A Spring Collection
It’s been a while since the staff at Revellations has done a flash fiction group write, so we compiled a collection of flash fiction pieces from our members! Please enjoy!
Matthew Gustafson
It can be hard waking up surrounded by so many of the same faces. Yeah, everyone’s technically got their own quirks. That guy might have freckles across his cheeks. That lady might have her hair down over one side of her face. You see all those unique modifiers with each face, and yet it can’t help but feel samey. Or perhaps, maybe you just feel your own modifiers are so unique, they separate you from the group entirely.
Crowds can be a struggle too. Everyone in close proximity to one another, everyone believing they’ve got somewhere to be as soon as possible; it makes sense how stifling it can feel. Sometimes, you feel like there’s just too many people around you. Sometimes, you just wonder if all those people could go away.
The funny thing about those thoughts is that we never fully understand their weight until it’s too late. We don’t know how good something is until it’s been taken away from us.
We thought we were seeing the same faces every morning. Now, we’re literally seeing the same faces every morning, whether it’s the family around us or our reflection staring back at us. We thought the crowds were so demanding, so restricting. Now, we crave that closeness, that supposed uncomfortable feeling because the alternative is so terrifying.
The good thing about the current state of discontent is that it makes us understand the importance of what once was. We view the world with a new silver lining, coming to appreciate that which once annoyed us. With any luck, it will make the return of normalcy feel that much better.
So be careful what you wish for when you have so much; you may be too late to realize what’s amazing in what you consider ‘annoying stuff.’
Reese Welch
Eggs in the DVD player. CD’s on the stove. My mother always said switching things up brought good luck.
Our DVD player hadn’t worked for ten years. On the first Sunday of every month, she would cook an egg sunny side up and place it in the DVD tray. She wouldn’t close it of course, we didn’t want to have runny eggs in the machine, even if it didn’t work. But we would leave it there. Then, when the sun dipped below the horizon and our living room was bathed in an orange glow, it would be my job to carefully lift the egg out of the DVD tray and throw it in the trash.
In contrast, on the last Saturday of every month, we would melt a CD on the stove. We had dozens of old CD’s, scratched up from years of neglect — ones that had once held playlists or pictures, but were now useless. One frying pan was dedicated exclusively to the purpose of melting these CD’s. We didn’t use it for cooking anymore, because getting the melted plastic off of it once the deed was done proved to be near impossible. When the sun fell, my mother would choose one of her CD’s at random to fry. They were all neatly labeled, sharpie scrawled across the mirrored surface. It was as if she were burning memories she didn’t wish to have anymore.
The house would smell like burnt plastic for days. My mother never seemed to mind.
Looking back, there was something ritualistic about this routine of ours. As if we were preparing sacrifices to some deity I didn’t know we worshipped.
I always wanted to know why. What purpose did this serve?
My mother’s vague answer never changed — for good luck.
I don’t know how it gives us good luck. But even so, I don’t want to stop. I still have boxes full of old CD’s that I inherited from her when she died. A weekend without the smell of burning plastic or fried eggs feels empty in a way it shouldn’t. So I continue our routine. Maybe some traditions are just better left unexplained.
Rhiannon Scray
The pan sizzled with the frying of the eggs and bacon. It seemed a very unromantic breakfast, but it was what Leslie liked. Abby used to make this for her on Sundays, when their parents were off at work and no one was home to cook for them. Abby would crack the eggs right over the pan and serve them when they no longer looked raw. Kendall made them a little nicer for her, with some salt and oregano sprinkled on top. It was the most Kendall could do, given the day, when she wanted nothing more than to sweep her girlfriend off her feet, and all Leslie wanted was a lowkey affair.
“Good morning!” Leslie chimed. She seemed to wade through the sunlight pouring in from the kitchen window. “Do we have company?” She asked after several moments fighting with their old coffee machine.
“I made this for you and me.” Kendall said.
“I’m going in today. I told you.” Leslie’s voice was flat. Sure enough she was dressed in her grey suit, thick heels, and perfect pin straight bob.
“Well, maybe I can make breakfast sandwiches to go- or better yet, save them for us to share at lunch?” Leslie was already gathering her phone and keys to jam into her red purse.
“I have a client meeting me for lunch. I’m sorry. I’ll see you tonight, though.” She grabbed her coffee, poured it into a stainless steel thermos, and hurried out the door without so much as a kiss goodbye or an acknowledgement of their day.
Kendall sat at their dining table for an hour, sipping orange juice and watching the sunlight dance through the window. The only sound was that of metal scraping against ceramic as she slowly forced down her fried eggs.
Brendan Duong
I remember waking up to the sound of eggs sizzling on a skillet. Sometimes, the delicate aroma of soy sauce would sneak its way into my bedroom while I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes or when I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth. You would always be surprised to find me up so early because you hoped to keep the breakfast you were making a surprise. The thing is…you were always bad at keeping secrets like these but an expert at keeping other ones.
Some days, you would come back to the apartment with a heavy rain cloud overhead. When I asked if you were ok, you always shook me off like rain on your favorite coat. Other times, I’d try to give you a hug from behind (you loved those kinds of hugs) and you would scream at me to get off.
I never understood what happened on those days. I never got why you were so upset. All I knew was that one day, you never came back. You left your clothes, laptop, everything in your room. Just as much as you became a ghost to me, I became a ghost to you. I would haunt your space for hours, searching for clues. Some nights, I laid in your bed and cried for some kind of explanation. I never found one.
I woke up today and thought I smelled soy sauce coming from the kitchen. Turns out I imagined it. Though it’s been months since you left, I still can’t get rid of the imaginary smell of those eggs from my clothes.
Alyson Zabala
I really liked to swim when I was a kid. Well, I never actually swam to be honest. My brothers would always race from one end to the other, turning the pool into a natural disaster zone: tsunamis, hurricanes, the works y’know? But I was never really liked that. I just liked floating.
I know, I know. You’re probably thinking I was a really boring kid who didn’t like to go outside and had no friends, right? Well, although you’re totally right, you don’t have to be so mean about it! Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh, yes! Floating! It might sound dumb, but it’s a fun pastime of mine! I think everyone should do it more often.
Next time, if you have the luxury of finding yourself in a pool or a lake, maybe even a bathtub, you should try it. But if you do a bathtub, make sure it’s cold water. That’s really important.
Next time you find yourself there, lean into the water; let it hold you. It might be uncomfortable at first, but give it a second. Feel the cold slip around and caress you, and feel your belly become warm. Feel your breath leave your chest, then welcome it back into your lungs. Let the world become water. Let yourself believe you are safe for one second. Let yourself believe everything is going to be okay. Let the water take you, and just float.
Hannah Nguyen
It’s hard waking up in the morning as an egg. Sometimes you don’t know what the day ahead of you will be like. Will you be scrambled? fried? boiled? poached? flipped into an omlet? separated from your whites? miCRoWavEd?? It can get really complicated too… Over easy? sunny side up? hard boiled??? You just don’t know! It’s too overwhelming. So you just lay in your carton. It’s not worth hitting your alarm clock for the thousandth time. It’s not worth dressing up and putting your smiley face on. There’s endless possibilities…
But maybe that’s why it is worth it. The countless outcomes make the future exciting! Each morning leads to a new day! Nothing is expected and everything is full of surprises! So at the first crack (haha) of dawn, you roll out of your carton and look at the promising road ahead of you. You lay on the pan and wait for that *sizzle sizzle*. You put a smile on your bright, golden face until…
*nOM!* The human ate you 😳
Katie Clemmer
Recently, I sense as though there is something inside of me that does not belong.
It began the day of my arrival at a museum, a museum in which my friend desperately dragged me along to view the art coloring the walls inside. Entranced with the disheveled hair atop Rembrandt’s head, a room to the side of the painting somehow grabbed my attention.
Because of a noise? I was uncertain at the time, but now, I remember whispered pleas calling from the room.
The room was a small, half-hidden away area. Inside, there was nothing but a single case. Unlike the other exhibits, there were no plaques describing the piece’s origins or creator. It was simply alone under a single spotlight.
Excuse my vagueness, but I refer to ‘it’ as an ‘it’ as I cannot form a clear definition.
The shape was possibly that of a decorative egg, yet it lacked the ornamentals which labeled it so. It also seemed to contort, pulling in multiple directions, disfiguring it entirely. I was struck with a strange feeling but simply dismissed it as the eerie loneliness of the room.
I should have listened more closely.
Now, I do not think I can ignore it. A tumorous entity has begun to pull and pull my existence within. I have tried to run, but how does one escape from themselves?
While I write to you, my legs have turned rigid. I cannot move. Stuck under the lamplight of my desk.
I think I am becoming ‘it.’
I am not sure what to do.
Help me.
