Flash Frenzy Round 77

Posted: September 5, 2015 in Flash Frenzy Weekend Flash Challenge
Tags: , , ,

We have another very special photo prompt this week, courtesy of my awesome nephew, Dib. A few years ago, they did self portraits in school, and he wanted me to have his to hang in my writing office. Not wanting to hoard the creativity this bit of original art inspires, I’ve decided to share it with you all. Karl A Russell will have the honor of judging this week’s entries.

Before we get started, here’s a brief reminder of the rules.

Deadline: Sunday at 6:00pm MST. You all have 36 hours to create your best work of up to 360 words (exclusive of title) and post it into the comments below. Please include your word count (required) and Twitter handle if applicable. For complete rules, click here. 

The winning author and their story will be featured as Wednesday’s Hump-Day Quickie, receive a winner’s page, and be crowned Flash Master of the Week.

Here is your prompt.

Artwork provided by Dib

Artwork provided by Dib: “Kindergarten Self-portrait”

  1. NAFEEZA says:

    Title: The Art Portrait
    Word count: 360 words
    twitter: @bibi_n_yusuf

    It wasn’t until my wife spoke from besides me that I realized that I had been staring at the paper cut-out artwork in my hand.

    “What is that God-awful thing?” She asks in a voice bearing not ill will. “Mark?” She grasps my face. “Sweetie, are you crying?”

    In this clichéd manner, I discover my tears. Hastily turning away, I wipe at them using my free hand.

    “I didn’t know I still had this.” I say and she waits for me to continue. “My little brother drew this in kindergarten.”

    My voice cracks and she hugs me.

    “I made fun of it, called it trash.” I held her tightly. At that time I hadn’t realize that I was the trash. “He ran away crying…”

    “Mark you big baboon!” James cries, rushing from the avenue towards the street. “I hate you!”

    Those were the last words we exchanged.

    “B-ba-baboon!” I fume, ready to crumple the ghastly artwork.

    A horn blares, catching my pre-teen curiosity. My eye widens and my mouth opens in a scream that is drowned out by the screeching of tires and blaring horn.

    I can’t continue speaking but Sherry knows the rest of the story.

    After all these years and endless therapy, it still kills me inside to know that had I not been such a jerk of a big brother, James would still be alive. Our family would still be together. It was my entire fault.

    “You’ve kept it all this time.” Sherry says, rubbing my back. I nod into her tear-soaked neck.

    I had held onto it at his funeral, nodding my head in a daze at the extended sympathies from faceless individuals. I had it when my parents signed their divorce papers – mom started drinking, dad found it unbearable to come home. I had it when my parents handed me over to aunty Helen because they couldn’t bear to look at me.

    It weighed on me like lead. And somewhere along the lines, the face started looking like James’s – accusing me of killing him and destroying everything.

    Aunty Helen was a good lady, so I lived for her and James. But I never forgave myself.

  2. Pattyann McCarthy says:

    WC: 352

    The Stuff of Dreams

    Only my kid can dream up this stuff, his nightmares frightening to him. I brush his cowlick off his sweaty forehead, and pull him close to my chest, holding him tightly while his sobs abate little by little. He’s so scared, but I don’t know why. He’s breathing so fast. I wait for him to calm down while I coo to him.

    Humming to him, his little legs pulled tightly in his chest; I rock him in my arms, hoping he’ll quiet down. I hear his breathing slow a bit.

    “Honey, what was it, do you want to tell mommy about it?”

    His tear stained face turns up to me, sniffing hard but the mucus is still running down his top lip. “Here sweetie, let mommy take care of that.” I wipe his cherry button nose. Precious Moment tears stand in his wide eyes and he tries to smile.

    “Will you tell me what scared you?”

    Sniveling, he does his best to tell me his nightmare . . .

    “. . . and then this big scary monster reaches out to grab me! It’s got a big round head, but it’s empty,” he reaches up to show me he means the monster doesn’t have hair. “And then I saw it had a black ax here in the middle,” he touches his forehead with his tiny pointer finger, and he had big feet like my stuffy, Frankenstein, that the Halloween ghost left for me last year, do you remember mommy?”

    “I remember Boog. You love that stuffy, don’t you?”

    “Mmhm. Can I hold him?”

    I reach down to the foot of his bed and grab his Frankie stuffy. He curls his arms around the doll and lays his cheek against it.

    “So, then what happened, Boog?”

    “He was chasing me on those big feet, only the monsters’ were red, and he had skulls all over his shirt too, with really big teef! That was the scariest part. It scared me the most!”

    His tiny voice was getting sleepy-sounding.

    “I ran mommy, really fast, and then you were . . .”

    I gently kiss him; he’s snoring softly as I tuck him in.

    • My son isn’t there yet, but I know the ‘nightmare years’ are just around the corner.

      I really loved the line “Precious Moment tears stand in his wide eyes . . .”, such a lovely name for them. 🙂

      • Pattyann McCarthy says:

        Thanks so much, Brian. I’m a little behind the party these last two weeks. Getting through those nightmare years were a challenge, but garnered lots of huggles and kissies! 😀

  3. Dog Days
    309 words

    No-one knows where I came from, not even me. I sprang out of Joe’s head one day onto a big sheet of white paper. I look just like a normal dog, except my tail is a spiral. Oh, and I always wear a space helmet. I am Astro the Space Dog, and I defend Joe and his family from monsters and aliens.

    At least, that’s what I used to do.

    Once I was all over Joe’s walls, zapping enemies with my laser eyes (always red, to match my collar). He told his friends about me when they came to play, and they would sit drawing, tongues poking out with concentration, glancing up every so often to make sure they got me right. Joe even sneaked the live-action dog upstairs to visit me, although it just lay down and yawned. It knew it couldn’t compete with Astro the Space Dog.

    I have improved over time. My lines have become less wiggly, my eyes are the same size, and my legs have joints. And yet Joe doesn’t draw me any more. When his friends come over I watch them playing with robots, the kind of dull, stiff guys that I would have lasered cheerfully in my prime. I can only see with half an eye as I’m trapped behind a poster, nose to nose with a huge, motionless metalman. He must be terrified.  

    I growl at him through my bared teeth, but then I lose my footing, my grip slips from the wall, and down I plummet. Everything goes black until a rough hand grabs me and turns me over. ‘What the – oh.’ Joe’s frown clears, and he picks me up. There is a little smile at the corner of his mouth as he looks at me. Inside, I’m wagging my tail. It’s time for my next exciting adventure!

    • Sonya says:

      Bittersweet, but fingers crossed Astro’s in for plenty more adventures.

    • I absolutely love the idea for this.

      A fantastic twist on Toy Story where, instead of the toys from our childhood, it’s the ideas. I started to remember all the characters I used to draw when I was at school; the robots, the ninjas, dinosaurs, and space ships (sometimes all in the same picture).

      And the line where Astro refers to the family pet as “the live-action dog” – priceless. 🙂

  4. Sonya says:

    Of Giants and Cupcakes

    The giant roars in anger. He picks up the empty cake stand and throws it high in the air. On its return, it misses my baby niece by mere inches. My sister cries out in anguish. I know how she feels, but for another reason. I spent hours baking those cupcakes. It took the giant about three seconds to demolish them.

    ‘What is it with you people and cupcakes,’ the giant rages. ‘They barely fill the hole in my molar. Bake real cakes next time. Give me something to chew on.’

    The giant stomps off, ranting on about decent-sized cakes.

    (100 words)

  5. stephellis2013 says:


    353 words


    Jagged teeth were already chewing up and spitting out the once hallowed ground. Workmen had learned to ignore the shards of bone that seemed to randomly speckle the freshly-turned soil. The previous residents had been disinterred with all due respect, prayers had been said and the site blessed. At least that was what David Wilson had told his demolition crew.

    Georgie watched the men as they finished for the night. He didn’t want to be left alone in the dark with only the silent metal dinosaurs for company. He still didn’t understand why he had been left behind.

    “Hey, Georgie. Want to play?”

    Behind him was the Man. He didn’t like him. He was another one left behind. But Georgie said nothing. He’d been taught not to talk to strangers. A promise he kept after that last time.

    The Man laughed as Georgie ran across to the portacabin, slipped into the bright, warm office where Wilson was already knocking back a bottle of whisky. Georgie noticed he was drinking a lot more now than when he first started the job. That was the Man’s fault. He would do things to the machinery, make noises, frighten both Wilson and the security guard, frighten Georgie. Sometimes there were accidents and people got hurt. The Man said he was only playing.

    Yet Georgie liked to sit in the snug little office, it was better than being out in the dark and the cold, better than being alone. And there was something about Wilson. He’d seen him before somewhere. Once.

    “Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie,” called a voice from outside. “Want to play?”

    Georgie put his hands over his ears but he was unable to shut out the Man. His eyes drifted towards Wilson’s desk; the bottom drawer was open and he caught sight of something red towards the back. Curious, he moved closer. Red shoes. He had had shoes like that once. The police had never found them. He looked again at Wilson. Started to remember.

    “Oh Georgie,” said the Man, appearing next to him. “Now will you play?”

    Georgie nodded. He wanted his shoes back.

  6. voimaoy says:

    You Don’t Need an App for That
    185 words

    Do you remember that feeling of making art as a kid, the worlds you imagined on paper? No? Or you

    never did those things? Well, it’s never too late to discover the artist in you. Let creativity come alive

    in this 6-week introductory course. Here, we will explore the realms of imagination using actual

     paper and art supplies. That’s right, we will use crayons, pencils, markers, watercolors, finger paint!  

    We will use home made dyes and pigments from kitchen scraps. Bring your onions and tomatoes!

    We will supply the tables and sunlit room. Together, we will learn how to make stamps and prints

    with potatoes.  Using old magazines, we will cut up pictures and assemble collages. You can even

    make your own comic books–superheroes and knights, wizards and dragons, giant robots and

    unicorns. You can make worlds that have never been made before. Yes, you can create with colors,

    and color outside the lines. You don’t need an app for that. Come and join this free-spirited

    community. Let us make art together. Everyone is welcome. Anything is possible. Whatever you can

    imagine can be real.

    • feclark says:

      Love this Voima 🙂 I like the way that you have written this as an advert for the course. Also – it sounds like one I would join in on!

    • I do like the crazy, left field directions that some writers take these prompts, and this one is a great example.

      On the face of it, the ad is playful. But lurking in the background is the subtext of a genuine concern, one speaking of how the older, physical interaction of things will fall away until everything is experienced through a screen in a virtual world.

    • mariemck1 says:

      Very clever. I love this! Different, off-beat but the form lends itself so well to a very interesting theme.

  7. feclark says:


    The atm machine disappeared, it left a hole in the wall; they just bricked it up. My mam used to get her money there; it caused us a lot of extra walking that machine being gone.

    Soon my new red trainers wore down, long time before I got a new pair. I loved those red trainers.

    Anyway, afterwards they used red brick, set back from the grey granite, as if you could still see inside the wall. I guess they just ran out of money, or didn’t care to add the facing bricks to finish it off.

    Seeing inside, I remember, that got me thinking. Five years old and fascinated by the interior of everything that came my way. Blood and spit and puke and crap and piss – yeah ok – but what was really inside?

    Did our dream monsters, live in our heads? Could you tell by our faces? If we looked fierce – was this us, really us, or something inside showing? And, if a whole money machine could disappear, well, what else could be there one day and gone the next?

    Of course I know now that the neighbourhood was changing and the bank had just moved on, but I can clearly remember my puzzlement.

    I wore my superhero pjs inside out, tried to see down my own throat with my mother’s make-up compact. I watched everyone closely, especially the grown-ups.

    And I saw. Sharp teeth arguments, death skulls, many fingered fists. I saw my first aura near the time the atm disappeared. Boiling anger, seething frustration, broken depression. I took to wearing my sunglasses continually.

    When did it stop? It must’ve been when I got sent to the new family. I lived in the grey world for a long time then.

    Why bring this up now? Well, I’m not sure if it began with the new trainers – red of course – or the red brick of my new house. Yeah, it’s a thing for me – new place, new trainers.

    Whatever, it’s back. Don’t believe me? I can see your spirals of pain, sparks of joy; I can see your gleaming avarice.

    I can see you inside out.

    360 words

  8. Stella T says:

    275 words

    Looking Back

    I draw this in art class. Mrs Smyth didn’t like it I could tell. The way she eye-balled me freaked me out. She learnt over my left shoulder and asked what it was, an alien, a robot? I shook my head suppressing giggles it was my Mother couldn’t she see the green eyes, her pink dancing shoes and the blue mini skirt she wore most days.

    My mum always walked me to school. She staggered a little, not like other mums who stood strong and straight. Sometimes she’d lean on me to steady herself and I could see the other mums whispering to each other and giving me sympathetic glances. I didn’t know any of this at the time, its looking back that I remember those looks.

    Mrs Smyth told me to carefully cut around my drawing and she’d put it on the wall like a Picasso. She’d been showing us examples of weird pictures. My drawing was not weird it was my Mum.

    I never let Mrs Smyth put my drawing on the wall. I put it in my art folder and took it home. My mum knew straight away it was her. She held it close to her heart and danced around the tiny kitchen singing a love song my dad used to sing to her before he left to fight for our freedom. Years later I learnt he left us for my mother’s younger sister.

    I drew a big heart and three bug-like pods deep in her chest. I must have known even then that mediocrity, apathy and morbidity were lurking. The first two nearly killed her and the third finally did.

  9. asgardana says:

    100 words

    “And she keeps drawing the same face, then faces within the face. I’m not kidding, Doc. It has to be a problem, right? I should’ve changed her afterschool program. Or, at least kept her away from the movies her brother likes. You have to help us! I don’t know what else to do.”

    The Doctor turned to Harriet. “Why do you draw this face?”

    Harriet shrugged.

    Her mother sighed.

    The Doctor waited.

    “I like it,” Harriet finally whispered.

    “Why do you like it?” The Doctor asked.

    Harriet bit her lip.

    Her mother sighed.

    The Doctor waited.

    “Because it scares Mother.”

  10. mariemck1 says:

    113 words

    My shoes turned a dirty pink. Red was always difficult to erase.
    What’s that yir wearing, Douglas? Yi’re a disaster. Too poor for a pair of decent trainers?
    Scars dug, where secrets are kept, stayed long after the pale peach of my face had disappeared.
    You better not tell. You better not
    tell.You better not tell.

    The smiling skulls in my stomach that made it ache on school days were last to fade.
    Another sore tummy? We’ll have to send for your Mum. That’s three days in a row now, Douglas. Do you have something troubling you?
    I guess that made two of us that couldn’t tell I was slowly being rubbed away.

  11. Self-Portrait of the Sun


    Childhood. Born on March 30, 1853, at Groot-Zundert in the province of Brabant, Holland. Vincent Willem Van Gogh was the son of a Protestant minister, Theodorus Van Gogh, and Anna Cornelia Carbentus. Vincent was a serious, silent and thoughtful child. He attended the village school at Zundert from 1860, where a single Catholic teacher taught around 200 pupils. One day the teacher asked everyone in the class to do a self-portrait. This would be Vincent’s first attempt at creating his image.

    He wanted to capture his essence, though at the time he was not sure what essence was. He would stare at the stars outside his bedroom window and wonder where the spiraling white
    phantasmagoria of light came from. At that time he did not know what phantasmagoria meant, but thoughts, like the heart, were capable of holding definitions whether their meaning was known or not.

    His soul was on fire as he created his first self-portrait. He placed every dream and every desire into the pinprick of moments that filled his masterpieces canvas. All his frustration of being a child and how the world viewed him. He needed some chocolate pudding.

    He saw things as impressions. The way his mother’s red hair painted his evenings with a subtle breeze of stories, or the manner a little girl in his class smiled tilting tiny rainbows around rain streaked windows. Everything glowed. Everything was alive. And everything had a heartbeat.

    “Onverbeterlijk!” The teacher proclaimed when she received Vincent’s artwork. This meant incorrigible. He was not sure of the meaning of the word but he understood the look on her face.

    At the parent-teacher meeting it was explained to Mrs. Van Gogh that her son had no talent as an artist. Also, that his portrait had frightened all the other children.

    At home his mother explained that he should think about a career as a banker or an accountant when he got older. He was not sure what those professions were, but he knew what the candle’s flame that painted his face with soft golden brush strokes of light – meant.

    (349 words)


    * * *

    Brian S Creek
    359 words

    * * *

    Victor didn’t mean to hit the old woman. She’d stepped out in front of his horse on that rainy night, and there was nothing he could have done.
    A week after the accident, the old woman was laid to rest. Victor’s life became unbearable as the woman’s family continued to blame him.
    One day Victor was approached by the old lady’s son. He mumbled something in the old tongue before spitting on the ground between them. Victor shrugged it off; curses were old wives tales, after all. He gathered his belongings and left the village that night, hoping for a fresh start up north.

    Years later and Victor had settled down with a beautiful woman named Shanna. They had a modest house, a good business, and a beautiful son named Christian.
    The death of the old woman and the mumbled curse were the furthest things from Victor’s mind, until the day his son turned seven and stopped eating.
    Days passed. Victor and Shanna begged the village doctor for help, but nothing worked. The village Elders tried too, but still Christian wouldn’t eat.
    Knowing it must be the curse, Victor travelled back to the very village he’d sworn he would never set eyes on again. He found the old woman’s son and demanded that the curse be lifted so that his son would eat again.
    The man laughed. He said not eating wasn’t the curse. In fact it was the opposite.
    With the man’s laughter still ringing in his ears, he rode as fast as he could, but when he reached home, it was worse than he could have imagined.

    The people were gone. Not a soul could be found; in the church, in the inn, in any of the houses. Except in his. Christian was still there but he was changed. When Victor approached his grotesque, giant-like son, he discovered where everyone in the village had gone.
    Tortured faces covered his son’s belly, each and every one of them belonging to someone Victor had called friend. And in the centre was Shanna.
    Christian looked down at his father, a battered arm still being chewed. “Hungry,” he said.

    Victor wept.


    * * *

    Brian S Creek
    349 words

    * * *

    There were monsters in Charlie’s tummy.

    He had woken up this morning and his tummy had hurt something rotten. His mummy had asked him what was wrong and all he could think of was that some monsters were messing around with his insides and he didn’t know which end he was going to be sick out of.

    Straight away mummy said that Charlie would have to stay at home.

    This upset Charlie because Mrs Garret was teaching Volcanoes today and Charlie had spent all weekend reading about them in his encyclopaedia, the one his Grandma and Grandpa had bought him for Christmas.

    He was also upset because his best friend William had promised to bring in a rare Pokemon card today to do swaps. Charlie asked his mummy if William could come round after school but she thought it was best not to; “we wouldn’t want William to get monsters in his tummy too, would we?” she’d said.

    Charlie guessed she was probably right. William was his bestest friend and he didn’t want him to go through this horrible feeling too, even for an ultra-rare Pokemon.

    So Charlie stayed at home, snuggled up on the sofa, watching cartoons. Mummy had let him have a little lemonade (because the monsters don’t like bubbles), and some dry toast (because monsters might think the food’s boring and leave to find something better).

    When it didn’t get better, Charlies mum gave him some tasty tasty pink medicine and much to Charlie’s relief it seemed to do the trick.

    And while he didn’t feel up to having a proper dinner (just in case the monsters were hoping for something better than dry toast), he did feel a lot better by bed time, and was sure he wasn’t going to be sick any more, out of either end.

    Before mummy turned the light off, Charlie asked her one last favour. She laughed a little but did it anyway.

    So Charlie slept his best night ever. And the little cup of pink medicine did a good job at keeping away the monster under his bed too.

  14. Black Rainbows and the Mona Lisa Syndrome


    Inside the Louvre were spots of light ricocheting off marble with the echo of footsteps softly dripping down the halls. Outside it was overcast as the glass pyramid built a mountain of earthly perspective toward heaven. Inside the great art sanctuary, a small boy carved affection in his mother’s hand. Bright lights splashed quick insight into a captured moment. The face held secrets. An unborn child? The artist touched her features with the full flung brush of humanity. Cymbals of eternity crashed in the eyes with rushing water and a woman’s smile. Expression was the dam of the heart, a certain limited language that hinted but never gave way. The lights continued to spasmodically inherit every second.

    The rain started in the Paris early evening. The ancient structures wore weather with an unchecked silky grace like a pampered beautiful woman in lingerie. The transparent loveliness of the moon brushed the architecture with hints of melancholy. The little boy hung onto his mother’s hand trying to make sense of the scene before him.

    After seeing her son’s angry, grotesque picture, she felt the need to expose him to the potential of art. The beauty of expression. To remove him from the hurt of two divorces and endless upheaval; she could see the black rainbow starting to fade while standing in front of Michelangelo’s David, then continue to leave in front of the Mona Lisa. The little boy started to cry.

    “He has the Mona Lisa Syndrome,” a smart looking man in a suit said.

    “What is the Mona Lisa Syndrome?” His mother inquired.

    “It is sort of like an exorcism. Ancient cultures believed that great art had the capacity to heal, that it was even more important than medicine for curing sickness. Like listening to Mozart makes you smarter.”

    The black rainbow left, abandoning the lonely moment between flashes; a heart taking back its pauses.

    The rain outside, stopped.

    Footsteps could be heard approaching.

    (323 words)

  15. Ghost Children

    As darkness falls around us, the skeletal children come out to play, slender bodies moon-lit; silhouettes shifting. Through them, transparent, their surroundings show as they tag “It” from one to another. Their eyes are hollowed gouges – pitch in the dark – their wide pink mouths gap teethed, tongues lolling. A singular strike marks their forehead, though the nature of it cannot be discerned from a distance; not easily without concentration. Do you see them yet? Do you? Can you make out the smudge where their footsteps fell once when they were before? The prints they left in their wake once they were gone beyond?

    Unknowing eyes miss their mark, as they wander; fail to hear their wail. Sometime shadow cloaks them, for those who do not care to linger in their looks. They hop in action, regardless, waving little limbs, hard and fast, jumping, one foot to the other. Will you see them now? Now that they look straight at you, for your attention? Or can you – will you – fail to?


    (171 words)

  16. Moon Acid
    in Frolicking Bourbon Cemetery
    Singing I Want To Be Sedated
    With Tyrone Power


    I was hammered. My fiance had left me for a woman.

    I drank 12 shots on Sunset and then went to a bar on Hollywood Boulevard and watched Batman try and feel up Wonder Woman. Went to Graumans and snuck in a secret entrance that my friend that works there knows. Then went outside and staggered around footprints.

    We drove back to Sunset Boulevard and watched some friends in a band play at some place. Had 6 more shots. We got another pitcher.


    We went to some karaoke bar and I sang My Sharona 7 times while striping my clothes off.


    We decided for the fun of it we would crash a cemetery. Hollywood Forever. We went to purchase some Vodka first and then Bourbon.

    In the cemetery we staggered around wasted and found Johnny Ramones grave. We played guitar and sung Ramones tunes. We smoked some pot then took some acid. We found Tyrone Power’s grave and then Valentino’s crypt. All the stars came out and partied with us. We took more acid and drank cans of beer. The universe above us exchanged twinkling with pond water where ducks flew asleep under marble that celebrated its nighttime flight in white wilted memory shadows.


    We all went back to Hollywood Boulevard and I tripped on the footprints like there were 17 people inside of me all going different directions and all feeling different things. There were many voices coming from my chest that spoke of doom and gloom; my reach had exceeded my grasp but luckily for me I had about 30 fingers, so everything was fine. I looked down and I could see stars. I thought I must be God. I was that high.


    By one of those sidewalk artists –

    I got my portrait done.


    (301 words)

  17. Iskandar H. says:

    In Due Thyme
    Word Count: 360

    Thyme Rosalind Andrews.
    A person waiting to be jotted down on paper, begging for skin to come undone and drop in ribbons of ink and parchment.
    You always smelled of something slightly burnt.
    “I love watching love.” You said to me.
    That was how we met.
    “You know, seeing the spark go off like that between two people. It’s so intimate. It’s like I’m seeing something I shouldn’t be seeing.”
    You sipped your drink as the bad party music blared on.
    “What’s your name?” I asked, curious that you didn’t deem introductions necessary to discuss intimacy.
    “Thyme Rosalind Andrews.”
    “Wait, you mean-”
    “Like the herb, yeah.”
    I smiled.
    “How different.”
    You shrugged.
    “If we were normal, we would have lost our minds a long time ago.”
    We became inseparable after that.
    I still remember the time I fell asleep wrapped in your arms in the back of a truck in downtown Fredericksburg.
    “I have to tell you something.”
    I shivered internally. Part cold, part anticipation.
    You asked me if it was strange that we, two 16-year-old girls, had decided to run away together, hitchhiking in the back of a strangers’ car at 2 in the morning.
    I said of course not. It was romantic.
    You then told me about how your mom had killed herself when you were seven.
    You told me that you found her body hanging in the garage, your 2nd grade self portrait glued to her hand by rigor mortis. You told me about how you pried her cold fingers open to save what little was left of you, what wasn’t already crumpled.
    I didn’t know what to say. You laughed and kissed me.
    Two weeks later you left me.
    I woke up to a note. It was a drawing, crude and jerky, the paper worn as if from years of suffering.

    “You can’t fall in love with me.
    I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me.
    You’ll understand in due,

    I held your 2nd grade portrait to my chest and choked back tears as I felt your grubby little fingers prying mine open, taking my heart without so much as a second glance.

  18. zevonesque says:

    The Special One
    A.J. Walker

    I kind of admired Colin sometimes. But mostly I was jealous. All the attention was on him. I was ignored. The older brother could look after himself. I heard them say that.

    Then I saw a programme about kids with head problems. They seemed normal to me. Special kids they said. I was special. Though no one knew.

    I came up with the idea by myself. Because I’m special.

    I drew a paper boy. Not one that delivers papers. Just a boy on paper.

    I used Colin’s crayons. I made the shoes red like Colin’s favourite trainers. I wanted some like that but dad wouldn’t get me them. Anyway I drew my paper boy like a scary adult but as a boy with a big fat head. I put a scar on his fat head and didn’t draw any hair. Like my dad when he was young. He used to be a skinny head. I don’t know how his head could have been smaller though. That’s weird.

    Anyway, I drew a skinny head boy with a scar, red trainers and razor teeth. For tearing live animals into bits. And maybe even parents too. They were brilliant.

    And I drew skulls on the T-shirt. Except they weren’t really on the T-shirt, they were in Colin’s belly. Did I say it was Colin? Anyway it was. And he’d eaten young babies and their pets and you could see the bones through his X-ray T-shirt.

    Then the clever part was I put the picture under his bed. And then mum found it. My parent’s were worried. They talking quietly for days about it.

    Then they talked to Colin. He said it wasn’t his. That he didn’t know how it had got under his bed.

    Then he got treated differently. He went quieter. Special doctors came to talk to him. Then some social people. I don’t know what that meant. But he was taken away so they must have bought him from mum and dad.

    They go and visit him sometimes. I won’t go.

    I’m the special one again. Dad bought me red trainers.

    One day I’ll get razor teeth.

    (360 words)

  19. voimaoy says:

    The tone of this gets increasingly scary. And the final line…wow!

  20. […] Written for Flash Frenzy Round 77: […]

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