Five Sentence Fiction: “Not Subtle At All”

 

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Seriously, why didn’t this dumb kid just stick a post-it on his head and say, “I’m lying through my teeth!” At least he wrote his confession of guilt on a piece of paper where his body language and blubbering can’t make him look more like an idiot.

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

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Five Sentence Fiction: “(Can’t) Move On”

 

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So, I know I’m bad at checking for new Five Sentence Fiction’s early and often but then never doing them until it’s almost too late. But now I’m actually getting decent at writing them. So it makes my late arrival even worse!

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Word of Inspiration: Breakfast

Word Count: 120

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Title: Not Subtle At All

 

 

Hi Mom, I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be out of the house for a little while today. I know today’s supposed to be your special day, but don’t let my absence stop it from happening. I just need to head into town for a little bit and find something to treat burn marks and ash cased into tile, nothing to panic about, just a little bit of cosmetic touch-up so the house sparkles. P.S., don’t go into the kitchen at all; it’s not ready for you to see it yet. Also, I know I promised you breakfast in bed but I had just a little tiny kink in the plans (seriously, don’t go in the kitchen).

 

 


 

 

Augh, help! I’m at the footnote and I’ve run out of things to say! I could tell a very short anecdote about how I made a big fancy breakfast (relatively speaking, I’m a simple man when it comes to breakfast) for myself this morning. But nothing got burned down, so it’s a little underwhelming.

Little and underwhelming-

I bet you thought I was gonna make a self-depreciation joke there. But no. I’m of average height and I actually like the material I put into these flash fiction posts.

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

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Five Sentence Fiction: Departure

 

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Boy, I’m tired.

It is 2:39 AM here.

 

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Word of Inspiration: Spunk

Word Count: 172

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Title: Departure

 

Harold burned his copies of Moby Dick, Lord of the Rings, and The Road— all three dog-eared copies of each. The calendar read March the 10th but his mind was ever stuck on the 6th; March the 6th was the day that Harold learned the price of adventure, the shattering of rose glass that displayed “The Prodigal Son” in cathedral letters and sacred skill. An artist, his son said, he wanted to be an artist, to make with his own body what most others only dreamed about. March the 6th was a cold and rainy day and Harold’s son marched straight out into it, a single suitcase and an umbrella to his name (his good sense was left in his room near the trash can that hadn’t been emptied for months). Harold’s own pleading was fossilized into wounding memory, bouncing before against the walls of his own home and now within his own head; nobody had ever mentioned that when the hero went on journeys, they left more than their safety behind.

 

 

 


 

 

Girl, I’m sleep.

It is now 2:41 AM here.

 

And I wrote this all in one sitting. About eight minutes (or approximately two songsworth) ago. I hate my brain sometimes always sometimes.

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

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Friday Fictioneers: Abyss

 

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It really is a strange phenomenon that as soon as I come home from college, even if it’s for only a few days, I completely neglect to work very hard on my blog work. I had even written this and the Five Sentence Fiction a day ago and yet here I am, a week later, still ironing it out for today.

Consistently inconsistent is a good way to describe a lot of my work ethic as soon as I come home, strangely. I think it comes from the fact that, with no friends around me to do such horrible things as enjoyable socialize with me,

 

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Image Copyright: Lauren Moscato

Image Copyright: Lauren Moscato

 

Word Count: 100

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Title: Abyss

 

 

Dad left for the oil rig five years ago. I sent him letters for four years, one every week, asking how he was and what he thought of the pictures of me graduating from middle school, starting high school, winning the Science Olympiad, and so on and on. Then, mom finally convinced me to stop sending them. I’d like to think the day dad left, he just opened the front door and fell into an abyss. It’s not a happy answer but at least it’s something.

I’ve decided to go to college for a Sociology degree; Dad always hated Sociology.

 

 

 


 

 

I’m really not entirely happy with this one, regardless of how much I mull over it. It just didn’t stick out as having the same punch as some of my more favoured ones like Battle of Dinnerplate 6 and Remembering History. Granted, if I had the space of a few more sentences, I probably could have added something a little more surreal or symbolic to such an odd sight as a door with no floor.

But alas, them’s the 100-word breaks.

Now, if you excuse me, I’m going to continue preparing for the all-day ham-obliterating affair that is Easter.

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

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