Tag / life

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 21: Well-Wishers

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July.

It’s just gotten really hard to write lately. Too many life changes, too much stress, not enough self-care. It’s like the well’s gone empty.

Metaphorically. Because of the heads. I don’t take them out of the well.

I know it sounds gruesome, but hear me out. First of all, the heads are well-preserved and don’t harm the water quality at all. Second, some of them predict the future. Four of them, actually. One speaks in riddles, one forecasts the weather, one is actually helpful, and one is still mentally stuck in the 700s and can only make predictions up to the year 1500. But it’s the future for him.

The other three provide me with wisdom. Except for the one who only speaks in thought-terminating clichés. But whenever I bring that up she just says, “let people enjoy things.”

I guess there are a couple heads in there that I don’t need, but those are the heads of my enemies. They’ve earned an eternity of humiliation.

Actually, they’ve taught me a few creative swears. So they can stay, too.

Point is, one of the wisdom heads says that I need to take care of myself and not put too much pressure to write a story every day in July. Things are tough right now and it’s okay to relax take breaks when I can.

The thought-terminating cliché head says that “happiness is a choice.” Maybe I should get rid of that one.

My other future head says that horseshoes are going to be a big hit, so look forward to that.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 17: Trunk Stories

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. 

It started with a composition notebook, black and white splotches on the cover. Gradually, the lined pages filled up with words. Every time the writer closed its cover, it was hidden away: under the bed, in the pillow case, between the mattress and the box spring. The writer knew those words were fragile.

No, not the words. She was fragile, and those words were pieces of her. Their secrets being seen by anyone would be exposing herself to the world.

Time passed. More composition books were filled up. Stories, songs, poems. They remained hidden.

When it was time to leave home, the writer (though she feared anyone discovering that she was a writer), took them with her. First to a dorm room, then an apartment, then a house. Then another house, where a plastic crate of composition books were put in the attic.

More time passsed. The writer died. Soon, her son and granddaughter were cleaning out the house. The granddaughter found the crate.

“Grandma wrote all these?” The granddaughter’s dark eyes went wide.

“Wow,” the son said. “She told me that she wrote her first novel when she was sixteen. She never let me read it. Said it was terrible.”

The granddaughter put her hand on one of the dusty covers. “Grandma started when she was my age.”

“Mm-hmm.” He considered the crate, his daughter, and his mother. “Do you want to keep them?”

“Yeah!” The granddaughter smiled with tears in her eyes. She found the oldest notebook, its spine broken. Her grandmother’s writing filled the pages, and the granddaughter’s mind.

The son let his daughter alone with the books. They were not for him.

They were for his daughter, holding on to a piece of her grandmother that only she got to see.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 15: Unclean Break



Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. To be clear: this is not directed at anyone, it’s just something I’ve been reflecting on lately.

I just got tired.

The smallest thing inside me turned, and I couldn’t do it anymore. I wanted out.

If we were dating, it would be easier. I know the rules of a break-up. Someone leaves. You awkwardly return each other’s stuff. Maybe someone moves out. You avoid talking to each other. Maybe you’ll see each other again, years later, and exchange cordial but awkward words.

I wish it was that simple.

There’s no such thing as a clean break from a friendship.

I just reply to texts less, and then one day I realize either you’ve stopped texting, or I haven’t replied at all. We stop hanging out, just the two of us. Soon I only see you at “group hangs,” and then not at all.

I’m okay with this.

And it hurts that I’m okay with this.

I’ll never get the sweater I left at your house back. Or taste your mom’s extra-cheesy macaroni again. We won’t exchange books ever again, or stay up all night talking about everything and anything.

I have the good memories of you and I together, even though they hurt to look at now.

It’s not enough. They can’t replace you.

But someday, maybe we will see each other on the street and exchange our cordial but awkward words.

Maybe then we’ll fall back in sync, they way we used to be.

Until then, keep the sweater. It looked better on you anyway.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 2: English Hates Cats

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. More notes (and translations) at the end of the story

Two heads were worse than one, because only one head could look at the idiom dictionary at a time.

Alexei (the American “Alex” had yet to stick) flipped to the index and searched for “C.” “You told Derek we got Judith concert tickets for her birthday, and you wanted to tell him not to give away the secret.”

Alexei’s partner, Kolya, nodded. “Right. I told him, ‘don’t skin the cat out of the bag.’ And he just tried not to laugh.”

“Hm…” Alexei ran his finger down the index. “Kot…kot…”

The idiom dictionary had been one of the best gifts Kolya had given Alexei. Whenever Alexei thumbed through its pages, he looked like a man solving a mystery. His eyes were bright, and there was a small, satisfied smile on his lips when he finally cracked it open.

Kolya liked seeing him like this. Alexei’s first love had been words. Like most children, Alexei and Nikolai had grown up reading fairytales and Soviet propaganda. But soon, they were sharing samizdat works—illegal poetry, dissident pamphlets, the entirety of The Gulag Archipelago painstakingly typed on onionskin paper.

The trouble with Alexei was that he could never bring himself to burn the novels once he was done with them. He hid them in a hollow behind his bathroom mirror, but the secret police had found them anyway. Alexei had been arrested on the spot; Nikolai was already in questioning.

A chill ran over Kolya as the memories came back to him. The beatings, the imprisonment, however temporary…but he tightened his jaw and turned his focus back to Alexei.

“It’s ‘let the cat out of the bag’ and ‘skin the cat.’ ‘Let the cat out of the bag’ is to tell a secret. And ‘skin the cat’ is…zhdat’…”

“Why is this language so mean to cats?” Kolya asked.

Alexei chuckled. “English is a beast. Vot gde sabaka zaryta.”

“I izhu panyatna,” Nikolai replied with a nod.

“P’erviy bl’in vsigda komam.” Alexei shrugged and went back to the book.

What had happened to Kolya was nothing compared with what Alexei had been through. When they were finally reunited after two long, bitter years apart, the man Kolya had fallen in love with had nearly disappeared. He was broken in mind and body, half-dead when they finally, finally escaped to America.

Healing took time. Alexei was not fully himself again. Kolya knew he probably never would be. But on their first anniversary of coming to the United States, Alexei had started writing again. Nothing important at first, just lists of words to help him practice English.

But he kept writing, and kept writing. English was a labyrinth that Alexei explored with fascination. But there were no minotaurs at its center, only truth. Only words.

“Ah! ‘Skin the cat’ is to take off clothes, or ‘there’s more than one way to skin a cat’ means there’s many ways to do something.” Alexei snapped the dictionary shut, a satisfied smile on his face.

“English is cruel.”

“In many ways, yes. But remember Gogol’s overcoat? Lined with cat.”

Of course Alexei would remember such a small detail from the famous story. Seeing his partner smiling, talking about literature, Kolya saw the person he’d fallen in love with, the one who remained beyond the pain, beyond the nightmares, beyond all the bad days he’d survived.

“You came out from under Gogol’s overcoat,” Nikolai remarked, and reached for Alexei’s hand.

Alexei pressed a kiss to Kolya’s forehead. “Only because I had you to help pull me out.”

Let’s gooooo! First FFM Challenge: Malaphor Madness.

Use at least one malaphor (a combination of two idioms; also known as an idiom blend) in your story!

Mine is “don’t skin the cat out of the bag.”

A little background on these two: I started writing about Alexei and Nikolai/Kolya a couple years ago, when my PTSD symptoms were really bad. At first it was just a lot of painful stories, but as things got better, I started seeing that there might be something in that glut of writing that might be worth working on and even sharing. I didn’t plan on using these characters for FFM, since they come from such a tender place in me (with both meanings of the word), but I thought two English language learners were perfect for this challenge. And then I threw in some Russian idioms just for fun. I don’t know enough about the language to to a malaphor with them, but even a hedgehog understands that’s where the dog is buried.

Alexei references the famous short story, “The Overcoat” by Nikolai Gogol. Kolya references the quote attributed to Fyodor Dostoevsky, “We all came out of Gogol’s ‘Overcoat.” which speaks to how Gogol’s work influenced some of Russia’s most famous writers.

Kot – cat
Samizdat – literally “self-publishing,” the practice of making and distributing censored literature in the U.S.S.R.
Zhdat’ – wait
Vot gde sabaka zaryta. – literally “that’s where the dog is buried”; to get to the root of a problem
I izhu panyatna – literally “even a hedgehog understands”; something is easy to understand
P’erviy bl’in vsigda komam – literally “The first pancake [blini] is always a blob”; practice makes perfect

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 31: Defiance

Without in any way limiting the author’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. This story is a companion piece to FFM 5: Guardian of the Gate. More notes at the end of the story.

This is also the last day of FFM! All my stories will be up through the month of August, after which some of them will be taken down. I also won’t have any posts in August, as I’ll be hibernating. Thank you for reading!

Rage. My rage is so loud it drowns out my sorrow. Screams and sobs become one noise, the sound of pure grief, spilling out of my tortured throat. I would tear down the world, wrestle Thanatos to the ground, spit in Hades’s face. I would defy the gods and return my family to my side. Grief is a weapon more powerful than death, and I am a sharpened blade. 

I cannot defy the gods. Every man has faced grief, and no man has brought the dead back to walk in the sun again. Even attempting to bring my wife and child back to the world of the living is unnatural. We are born, we live, we die. Should I try to break this most unbreakable law, what I have left of my life will be mired in torment. 

What I have left is a hut along the river that took my family from me. I have nothing. Nothing that matters without them. Food has no taste. Nothing brings me joy. My bed is empty; my life is empty. If I defy Hades, I cannot win. I know this. But without my family, I have no reason to continue living. For their sakes, I will defy death itself.

WE’RE DOOOOOOOOONE.

This was the final challenge of FFM. I didn’t follow it to the letter (please don’t eat me mighty Hydra), but it was to write an inversion of your last story. Instead of doing that, I wrote an inversion of my Cerberus story, this time from the point of view of the guy trapped under Cerberus’s foot. I wasn’t happy with my 369er, since every paragraph should be a story in itself, and that wasn’t the case of the Cerberus story. So I tried it here, while still trying to do the id-superego-ego combo.

And now I’m going to sleep for a month. Wake me up when September starts.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 30: Keyboard Gremlins and Drunk Snails

“Annnnd done!” I posted my final story for the month, copy-pasted links on the appropriate pages, and let out a happy sigh. I started to close my laptop, but a keyboard gremlin crawled out from between the keys. 

“Wait, wait! You can’t be done yet!” He tapped his clawed foot and crossed his spindly arms, annoyed. 

“But I am done. Thirty-one days, thirty-one stories, and now I need a nap and a cookie. Lots of cookies,” I told him. 

“But you haven’t bared your soul through fiction!” He protested. He reached down into the crevasse between H and J and pulled out a chart. “July 2022: first year of Flash Fiction, started because your cat died and you were having a hard time writing anything.” 

“Hey…why’d you have to bring that up?” I frowned. 

“July 2023,” the gremlin continued. “Flash fiction month became an important distraction as you learned to deal with a recently diagnosed medical condition.” 

“Dude…” I hid my face in my hands. “I’m fine now.”

“And finally, July 2024, with some newly minted PT–“

“Don’t say it,” I snapped. 

“Learning how to write again after the world exploded. You really put a lot on the page there. So, what’s going on for this year?” He flipped to the next page on the chart. “Two young, healthy cats, your own health is pretty good, and your mental health is way, way, way better than it was this time last year.” 

I stared at him, utterly confused. “So what’s the problem?” 

He flicked his tail in annoyance. “The problem is that you haven’t bled nearly enough onto the page. Your stories are normal and aren’t about meltdowns or your most personal fears. Where’s the edge?” 

“Did it ever occur to you that since I’m doing well right now…that this is just for fun?” 

The gremlin’s mouth dropped open. 

I put my finger on his head, between his curly horns, and pushed him back into the keyboard. 

A snail sitting on my shoulder hiccuped. “Why’d you keep that guy around?”

“He eats the crumbs that get between the keys,” I told her. “Want to do margs and karaoke, Progress?” 

A slow smile came across her slimy face. “Always.”

This one’s a bit personal. At the end of FFM, I like to write a little reflection about how the month has gone for me. And since I’ve started doing FFM, it’s always seemed to come with some big life problem. But this year has been just…normal. I’m a million times better than I was at this time last year. Progress isn’t measurable in the way that a lot of things are. But comparing this FFM to last year’s, I can see how far I’ve come. It’s a good feeling.

I’m not 100% fixed. I may never be. But I’m doing really well. As some of you may remember from last year: Progress is a drunk snail. It moves slowly, and never in a straight line.

It’s okay to not be okay.

But you know what?

It’s okay to be okay too. 💜

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 23: Aging: Please Rate 1-5 Stars

Without in any way limiting the author’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. More notes are at the end of the story.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

I just turn 7 and i have almost all my grown up teeth and i am rsponsable enof for a pet hampster!! His nam is FLUFFY!!

⭐⭐⭐⭐

17 is pretty cool, I guess. I have the best friends in the ♥♥WORLD♥♥ and I’m getting out of this high school hell soon! My parents are always on my back about everything though. There’s SO much pressure: get good grades, get a date for prom, get a job, get into college. 🙄 I kinda hate what everyone calls the “real world.” But I’m almost out of this shithole for good!!

⭐⭐⭐

Well, here I am, a middle-management jackass. Honestly pretty embarrassed to look at my last review from 10 years ago. Because, old me, you’re not going to change the world, you’re not going to keep your friends (you still talk to one of them), and guess what? You move back to your hometown that you said you’d never go back to, you end up living with your parents for three years (who, it turns out, are actually reasonable people), and your asshole boyfriend cheats on you with your cousin. I wish I could warn you about these things. I wish I could tell you that the pressure doesn’t end, it just gets bigger: get a better job, go to grad school, get married, have kids. But you get better at handling it. You know who you are, and you’ve got confidence and a say in your life. And having control over your own money is pretty sweet. Last week I spent like $200 on Legos, and no one could tell me no. 

Your body really goes downhill after 25, though. Last week I blew my knee out playing pickleball. Watch out for that.

⭐⭐

Has it really been 20 years since I updated this?! Well, I’m fat now, with a bum knee and gray hair, three kids and a mortgage that I’ll never be able to finish paying. Life is expensive, I’m too busy doing everything to have any time for myself, and I’m just counting the days to retirement. 

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

This will probably be my last update, 30 years since my previous review. 87 isn’t bad at all. My joints ache all the time, and I forget things a lot. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be. Faces are a blur now, and I have to hold anything close to my face to see it. But my kids come to see me a lot, and my grandkids, and I’ve even got a great-granbaby on the way. I hope I get to meet her. It’s been quite a ride. Lots of ups and downs, but if I got the chance to do it all again and not change a thing, I would. Everything, from Fluffy’s terrible demise at the claws of Pepper, the broken hearts, the stress, the pain of losses that I thought I wouldn’t have the strength to bear has shaped me in so many ways. There is just as much joy and love and beauty in my life as there was ugliness and pain. This kaleidoscope that we call life is far from perfect, but it is utterly magnificent.

87 is a fine age to be. So is 57, and 27, and 17, and 7. 

Highly recommend.

This is another challenge for FFM: Five Stars, Baby!

Write a story in the style of an online review. Popular targets for online reviews include hotels, restaurants, movies, books, utensils… but why stop there? You can write up a social media comment or recipe note – the choice is yours! No matter what you choose, the narrator should be actively rating a product, service, cosmic power, etc., AND the entire story should be contained within the review itself.