Flash Fiction from Hugh Roberts
from Teagan’s Books
Unsplash, Steinar Engeland
Last time I put it to a vote — should I do something darkly different from my other blog stories. Almost everyone said yes. Although the story is “there,” I’m still not sure I can write it. The telling is difficult.
Sigh… Okay, here goes nothing!
Even though sunshine is sorely absent from this story — and the content will sometimes be raw and difficult, as a writer I’m still not given to extremes. You need not expect gore, violence, sex, or profanity in excess. Although there likely will be some. Those things exist in this story, even if I don’t go into explicit detail with them.
I need the sunlight. That’s why I haven’t been able to start this dank, dark, deplorable diatribe. It’s not a fantasy, though it may bear little semblance to the worlds any of you have known. For your sake, I certainly hope it does…
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‘Why does Scott chant if he’s such a devout Christian?” Phil asked
I didn’t know.
My soul was pained.
I loved Scott but wanted to be fair to the ‘family’.
I suspected Scott’s relationship with me was a ruse to embarrass Phil
and the Charleston chapter of Nichiren Shoshu.
I asked Scott that night as we drove across the Cooper River Bridge to
the Isle of Palms.
“He thinks we’re queer,” Scott said.
I was puzzled by Scott’s reply. “Do you love me?” I asked.
Scott replied. “I love the Lord and the Lord says to love you.”
“Who’s Lord? Why me?”
Scott was precise: “You have the soul of a woman! We are not queer!”
“The Lord says I’m not a man?”
“Jesus says! “
“I know these things,” Scott’s tone was soothing. “Now hush your pretty
mouth and trust me.”
We parked on a secluded road at the Isle of Palms; waves of the Atlantic
Scott reached over and stroked my hair.
“My pretty little Jew boy; Jesus was a Jew boy, I bet he looked like you. They
killed Jesus, didn’t they?”
I was suddenly afraid.
‘Scott, take me home,” I said.
Scott opened the dashboard and smiled: “we gotta make it real is all.”
(C) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved
from Myths of the Mirror
Well, that was a bait and switch, sort of. It all depends on how one defines rich.
I wonder how many of us start this writing journey with secret dreams of bestsellers, movie deals, roly-poly royalty checks, and hiring efficient staff with clipboards to manage our fan mail.
I write fantasy after all. A little dreaming is in order. Yet, I always knew that dream was a stretch (a gigantic one).
My husband, on the other hand, had high hopes that he’d married Ms. Moneybags who’d drag her sacks of gold from her thousands of books sales down the red carpet to the bank.
Ha ha ha. That would be nice! It didn’t take long for him to become disillusioned, the poor man.
Because that’s not how this author thing works (just in case you’re a dreamer and think it is). Oh yes, some few among us have outstanding good luck and…
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