Flash Fiction Stories-One Scary and One Sad
Hey everyone. Sorry I'm getting this in a little later than usual (as if anyone is actually sitting by the computer waiting for me to post a blog). I've been in Kansas City doing some furniture shopping, so I haven't had a lot on my mind really today, and I figure since I wrote a long ramble about stress yesterday, today I would just post a couple flash fiction stories.
Back when I was just an adorable little college junior I was in a creative writing class, and at the end of the semester was to either write a minimum 15 page short story, or five flash fiction stories. Since I didn't have any concrete ideas that would last 15 pages; I went with the five flash fictions. I wrote one story a day Monday-Friday that week. I wanted to try at writing different genres. It was difficult, but I found my groove eventually. Some stories were easier to write than others.
I decided to post only two today, and maybe the rest tomorrow if I still don't have anything to talk about. I'll be in Nebraska for the next two days, so that's probably what will happen. Anyway, I hope you enjoy these tiny tales. The Shadow Man, and The Old Man on the Street.
You wake up with a start. A loud bang comes from outside your door. You sit up in your bed quiet, waiting. You don’t know what you’re waiting for. Another noise? A sign that whatever made the noise is gone? You sit alone in a dark cave that was once your bedroom. You can’t just go back to bed, you tell yourself breathing heavy still.
After what seems like hours you find the courage to swing your legs off of the bed, careful to set them softly onto the carpet. You grab your phone out of instinct and realize you can actually use it to call the police, but only if necessary. It would be an embarrassing story if the cops showed up to find a stray cat in your kitchen. You grip it hard and walk with small steps to the closet and reach for the wooden baseball bat leaned against the inside wall. The wood feels cold and hard in your sweaty hands. You never thought you would actually need it, but I guess paranoia wins this round.
You take extreme caution when cracking open your bedroom door. You stand there with your ear pressed in the crack and listen for any sound that could be made. As you take your first step out the door you quickly turn your head to the left and survey the hallway leading to the soft glow emanating from the living room. You take long but quiet steps making sure to only land softly on the balls of your feet down the hall.
You peek around the corner and check the surroundings. Empty. You breathe a sigh of relief as you look around more relaxed. The TV was still sitting in the corner of the room across from the old white couch and wooden coffee table. You notice that you left the tall black lamp in the opposite corner of the room on from earlier when you were “working” and watching a marathon of The Twilight Zone at the same time. You set your phone down on the coffee table and step over to the lamp to turn it off when you feel it.
You have this feeling from time to time. That unnerving feeling that someone is staring at you. It usually happens on a bus or eating out at a restaurant, but here, in your own home? Your body tenses up with a slight fear that grows rapidly as you slowly turn your head. Over your shoulder you see him. Or it. Whatever it was standing across the room from you. It was hard to get a full shape of it because its body was black as coal all over like a shadow. Your fear morphed into terror and then panic. You wanted to run but your feet stuck to the ground. No matter how hard you fought them they were not moving. That’s when you remembered the cold, hard feeling of the wooden bat in your hand. It filled you with enough courage to take a step toward the shadow. In that moment its eyes opened as it took a step toward you in a sort of challenge and you could see its face more clearly. It looked just like you. You feel a sensation of pure evil rushing through the room all around you. You lifted the bat and began walking toward the shadow. The thing now had a bat of its own, long and black like a sword still sheathed. It began walking toward you. It was copying your every move. You had to act fast. As soon as you were within swinging distance you swung the bat with all that you had.
You wake up with a start to find yourself in a hospital bed. You try to sit up but you’re blasted with a searing headache. You put your hand on the side of your head and feel bandages wrapped over a thick cloth. You look to your right and see a nurse bent over picking up supplies from a tote that had fallen. Outside the door behind her in the hallway you see a doctor talking to a police officer. Your mind is still aching and it’s hard to make out what they’re saying. You strain to lean closer toward the door for a better listen, but your left hand is stopped by the handcuff connected to your bed rail. You look at the blue chair beside your bed and see a pile of black clothes folded neatly on top. You lay back down and the memories begin to fade back in. What are the odds that he had a baseball bat too?
The old man on the street would just sit there. All day, in the hot sun he would sit against the shade of the different buildings and business that formed the busy downtown area. He had a hat on the ground and his hand in the air. The old man would just sit there collecting the nickels and pity from strangers. Every so often someone would make a harsh comment under their breath about his scraggly beard or the smell of his unwashed clothes as they quickly stepped past him. They laughed with their friends because they were better off than him. They would never understand. He occasionally received brash advice from men in suits telling him to, “Get a job.” He couldn’t even shower or buy nice, clean clothes so how was he supposed to just, get a job?
At the end of the day the old man walked to his little paradise between a bar and a hotel. It was dark and filthy, the ground wet and cold from liquid that was not rain, or even water for that matter. The old man knew how to keep himself warm. He had been collecting large cardboard boxes from the hotel when they receive new supplies and throw the boxes in the dumpster beside the old man’s home. He would flatten them out and stack them on top of each other to protect himself from the cold ground. The bottom slab was starting to rot and tear away with every movement so he would have to repair his bed in the morning. The old man had also been collecting free newspapers from bins and trash cans to makeshift a pillow for his head. Compared to the cement it was a cloud from heaven under his long, greasy hair.
The next morning the old man followed the same routine as always. He stepped out from his paradise and walked to the diner across the street. He made sure to walk around to the back of the building so that he didn’t, keep people from coming in. The manager that owned the diner was a little younger than the old man. A man of 45 by the looks of him. He thought the old man was a war veteran or something, so he gave him whatever scraps of food he had from the night before. The old man wasn’t a veteran, just a man that played his cards wrong, but he wasn’t going to tell the diner manager that.
After he had his breakfast the old man would walk to his usual spot against the sports clothing store. He chose this spot because it’s right in the middle with the city bank on one side and the restaurants and bars on the other. He was getting the big business during the day and the drunk college kids into the night. At least that’s what he hoped for. There was always somebody that he felt had done something wrong and needed to redeem whatever it was and give him $20 or some food. The old man never begged or pressed anyone to give him money. He would just sit there. With a hat on the ground and his hand in the air.
Around one o’clock the lunch bells rang for all of the businesses surrounding him. He watched as everyone left their buildings and either walked to a diner or got in the cars and drove to who knows where. Traffic was always the worst during this time. Cars would zoom past him and people had other things to look at when they blew by.
The old man was as kind as he wanted to be. Every so often he saw a stray cat or dog roaming through his little paradise at night. He would take them in, feed them what he could, and care for them until they eventually left him to find another home to forage. He loved animals, so that’s why during today’s lunch break the old man noticed the old black cat from a few nights ago traversing between the people on the street across from him. He looked at the cat’s fur, black like coal with a small tuff of white displayed on the chest. He wondered if the cat would remember him. He sat up when the cat looked toward him. A small smile worked its way across his dry lips. The smile disappeared when the old man looked as the cat began to walk across the street towards him. The cars were still driving by and only he seemed to see the danger unfolding. He quickly got to his feet and almost tripped over his hat as he stepped onto the street. He looked to his left and right waiting for an opportunity to grab the cat and get back to the safety of his spot. The cars were moving so fast, but there was a small gap and he took it. He ran between two cars and snagged the cat from the asphalt. He heard a loud horn. He turned and saw his reflection. It was on the front of a large blue bus, inches from his face.
The old man was not remembered by anyone. The manager stopped leaving food outside the old man’s back door after two days. The old man’s paradise was quickly destroyed by garbage men once they noticed the stack of cardboard and newspapers laying near the dumpster. Everybody just went on with their days as if the old man never even existed. All that remained of him was his hat. Laying on the sidewalk in front of a different old man. Collecting the nickels and pity from strangers.
The Shadow Man
You wake up with a start. A loud bang comes from outside your door. You sit up in your bed quiet, waiting. You don’t know what you’re waiting for. Another noise? A sign that whatever made the noise is gone? You sit alone in a dark cave that was once your bedroom. You can’t just go back to bed, you tell yourself breathing heavy still.
After what seems like hours you find the courage to swing your legs off of the bed, careful to set them softly onto the carpet. You grab your phone out of instinct and realize you can actually use it to call the police, but only if necessary. It would be an embarrassing story if the cops showed up to find a stray cat in your kitchen. You grip it hard and walk with small steps to the closet and reach for the wooden baseball bat leaned against the inside wall. The wood feels cold and hard in your sweaty hands. You never thought you would actually need it, but I guess paranoia wins this round.
You take extreme caution when cracking open your bedroom door. You stand there with your ear pressed in the crack and listen for any sound that could be made. As you take your first step out the door you quickly turn your head to the left and survey the hallway leading to the soft glow emanating from the living room. You take long but quiet steps making sure to only land softly on the balls of your feet down the hall.
You peek around the corner and check the surroundings. Empty. You breathe a sigh of relief as you look around more relaxed. The TV was still sitting in the corner of the room across from the old white couch and wooden coffee table. You notice that you left the tall black lamp in the opposite corner of the room on from earlier when you were “working” and watching a marathon of The Twilight Zone at the same time. You set your phone down on the coffee table and step over to the lamp to turn it off when you feel it.
You have this feeling from time to time. That unnerving feeling that someone is staring at you. It usually happens on a bus or eating out at a restaurant, but here, in your own home? Your body tenses up with a slight fear that grows rapidly as you slowly turn your head. Over your shoulder you see him. Or it. Whatever it was standing across the room from you. It was hard to get a full shape of it because its body was black as coal all over like a shadow. Your fear morphed into terror and then panic. You wanted to run but your feet stuck to the ground. No matter how hard you fought them they were not moving. That’s when you remembered the cold, hard feeling of the wooden bat in your hand. It filled you with enough courage to take a step toward the shadow. In that moment its eyes opened as it took a step toward you in a sort of challenge and you could see its face more clearly. It looked just like you. You feel a sensation of pure evil rushing through the room all around you. You lifted the bat and began walking toward the shadow. The thing now had a bat of its own, long and black like a sword still sheathed. It began walking toward you. It was copying your every move. You had to act fast. As soon as you were within swinging distance you swung the bat with all that you had.
You wake up with a start to find yourself in a hospital bed. You try to sit up but you’re blasted with a searing headache. You put your hand on the side of your head and feel bandages wrapped over a thick cloth. You look to your right and see a nurse bent over picking up supplies from a tote that had fallen. Outside the door behind her in the hallway you see a doctor talking to a police officer. Your mind is still aching and it’s hard to make out what they’re saying. You strain to lean closer toward the door for a better listen, but your left hand is stopped by the handcuff connected to your bed rail. You look at the blue chair beside your bed and see a pile of black clothes folded neatly on top. You lay back down and the memories begin to fade back in. What are the odds that he had a baseball bat too?
The Old Man on the Street
The old man on the street would just sit there. All day, in the hot sun he would sit against the shade of the different buildings and business that formed the busy downtown area. He had a hat on the ground and his hand in the air. The old man would just sit there collecting the nickels and pity from strangers. Every so often someone would make a harsh comment under their breath about his scraggly beard or the smell of his unwashed clothes as they quickly stepped past him. They laughed with their friends because they were better off than him. They would never understand. He occasionally received brash advice from men in suits telling him to, “Get a job.” He couldn’t even shower or buy nice, clean clothes so how was he supposed to just, get a job?
At the end of the day the old man walked to his little paradise between a bar and a hotel. It was dark and filthy, the ground wet and cold from liquid that was not rain, or even water for that matter. The old man knew how to keep himself warm. He had been collecting large cardboard boxes from the hotel when they receive new supplies and throw the boxes in the dumpster beside the old man’s home. He would flatten them out and stack them on top of each other to protect himself from the cold ground. The bottom slab was starting to rot and tear away with every movement so he would have to repair his bed in the morning. The old man had also been collecting free newspapers from bins and trash cans to makeshift a pillow for his head. Compared to the cement it was a cloud from heaven under his long, greasy hair.
The next morning the old man followed the same routine as always. He stepped out from his paradise and walked to the diner across the street. He made sure to walk around to the back of the building so that he didn’t, keep people from coming in. The manager that owned the diner was a little younger than the old man. A man of 45 by the looks of him. He thought the old man was a war veteran or something, so he gave him whatever scraps of food he had from the night before. The old man wasn’t a veteran, just a man that played his cards wrong, but he wasn’t going to tell the diner manager that.
After he had his breakfast the old man would walk to his usual spot against the sports clothing store. He chose this spot because it’s right in the middle with the city bank on one side and the restaurants and bars on the other. He was getting the big business during the day and the drunk college kids into the night. At least that’s what he hoped for. There was always somebody that he felt had done something wrong and needed to redeem whatever it was and give him $20 or some food. The old man never begged or pressed anyone to give him money. He would just sit there. With a hat on the ground and his hand in the air.
Around one o’clock the lunch bells rang for all of the businesses surrounding him. He watched as everyone left their buildings and either walked to a diner or got in the cars and drove to who knows where. Traffic was always the worst during this time. Cars would zoom past him and people had other things to look at when they blew by.
The old man was as kind as he wanted to be. Every so often he saw a stray cat or dog roaming through his little paradise at night. He would take them in, feed them what he could, and care for them until they eventually left him to find another home to forage. He loved animals, so that’s why during today’s lunch break the old man noticed the old black cat from a few nights ago traversing between the people on the street across from him. He looked at the cat’s fur, black like coal with a small tuff of white displayed on the chest. He wondered if the cat would remember him. He sat up when the cat looked toward him. A small smile worked its way across his dry lips. The smile disappeared when the old man looked as the cat began to walk across the street towards him. The cars were still driving by and only he seemed to see the danger unfolding. He quickly got to his feet and almost tripped over his hat as he stepped onto the street. He looked to his left and right waiting for an opportunity to grab the cat and get back to the safety of his spot. The cars were moving so fast, but there was a small gap and he took it. He ran between two cars and snagged the cat from the asphalt. He heard a loud horn. He turned and saw his reflection. It was on the front of a large blue bus, inches from his face.
The old man was not remembered by anyone. The manager stopped leaving food outside the old man’s back door after two days. The old man’s paradise was quickly destroyed by garbage men once they noticed the stack of cardboard and newspapers laying near the dumpster. Everybody just went on with their days as if the old man never even existed. All that remained of him was his hat. Laying on the sidewalk in front of a different old man. Collecting the nickels and pity from strangers.
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