should say I made a peanut butter
and jam sandwich… But no one says that.”
Steve tried to appear sympathetic.
It was the least he could do. At least, more than doing nothing. “I’m sure
someone says that, Judy.”
His assurances seemed to bring her
comfort and she smiled. “Shall we go?” Grabbing her purse, Judy took a few
steps toward the door. Then, she stopped short. With a small gasp, her
eyes went from Steve and then to herself.
“Oh, no.” She appeared quite
distraught. “Did you realize we are wearing the same shirt.”
_______
Kevin Makes a Pie
July 2021
Words: Rhubarb, Nothing, Acerbic
“What is that?”
Kevin looked at Jeanine and
shrugged. “I think its rhubarb.”
Jeanine made that quizzical face.
The one she made whenever she doubted Kevin which she did quite often.
“Are you sure?”
While Kevin was sure, whenever
Jeanine made that face and asked him questions in that voice, he doubted
himself. “I suppose it could be purple celery. I understand they make pies
out of this.”
“Pies?”
“Yes. Pies.”
Jeanine picked up the stalky
vegetable and waved it around. “I don’t think so.”
“No, seriously, it’s a thing.
Rhubarb pie.”
Running the purple plant beneath
her nose, Jeanine took a long sniff of the mysterious vegetable. Kevin
waited while Jeanine thought it over and ran it under her nose again.
Finally he couldn’t take it anymore. “Jeanine, what’s it smell like?”
Frowning Jeanine handed him the
stalk. “It smells like nothing.”
Now it was Kevin’s turn to be
skeptical. He ran it under his own nose, coming to the same conclusion.
Whatever it was, it smelled like nothing. He did it again. And went for a
third time because he wasn’t paying close attention the second time when
Jeanine ripped it from his grasp. “I’m not watching you do that all day.”
Kevin doubted whether he would
have done that all day, but didn’t trust himself enough to become
indignant. Across the table, Jeanine considered the purple vegetable in
her hand. Then, giving Kevin a purposeful glance took a crunch–inducing
bite. As she chewed, that same quizzical expression passed over her face.
After swallowing, she laid the rest of the stalk on the table while
remaining in the deepest of deep thoughts which is plenty deep. Finally,
Kevin couldn’t take it anymore. “Well…”
Nodding, Jeanine put a finger to
her chin. “It’s not purple celery. It’s too acerbic.”
“Acerbic!” Kevin threw his arms
out at his side. “What kind of word is acerbic?”
Jeanine’s countenance hardened.
“It’s a good word.”
“What does it even mean? You had
to look that up, didn’t you?”
Jeanine let her indignation show.
“I did not. Well, not entirely. I had an idea of what it meant.”
“And countenance for that matter.
You had to use a thesaurus for that. You didn’t want to use face.”
Soundly located behind the fourth
wall, Jeanine had no idea what Kevin was talking about. Realizing his
mistake, Kevin grabbed a stalk and shoved it in his mouth. It was indeed
acerbic. Making an issue of the word had been a mistake. As he
methodically ate the Rhubarb, Jeanine waited. When he finished, she gave
him her best glare. “Now what?”
Kevin grinned. “Let’s make pie.”
_______
Alvin Gets Sick of It
June 2021
Words: Yawning, Zip, Finally
Alvin was sick of it. After all
these years, he’d finally had enough.
“That’s it.” He peeled off the
white jump suit and threw it on the floor. “I’m not doing this anymore.”
From her chair, Joyce gave him
that look. The one she always unleashed on him whenever he threw one of
his tantrums. It only made Alvin madder. Truthfully, he was also sick of
Joyce. As far as agents go, the gigs she line up were… limited at best;
mostly Elvis impersonations at the local grocery store or used car lot.
While she didn’t say a word, Alvin saw the question in her eyes.
“I don’t care. I’ll do anything.
I’ll twirl signs for sofas but I won’t do this anymore.” He kicked the
white jumpsuit and rhinestones scraped against the linoleum floor. Joyce’s
office doubled as a kitchen. That’s being generous. It was a kitchen.
Joyce was a lousy agent.
Taking a drag from her cigarette,
Joyce laid it next to the other butts in the ashtray. It was cliché, but
she was playing her part. She unleashed a yawn Alvin knew had to be fake.
“Are you done, Alvin? You know, I had a request this morning just for
you.” In spite of Alvin’s best glare, Joyce continued “Herbertsville
Broken Jeep Days wants you.”
Alvin paused. “Herbertsville
Broken Jeep Days?”
Shrugging, Joyce took another drag
of her cigarette. “Like I said, Herbertsville Broken Jeep Days.”
“That’s not even a thing.”
Joyce stared at him. She couldn’t
appear any more bored than she did right now. In fact, if she were any
more bored, she’d be a plank of wood which is actually quite valuable
these days. “What can I say? Herbertsville likes broken jeeps. They like
Elvis.”
With disdain, Alvin glared at the
rumpled pile of rhinestone emblazoned clothing lying on the floor. In the
glow from Joyce’s chandelier, the rhinestones glistened. “Did I do that
one last year?”
“Brought the house down. Had the
men crying, the women jealous… scratch that, reverse it. Whatever. You
killed it.”
Rubbing his temple, Alvin sighed.
He remembered that one. The place was rocking. Fireworks zipping through
the sky. It had been one of the greatest nights of his life. Well, maybe
not his life. When you’re a professional impersonator, it’s not really
your life. Is it?
Alvin shook his head. That was
waaay to deep for him. Picking up the jumpsuit, he carefully folded it
over his arm. “Sorry about all that, Joyce. Guess it just got to me.”
“Just like it does every week.”
Nodding, Alvin swiveled his hips.
“In more ways than one, I’m the king.”
_______
An Unexpected
Concert
October 2020
Words: Fall, Fire, Fanciful
Steven knew he was the only one home. Yet, somehow, an organ played. This
would have been plausible, Steven supposed, if he actually owned an organ.
The sound wafted from below. A calliope of music dancing and weaving its
way up from his basement. A composition which seemed to permeate his very
being. Unsure of what the meaning of all this was Steven knew there were
several actions he could take. As he pondered, the music transitioned
seamlessly completing one song and moving smoothly into the next.
Steven rubbed his chin. Clearly, the situation called for him to
investigate. To go down into the basement to discover the source. This
seemed reasonable, logical, and the most likely course of action. This was
also scary as shit.
Less logical, but perhaps equally reasonable, was for Steven to simply
allow himself to sit back on the well-worn couch in his cramped living
room by the fire and not question what was happening. Take this
opportunity to enjoy the swirling melodies which continued to rise and
fall through his home, to take in this auditory masterpiece while throwing
logic to the wind. But he knew, in the retelling of this story, this would
make him appear quite daft. And no one wants to appear daft. Least of all,
Steven.
His third, and in his mind, final possibility, was to just go to bed.
Ignore the entire thing and pretend it wasn’t happening. This was not
truly an option. Steven knew that thoughts of pulling the sheets over his
head were fanciful at best. Downright negligent at worse. There had to be
a reason music emanated from his basement. A rational one that had nothing
to do with the supernatural. But, in his heart, Steven knew, it most
likely was a ghost. Besides that, the music was loud, and sleeping through
it was not going to happen.
Opening the basement door, Steven peered down the darkened basement
stairs, but saw nothing but inky blackness. Stepping back, Steven gazed
down the hallway where his bed beckoned.
Then, he charged down the basement steps. The music thundered in his ears,
but the darkness yielded no secrets. The organ roared, the chords a
cacophony of rhythms. Steven screamed, but could not hear his own
frightened wails above the crescendo. Then, all fell silent. His heart
beating through his chest, bathed in sweat, Steven stood perfectly still,
savoring the silence. The organ had stopped. His basement was quiet. All
was right.
Despite not knowing the cause, Steven was satisfied. He turned toward the
stairs. Then, from the darkness, a voice asked, “Excuse me, do you have a
request?”
________
My name is…
June 2020
Words: Tonic, Hazardous, Bounce
Lifting the glass to his lips, the
man with the brown leather jacket took a swig. His head drew back and he
considered the glass. “What the hell is this?”
The bartender, big, burly, encased
in a layer of sweat, threw the rag down on the bar. “It’s a Gin and Tonic,
just like you asked for.”
The man in the leather jacket
grinned. “Damn straight it is.”
The bartender let out his breath,
retrieved the rag and resumed wiping dry the nicked up wooden bar. “What
was that all about, friend?”
“Mark,” the man said taking
another swallow from the glass. “My name is Mark.”
The bartender eyed the leather
coated man and headed for the other side of the bar. Mark finished off his
G&T, swirled the ice with a spin of his hand and threw it at the
bartender’s head. It bounced off the back of his skull and fell to the
floor in pieces. Staggering a step or two forward, the bartender spun
around, rubbing his head as he turned.
“Hey asshole. What the hell?”
The man adjusted his jacket and
leaned forward against the bar. “Mark, my name is Mark.”
Moving much quicker than a man of
his size should, the bartender sprang forward and gathered fistfuls of
leather jacket in both his meaty hands. Mark’s feet left the floor as the
bartender pulled him forward. Mark’s shirt sopped up water rings as his
body lay prone atop the bar.
“You mind telling me what this is
all about you piece of shit.”
Face to face with the sweaty
bartender, Mark managed a small smile. “I’d like another drink. And my
name is Mark.”
The bartender pulled him forward a
few more inches and then shoved Mark backwards. The smaller man stumbled
and landed on seat of his pants. Stabbing a stubby finger at the
now-seated man, the bartender’s eyes blazed. “Get out of my bar, asshole.”
Mark rose to his feet and brushed
himself off. The entire place had gone silent and all eyes were upon him.
“This is a hazardous place.” He laughed at his own joke, but no one joined
him.
“Out.”
Mark smiled, which only reddened
the bartender’s face. He pointed at himself and raised an eyebrow. “Out…?”
The bartender grew crimson. “Get
the fuck out.”
Mark took a step backwards. “Get
the fuck out…”
Now a deep maroon, the bartender
spit with rage. “Get the fuck out.”
Mark took a few steps toward the
door. “Get the fuck out… Mark?”
The bartender leapt over the bar
as Mark slipped out the door and into the night.
