Category: Flash Fiction

Fiction, Flash Fiction, Writing Prompt

Wine and Ice Cream

Carrie Sue Barnes
Writing Prompt: Chocolate Peanut Butter Ice Cream
Writing Time: 30 minutes
I’m wearing my favorite dress. A sleeveless, kelly green sundress with a V neckline. It’s been one of those weeks: long hours, overbooked obligations, a headache that never fully goes away. I know I’ll survive and be no worse for wear (assuming a good night’s sleep or two). Still, it’s Thursday now and I feel I haven’t taken a proper breath since Sunday. It is undoubtedly a green dress, comfortable flats, braided hair, glass of wine with no one around kind of night. I need to slow down. I need to think a few rambling thoughts. 
I walk five blocks to the best wine bar in town. It’s the best not because of its wine selection – which is only a bit above average – but its atmosphere. I order a bruschetta appetizer and a glass of chardonnay then seat myself in a wicker chair on the patio. It’s dusk and the automatic lamps around the seating area come on one at a time, a pause between each as if they are politely taking turns. Through the yellow glow, I watch a classical guitarist play. His eyes are closed as his upper body sways with the rhythm of his fingers on the strings. The background vocal is the low tide waves of the lake licking the beach across the boardwalk. There are only three other patrons dispersed around the patio.
The ice cream shop next door is crowded though, as it should be on an idyllic summer night like this. I keep one ear tuned to the guitarist and one ear to the giddy hum of the families indulging in homemade, hand dipped ice cream. The combination is unexpectedly rejuvenating.
I hear the scrape of a chair on the sidewalk somewhere behind me. I don’t think much of it until I sense someone close to me. The loss of the solitude of my spot causes me to stiffen a little in my chair. I sip my wine, ignoring whomever is outside the short fence surrounding the patio.
“I’ll pass you an ice cream cone if you’ll sneak me a glass of pinot noir.”
The nearness of the voice is startling. I continue to ignore.
“What could be better than wine and ice cream?”
I move finally, ready to dismiss this stranger, but as I turn my head and lean my shoulder toward the fence, he leans forward. In his hand is a chocolate peanut butter, double scoop waffle cone. It meets my bare shoulder and I feel the top scoop instantaneously melt into liquid on my skin. The contact with my shoulder pushes the cone down into the man’s fist. It cracks, ice cream dripping over his fingers. His expression is so stunned, so regretful, I laugh aloud despite myself.
“Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry.” He pulls a stack of tiny napkins out of the pocket of his jeans and tries to mop up the chocolate mess on my arm. Meanwhile his other hand is covered in ice cream that runs off the curve of his wrist to fall to a small puddle on the sidewalk. “I did not think this through. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
I’m still quietly laughing, dumbfounded, trying not to panic over the ice cream that has reached my favorite dress. I hold my arm straight out, unsure of the best move to make. The man dashes into the ice cream shop for more napkins. He has long legs and a lean build. He’s back by my side in no time. When our eyes meet, his face turns red.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“Honestly?” He raises an eyebrow, scratches at his temple. “I had this whole scenario play out in my head. That’s not how it was supposed to go.”
I can’t help wanting to know more but I need to clean up. Excusing myself, I do what I can in the wine bar’s small restroom. My shoulder is still a tad sticky and I have counted five spots on my dress I’ll need to take care of at home. I expect to be alone again when I return to the patio and my glass of wine, but the man is still there. He has sat down in the chair he’d dragged over, only the diminutive fence and a couple feet of summer air between us.
He smiles tentatively when I sit down. “I’m Eli.”
“I’m Harper.”
We shake hands over the fence. The whole encounter is surreal and I am more and more surprised at my ease with each passing second.
I swallow the last of my chardonnay. There are two pieces of bruschetta toast left. I pass one to Eli and keep the other. “Are you going to tell me how it was supposed to go?”
He clears his throat, amusement lightening his expression. The lamps gleam in his brown eyes. “I was supposed to ask you to bring me a glass of wine. I was supposed to find out your favorite ice cream flavor and bring a dish of it for you. We were supposed to laugh over our clandestine exchange. We’d talk. We’d take a walk. I’d get your number and give you mine. Tomorrow we’d go out.”
I respond with a laugh straight from my belly. Eli has lost his embarrassment and grins at me. “Instead you smacked my shoulder with your ice cream and stained my favorite dress.”
“It’s still a great dress.”
“Are you a hopeless romantic or just a flirt?”
“I prefer romantic optimist.”
“Well, you’re something. I’ll give you that.”
He frowns when I stand up, my bill in my hand to pay at the bar inside, then he stands up as well.
“Eli, my favorite ice cream is cookies and cream. Maybe I’ll have to treat myself to some tomorrow evening.”
“You should definitely do that, Harper. Tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night.”
Fiction, Flash Fiction, Writing Prompt

I’ll Wait

Carrie Sue Barnes

Writing Prompt: Red Shirt
Writing Time: 30 minutes

There was a spot of something on her shirt. A speck of food, maybe. It was too small to tell unless he drew closer. Her shirt was red and the spot was gray. Justin looked away. He wasn’t about to be accused of staring at Leah’s chest because of a tiny spot of who knew what. She would tease him for weeks. He tried to pay attention. She was speaking with as much grim seriousness as her lovely voice allowed.

Leah’s voice really was lovely. Justin could not think of a better word. Like she was on the verge of singing every time she spoke. It was distracting, just like that spot on her red blouse.

He moved his eyes to the tumbler of whiskey in front of him. She still filled his peripheral view and the whiskey was only background color to her movements. Lifting her wine glass to her dry lips. Pushing her hair off her cheek. She set her drink down too hard. The wine sloshed up the curve of the glass, a single drop escaping over the top to slide down toward the stem.

“Don’t you have any thoughts at all, Justin?”

So many.

He didn’t admit that. “When have you ever taken my advice?” He said it with a smile that reached neither his eyes nor his tone.

“I’m sure it happened once.”

She smiled now. That smile would be the end of him someday. Once it lit her face, he felt desperate to do anything, say anything, to stop it from disappearing.

“You can’t leave.”

Her mouth abandoned the smile to form a small O of surprise. Justin regretted it instantly. She’d want an explanation.

“It’s his dream job. I can’t ask him to stay.” Leah took another sip of wine.

“I didn’t say you should ask him to stay.” What was he doing? If the tumbler was empty he might have something to blame. His hand shook when he lifted his still full drink so he set it back down and pressed his fist into the polished wood of the bar.

“Justin.”

Her almost-singing voice was sad. Or scared. Justin wasn’t sure which but he could not meet her eyes after she said his name that way. It sounded like a rejection wrapped up in a mere six letters, two syllables.

“Are you hungry? Let’s order some food.”

“Justin.”

He shook his head. “I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” she whispered as she placed her finger tips under his chin to move his face in her direction. They both jumped when her phone rang. She dropped her hand.

“Damn it.” He reached his arm around her waist and pulled her to him, more roughly than he intended. She slipped off her barstool and stood, leaning her hip against his knee. Every coherent thought left his head as their lips met. Then one single reality reached him: she was kissing him back. Her hand was on the back of his head. Her smooth skin was warm against his end of day stubble. Justin started to stand as well when she broke the kiss.

Leah stayed in the curve of his arm, her eyes still closed. He held his breath. She laid her palms on his chest and he knew she could feel his heart pounding through his shirt.

“How long have you wanted to do that?”

He laughed quietly, placing a light kiss on her forehead. When she finally opened her eyes, he replied, “May 17, 2002.”

Confusion wrinkled her forehead for a moment then she smiled too. “The end of year party in your dorm?”

“The day we met.”

“15 years, practically.”

Her phone rang again and she stepped toward it. He groaned a little for the loss of her nearness.

“I have to take this.” Leah didn’t meet his eyes when she said it. She was chewing her lip the way he knew so well; the way she did when there was a decision to be made.

“I’ll wait.”

Fiction, Flash Fiction, Writing Prompt

Hell of a Way to Die

Carrie Sue Barnes

Writing Prompt: It was a hell of a way to die.
Writing Time: 30 minutes (Longer than usual! We’ll see where this takes us.)

Canoe. River. Rocks. Cougars.

It was a hell of a way to die. At least it would make an interesting story. I curled myself deeper into the crevice of the cliff and imagined the teenagers that would hike out here a year from now.

“This is where that girl got mauled by a pair of cougars.”

“Yeah, they found her canoe half a mile down the river, all torn up.”

They’d stand on the ledge eight feet above where I crouched now, enjoying the horror of it all.

I normally turn around before reaching this section of the river. Today, I wanted to keep going. It’s those damn leaves and the way Autumn makes me feel. Oranges, reds, yellows, and those stalwart evergreens living up to their name; I simply had to paddle farther.

A regrettable whim.

When I hit the rocks, the wood of the canoe split beside my left foot. Split is a gentler word than what really happened. Those rocks were not the rounded boulders smoothed by the current that I have encountered before. They were dagger sharp offshoots of the cliff, typically not immersed but the river is high this week.

The water invading the canoe took away any control I still had, tossing the boat into the next set of rocks then flipping me out of my seat. My forearm was sliced by an edge of one rock but my real concern was the undercurrent. A river this high, I knew that undercurrent was stronger than any resistance I’d be able to muster after more than a few minutes of struggle. I wrapped myself around one of those blades of stone like my dearest possession rather than the source of my demise.

From there it was a slippery, bruising scramble toward the cliff. I found enough footholds to reach this crevice, a cave of sorts, and rested. The sun can’t reach me here; the brisk October chill, so lovely as I paddled, had me shaking as I watched the rivulets of water running from my boots and clothing over the side of the cliff. My arm was throbbing but not bleeding much.

When I thought I could manage it, I set my mind on making it to the top of the cliff. It was mid morning; at least eight hours til sunset so light wasn’t a worry. Surely I’d find my way to a road or a house before then. All I had to do was make it up there and start moving. Move to keep warm. Move to find my way out.

I stuck my head out from under the ledge. Eight feet or so; doable. The stone face was dry up here, which was helpful. I felt around for a place to grip, pulled my body out of the cave, and gritted my teeth as I used my injured arm to continue the movement. One step at a time, carefully, determinedly, I ascended to the top. Such relief when one hand then the other landed on dry grass and cold dirt! Every muscle in my upper body strained to lift. When my face was met with open air instead of the gray striations of stone, I exhaled in a giddy shout.

That’s when I saw the cougars.

They both were crouched, chests to the ground, wide jaws suspended above the grass. One was still, glaring, eyes locked on mine. The other was moving toward me by inches at a time. My shout became a split second scream then silent. I could hear them breathing that throaty purr of big cats. I climbed back down to my cave.

Fiction, Flash Fiction, Writing Prompt

Homesick

Carrie Sue Barnes
Writing Prompt:
“I want to go home.”
“And I want to go to the moon. It ain’t happening, sweetheart. Time to accept that.”
Writing Time: 15 minutes
“What are you moping about now?” I rolled my eyes at Ginny. No small part of me wanted to slap that pout off her pink lips with my wash rag.

Ginny sank down in the next booth, the one she was supposed to be bussing, as if my question gave her permission to do so.

“I want to go home.” She heaved a loud sigh and plopped her chin in her hand. Her sparkly purple nail polish was chipping badly.

“And I want to go to the moon. It ain’t happening, sweetheart. Time to accept that.”

I finished wiping down the booths surrounding her, hoping she’d get the hint that she was holding me up. She didn’t.
“Do you really want to go to the moon?”
“Ha!” I couldn’t help but laugh. “No, girl, it’s just an expression. I’ve never wanted to go to the moon.”
“Where do you want to go?” Ginny stared at me intently, her bright green eyes fixed on my flushed face.

I could have rattled off a dozen places without even a moment’s consideration. Instead  I tightened my ponytail and shook my head. “No use thinking about that, kiddo.”

She scowled at me. She hated when I called her that. Ginny was 19 and I was 41. I was old enough to be her mother. In fact, she was the same age as my daughter would have been. Something about this girl, homesick whenever she was tired at the end of a shift but earnestly, optimistically independent the rest of the time, something about her wouldn’t let me forget that fact.
Fiction, Flash Fiction, Photography, Pictures & Words Challenge, Writing Prompt

Pictures and Words Day 26: Follow Tarrow Creek

Carrie Sue Barnes
Photo/Writing Prompt: Starts With T
“Don’t worry, you’ll find it without trouble. Just follow Tarrow Creek.”
I paid for my water and protein bar and thanked the convenience store clerk. He handed me my change then went back to restocking the shelf of motor oil.

Stepping outside, I had to shade my eyes against the afternoon sun. The heat of the July day drifted over my skin like the rush of air from opening an oven. I smoothed my honey brown hair into a high ponytail, Then I tightened the straps of my backpack and headed in the direction to which the clerk had pointed. The trail head was tucked into a grove of maples off Third Street. If my information was accurate, it would lead me to Tarrow Creek and the creek would lead me to Crescent Beach.

Crescent Beach was a pristine half mile stretch of sand carved out by time, tides, and wind. Few people new of it; even fewer had visited it. It was accessible by boat and by way of the dense forest through which Tarrow Creek ran. I couldn’t remember how I first heard of Crescent Beach but when I did, it went straight onto my Places to See list.

When the hiking trail, clear cut and packed down, reached Tarrow Creek, it crossed the narrow channel of water via a haphazard bridge made of two by fours. From there it continued south but I needed to head east. I stood at the edge of the creek, one stride’s departure from the trail. I squinted my eyes in the shadows cast by the high sun filtering through the branches. No path was discernible but I refused to be deterred.

Based on my research I knew I had seven miles to go and from what I could see now, those miles would be slow going. I’d worn shorts due to the heat but wished now for pants to guard my shins from the low lying underbrush of the forest. Within the first two miles my legs looked like I’d rubbed them with a thorn bush. A few of the scrapes showed blood but it dried quickly enough to be ignored. My arms below the edges of my t-shirt sleeves weren’t in much better shape.

I swept spiders off my shirt and ticks off my ankles. I did my best to give a wide berth to a nest of garter snakes. Harmless as they were, I still had no inclination to draw nearer. I paused over a pair of does staring at me before they fled. Countless birds filled the air with their songs and movements, unseen from their hiding places in the tall trees. I tried to sear into my memory the image of two sandhill cranes walking across one of the few clearings I came upon. They lifted their spindly legs in high steps through the tall, stiff grass. One let out a call and they both took flight, their wings loud in the amphitheater of the surrounding woods.

Always I kept Tarrow Creek to my right. Sometimes my steps went along its bank, sometimes I wandered from it but not enough to lose track of its bubbly brown water. I listened to it gurgling through piles of stones and rushing around small bends in its course. I took one break, sitting upon a fallen tree on the bank. The water swirled around each branch breaking the surface of the creek.

Then finally, finally, I saw the end of the creek. I saw it reach through the last of the trees to the beach and pour down into the lake. Here the creek widened. The sun painted perfect reflections of the trees and clouds onto the flat surface. I pulled off my shoes and socks and tucked them under one arm. When I waded into the creek, the cold water startled my overheated nerves. Then I ran. I ran the yards to the beach, my legs splashing from the creek right into the lake. When I saw, as I fully expected, there was not another soul in sight, I tossed my shoes and bag up onto higher ground then added my shirt and shorts to the pile. I dove down until every inch of me was submerged then popped back up, laughing.

Fiction, Flash Fiction, Photography, Pictures & Words Challenge, Writing Prompt

Pictures & Words Day 23: From Under the Roses

Carrie Sue Barnes

Photo/Writing Prompt: Below

Nina began lying down between the rose bushes on a sunny day in her eleventh summer of life. Mother planted them at precise, equal distances from each other, spaced for their greatest benefit. She explained the science to Nina once but Nina admittedly did not listen.

It was difficult to explain why she’d done it the first time. She had a fight with her older sister who, at fourteen, thought she knew everything and Nina knew nothing. “You’re still a child,” was the accusation thrown over her sister’s shoulder as she’d sauntered out of the room. Nina had wondered what was wrong with still being a child then tried to return to her reading. Her eyes wandered distractedly from the page to the window behind the sofa, and to the flower beds outside the window. Setting the book aside and turning herself around, she rose to her knees. Nina propped her chin on the back of the sofa. Her long, blond hair fell in curtains against each of her cheeks.

The rose bushes were excessive in their blooms this summer. They seemed to be showing off, lording it over the lesser flowers in the beds across the aisle of plush green grass. Nina’s gaze lowered to the soil covering the roots of those bushes. Her mind’s eye saw how perfectly she might fit in that space between and without another thought she dashed out of the room, down the hall, and out onto the back patio. Outside on the sun warmed bricks, she kicked off the black shoes she still wore since lunch with her grandparents. This called for bare feet.

She was right. She fit perfectly on the patch between the pink roses and the yellow ones. Nina pressed her back against the dirt, trying to feel the life beneath her, the hidden roots responsible for the vibrant petals gathered into sculpted blooms above her face. Suddenly she thought she did feel them. A throb, a pulse pushed against her in return and Nina let a gasp escape before she realized it was the vibrations of Daddy’s car pulling into the driveway.

It didn’t matter though. She knew it was all there. She remembered Mother digging up two bushes once. Nina had sat on the grass and watched. Mother explained about the roots, about how much they mattered. Nina listened that time, wondering all the while over their ugliness. Such ugliness to produce such beauty. It was entirely incongruous in Nina’s mind. She’d learned that word four days ago and this was her first opportunity to use it.

Nina laid like that for an hour. She felt the sun start to burn her bare feet. She heard her mother and father’s banal chatter over what was for dinner, what tomorrow’s weather might be, and whether grandma seemed more or less confused today. She felt Freckles, their gray, long haired cat, paw at her legs where they extended out on the soft grass. Nina thought a hundred thoughts, remembered a dozen memories, and not a single other soul knew of it. It was the finest hour of her life.

Family, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Photography, Pictures & Words Challenge, Writing Prompt

Pictures & Words Day 15: Don’t Forget to Play

Carrie Sue Barnes

Photo/Writing Prompt: Play
(2 pictures because they are one moment together)

“Don’t forget to play.” Of all the things for my grandfather to say on his death bed, this was not what I expected.

I drove down from Detroit to see him one last time. The nurses said he would likely go in the next twenty-four hours. When I entered his room at the nursing home, pulled a chair up beside his bed, and waited for him to wake, I wondered what I could possibly say. Mom said he knew the end was around the corner. His clear mind was housed in a body exhausted to its limit. Grandpa was always full of advice and information. He could tell you something about everything while never claiming to know it all. My own mind was still blank when Grandpa’s eyes opened. They were watery and dim. Short, sparse gray hairs stood askew upon his head. Grandpa was a big man, tall, broad, and thick. Even in his diminished state, he filled the standard issue bed to its edges. He lifted a hand, gesturing for me to lean closer. I did and he planted a kiss with his dry lips on my cheek. That’s when I knew I wasn’t going to come up with anything worth saying. I didn’t have to though. Grandpa started right in.

“Patrick, I’m glad you’re here.”

I nodded. A lump was forming in my throat and I didn’t trust myself to speak.

“I was thinking about you and that little boy of yours. And the little boy you used to be.”

He reached for the plastic cup on his bedside table. I held it while he sipped water, the gurgle of air bubbles in the straw the only sound in the room.

“You were such a serious little one. Wanting to be older, wanting to be bigger, wanting to do important things.”

I chuckled quietly. “I was, wasn’t I?”

Grandpa had no smile though. He went on. “I know you’re frustrated at that job. Feels like less than what you should be doing.”

I ran a hand over my thinning hair. We’d had plenty of conversations on the topic.

“You are doing important things.” He narrowed his eyes when I began to shake my head. “That boy, he’s your important thing.”

He needed another drink. I could see the strain that it was for his neck to hold his head up from the pillow for those few seconds.

“When your Laurie died, I knew your son would be okay. I wasn’t so sure you would be okay, but I knew he would be. He’s your important thing and you’re doing it right. Can I give you just one bit of advice though?”

“Of course.”

He hand engulfed mine. “Don’t forget to play.”

I’m sure the puzzlement was written on my face. “What do you mean, Grandpa?”

“Just that!” His deep voice rose urgently. “Don’t forget to play! You have so much on your shoulders, so much worry. I see it in you from every angle, Patrick. Your son needs to see you play. He needs to see you laugh and smile and enjoy yourself. When he’s older, he’ll understand without a doubt how hard you worked to provide for him. He’ll realize all the sacrifices you made. But don’t let him wonder if you enjoyed your years with him. Don’t let him question that.”

I smiled then, aware that of all the advice he could give me in this moment, this was exactly what I needed to hear.

Grandpa’s face relaxed and his eyes lost their focus on me. “You remember how we used to play, Patrick?”

“I do. I remember you teaching us baseball in the backyard. I remember sitting on your shoulders for half a mile to reach the river and filling my jar up with tadpoles. You used to carry me around upside down and I’d tell you what I saw that was different than when I was right side up.”

Tears were trickling onto his leathery cheeks but he was smiling so I continued.

“I remember you pretending to be a bear and chasing us around the field behind your house. There was one night we had a board game marathon and you tried to play Twister with us. We all laughed so hard that Grandma almost peed in her pants. I remember the whole family going camping out at Carter Lake. It was the only time all year we could count on Dad taking a couple days off from work. You and Dad taught us boys how to handle a canoe but our first time out alone we tipped it. I remember surfacing next to Greg and the two of you were up on the shore laughing at us.”

Grandpa nodded. I squeezed his hand and added, “It made me want to tip it a second time so I could hear you laugh that hard again.”

His eyes refocused on me, brighter than before. “So, you’ll remember to play?”

“I will.”

Grandpa died several hours later. My brother Greg and I were there beside him. My mother, too, but she had dozed in her chair. His passing was so quiet, so calm, that it was over before we realized she was sleeping through it.

After the funeral, the whole family went to Grandpa’s favorite restaurant. We had reserved most of the tables in there and still had trouble finding seats for all of us. Everyone swapped stories and memories, laughing and crying together. As we walked out to our cars later, my little boy squeezed in between my brother and me. Without a word we both grabbed his hands and swung him as high as we could manage. Giggles poured out of him and he shouted, “Again, Daddy, again!” I could hear my grandfather’s laugh in my ears as we lifted him again.