Coming Soon

A collection of short stories for everyone who has battle scars from life, who may have danced with darkness once or twice, who laughs now because they've known despair and survived. 

Flash fiction is an art form, designed to hit hard with imagery and meaning. There are a total of twelve flash fiction stories in this collection. All are unique. Some are sad. Some are inspirational. Some are happy. Some may contain emotional triggers. All are flashes of life.

 A sneak peek inside at story one

Magic

“Sometimes I feel like if you just watch things, just sit still and let the world exist in front of you - sometimes I swear that just for a second time freezes and the world pauses in its tilt. Just for a second. And if you somehow found a way to live in that second, then you would live forever.” –Lauren Oliver

"Amanda! I know you're out here! Come inside immediately or you'll only make things worse for yourself!"

My mom is calling me. I see her from my hiding place in the tree. It's raining and cold, but I flatten myself out on the branch and blink through the leaves shielding me. Mom is waving a brush in her hand, her preferred method of punishment.

I'm only nine years-old, but I know that's not fair. What she doesn't understand is that I have magic powers, you see. I really do.

I stare at her and, with the force of my mind, will her to give up and go back into the house. After I'm certain she's not peering out the window, I sit up on the branch and look at my pack of goodies. I have a stash of special things that they thought they threw away.

There's Barky, the remote-controlled dog that used to do flips and shuffle around. He needs new batteries, though, and his once soft fur is hard because I've needed to hide him up here after rescuing him from the trash. I have him tucked in the curve of one of the branches of this big old cottonwood tree.

I think it's funny they don't know I can climb trees, or that they forget, because when they are out looking for me, they never look up.

Back to my stash of treasures—I have a butterfly barrett that Lisa gave me but mom thought I stole from the store. I got walloped hard for that one. I run my fingers over the yellow wings now with awe because it’s mine, and it’s a secret. I drop it back into the treasure chest and retrieve another prize—a diary with its own lock and key that my first boyfriend ever, Terry, gave to me at lunch a few months ago. We are only nine, but those lunches where we trade candy and sit in the shade are some of the best moments I can remember. I sit up here against the curve of the branch with the bark pressing into my t-shirt and write whatever comes to my mind. Often I write about the shape of the clouds I see through the branches above, but sometimes I write about the fear of being seen.

The stick is my favorite thing—it's as tall as me with a curvy knot on the top that looks like a twisty eye. I use it to control the wind.

I grab it now and slide down the back side of the tree, careful not to be discovered. It would be a shame to have my hiding spot found. Stick in hand, I run toward the barn to see my horse, Tango. I feed him french fries, even though I know that's probably not good for a horse. I also tell him my secrets.

The barn smells like old shit dried up and patted down combined with a sweet smell of hay and a thick scent of oil and gas from my dad's machines. It's quiet in the barn, though. No yelling. No lying about how bad I am.

I'm not bad. I'm not. I use the pointy bottom of the stick to drag a line in the dirt, trying hard not to cry because I'm not bad, I'm not.

Tango! He's sort of short for a horse, but that's why my grandpa bought him for me. He's red with a blond mane—like me, minus the red part. He snorts his greeting and his soft nose flares as if sniffing to see if I've brought him any treats.

"No fries this time," I whisper as I pet the white stripe that goes down the center of his face.

Tango doesn't think I'm bad. He loves me. I see it in his big black eyes with the long, blonde eyelashes. Nothing but love here.

He sniffs the stick, probably hoping its a fry, before nudging me with his head.

I stroke his fur with my hands and start whispering, "I'm not bad, I'm not."

Tango knows I'm magic. He pushes closer to me and I know he wants to go for a ride. He is the fastest horse in the world and together we could fly over the ground, past the horizon, into the clouds—together with my magic stick, Tango and I could do anything, go anywhere, be anyone.

I use the gate to jump onto his back. I'm not supposed to be on him without a saddle, but I do it all the time.

I don't think that makes me bad, though. I don't.

The barn door is open and outside the rain drizzles down against the muddy earth. I tighten my legs around Tango and lean down to hug his neck. The stick is tucked under me and I'm not worried about it falling—because I'm magic and I've willed it to stay put with the power of my mind.

He must think I want to go somewhere else, because he starts walking outside into the rain. I let him do what he wants, lying there on top of him, holding his neck, closing my eyes as the motion of his horse body rocks mine as he moves into the field and toward the back hill.

When I open my eyes, I see the stream below and watch the tiny ripples hitting the surface from each raindrop. Tango steps through it, obviously he has a destination in mind.

I sit up and look around at the rolling hills growing green with spring. Thunder sounds from far away. I hold my stick over my head, close my eyes, and lift my face to the rain. Using the powers of my mind, I will the wind to blow and the sun to shine.

A gust of wind lifts my hair from neck.

A ray of sunlight pierces through the gray clouds for a second and touches my skin.

I wave my stick in the air again and laugh up at the sky, watching with amazement at how the clouds undulate above me, and glimpse the slice of blue that showed itself to me for an instant.

Tango, probably motivated by my magic, starts to gallop further away from the house and the barn and over the hills of the pasture. Thunder sounds again in the distance and the ray of sunshine disappears beneath the morphing clouds. I hold on to his mane, the stick lodged under my arm, squeeze my legs tighter around him, and laugh because I am his and he is mine and we're both magic and free and powerful.

I'm not bad, I'm not.

I’m magic.