tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297434062011-12-14T18:58:32.597-08:00Flash Fiction, Non-fiction, and Drama with a Minnesotan Theme <br><a href="http://mnflasher.blogspot.com/2006/06/mission.html">Mission</a> <br><a href="http://mnflasher.blogspot.com/2006/06/looking-for-few-good-flashers.html">Join Us</a> <br><a href="http://mnflasherindex.blogspot.com/2006/06/flash-archives.html">Archives</a>Midgetnoreply@blogger.comBlogger641100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-46085508039020441322007-08-18T07:07:00.001-07:002007-08-20T05:18:16.813-07:00

I knew I was getting too old for the scene when I complained of the entire show being an underage event. No 21+ balcony, no bar scene for the adults, no place to lounge and enjoy a beer while watching the music and the kids go crazy.I used to be one of those kids. Sixteen, seventeen, twenty years old, and full of aggression. Full of rage, of anger, of passion for life, maybe just passion for

Sal Rileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04374837140799794432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-32164648068673821122007-08-16T08:05:00.000-07:002007-08-16T08:09:10.785-07:00

Mists spread across the arena, braced by steel scaffolding and safety ropes. Catapulting through the haze: performers with blue sequined eyes and clothing vacuum-sealed against their bodies. Complex lighting arrangements hang like egg-sacs from the ceiling; big brained things that swivel and glare across the expanse. Beyond that, in the shadows: the four of us. We see action and, like spiders,

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-9031852722450641702007-07-25T22:19:00.000-07:002007-07-25T22:28:02.540-07:00

It’s a horrible thing to wake up tired, to attempt to rationalize an extra three minutes of rest, and the first thoughts of the day to be along the lines of “how long until I can get some real sleep?” That was this morning, that is every morning of mine during tax season. That was eighteen hours ago, I’ve finally made it into my driveway, minutes away from bed. My mood would border on ecstatic,

Sal Rileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04374837140799794432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-75002302026123338062007-07-17T13:56:00.000-07:002007-07-17T14:01:17.691-07:00

I liked being an anonymous pregnant woman in public. However much I suffered from loneliness and fear in my own world, when I stepped out into the street, I was just a pregnant woman like any other you might find in a magazine. Being pregnant made me feel invincible, powerful; like a protected species.There was a game I liked to play when I went on walks. Head up, I looked neither left nor right.

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-22680618743983116892007-05-30T23:33:00.000-07:002007-05-30T23:36:40.064-07:00

I am drinking a bottle of beer. The label on it reads, “Always Enjoy Responsibly,” with the first letter of each word capitalized. I’m slightly over the edge of tipsy and it’s reading true to me, now. Each word is capitalized for a reason.Always. That means: be consistent. That means: there’s a life history there that needs to be accounted for. That means: you know you always go overboard with

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-24155187563724578972007-04-30T11:31:00.000-07:002007-05-02T11:41:33.568-07:00

Waiting. I think of my life now as waiting for something to happen. Waiting for some opportunity to come along. I feel very much like I am passing the time, waiting for something important. When I was little, I spent a lot of time waiting. We didn’t have a car and my mother would coordinate these complicated bus passages around town, sometimes with one or two hours wait between transfers to some

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-45169967890557343162007-04-17T10:34:00.000-07:002007-04-17T10:38:35.650-07:00

Three little girls and a youngish mother are standing in the sandbox at the playground. Jane (5) and her mother are well dressed. Lulu (7) and Betsy (5) are sisters, dressed in clothes that are slightly too small and somewhat out of style.Mama: Come on! Don’t you want to make another sandcastle?Jane: I have an idea! I’m gonna bury you, Mama.Mama: Bury me? Oh noooooo! Don’t bury me!Lulu: Can we

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-2106495261006510672007-04-14T14:32:00.001-07:002007-04-14T14:32:42.517-07:00

I’m going to tell you a story, 99% of it true, and the other one percent isn’t necessarily a lie. The other one percent is more of a disclaimer. You see, I didn’t realize that the story was actually a story worth repeating until after it happened. Had I been cognizant of the fact that I was in the midst of a story that I would be retelling, well, things would have been different, I might have

Sal Rileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04374837140799794432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-37815195660442833832007-03-25T22:11:00.000-07:002007-03-25T22:12:39.739-07:00

Evelyn had squeezed herself into a little box. It was more like a cattle chute, actually. Nobody was there to prod her onwards except herself and an imaginary clock that told her she had to keep going. She didn’t know where the chute led, and the light flashing off the metal siding distracted her so that she mostly forgot what was behind. But the feeling of the metal shifting beneath her feet,

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-55375385253849172812007-03-21T06:05:00.000-07:002007-03-21T19:01:06.881-07:00

“One last thing folks, real quick. I want to you to complete a simple exercise with me here. I want everyone to close their eyes, go ahead, close them. Now I want you to visualize yourself five years from today. Where are you working? Where are you living? Who else do you see in your life? What do you do in your free time? Are you happy, are you successful? Open your eyes.” The face looked up at

Sal Rileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04374837140799794432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-63651115146613920392007-03-12T23:00:00.000-07:002007-03-12T23:01:15.891-07:00

I had broken the spell of the man’s obession with my shadow. Travis stood now, crestfallen, against the brick and mortar tavern. A flourescent Budweiser light flickered behind the darkened glass at his shoulder.“Susan,” he muttered, “Susan Whist.”“We’ve all got our dark sides. I’m no different from anyone else,” I said.The chocolate brown t-shirt he wore would have blended with his skin had it

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-89475040379078135912007-02-27T21:08:00.000-08:002007-02-27T21:15:19.814-08:00

“I’m so tired, so tired,” I say and think to myself that I would like to sink back into my dream, even though it made me sad. I remember dread and that something or someone horrible was about to turn the corner into my room. Something is still happening in my dream and I am going to miss it.“I have to go potty,” she howls, her face scrunched in irritation, “I have to go potty now!” Margot has an

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1172517080885988772007-02-26T11:09:00.000-08:002007-02-26T11:11:20.896-08:00

The day she graduated from college, he text messaged her. Standing on a wooden bench to see above the crowd of parents and students, she tore off her awkward cap and pulled at her stubborn polyester gown. She was looking for someone, anyone really to hug like all the others. But she only saw the shiny smiles of strangers. She didn’t want to look lonely high upon that bench, so she pulled out

Lennon Sundancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16324661403729615822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1171921756015139602007-02-19T13:44:00.000-08:002007-02-19T13:49:16.026-08:00

“What you need to do is squirt some of this fox urine onto a piece of cardboard. That’ll get the squirrels outa there fast.”This is what the guy at the camping store tells me. His name is John.“It beats using a squirrel cage,” he adds, handing me the package. “You gotta use their own instincts against them.”I read the directions on the back:Spray ten to fifteen drops of authentic fox urine onto

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1170884410590554202007-02-07T13:37:00.000-08:002007-02-07T13:40:10.606-08:00

“My princess,” Gerry says with a dramatic sweep of his hand, “Your throne awaits.” Sheila sits on the toilet, the palms of her hands rubbing against her pants, trying to get the sweat off. It was an honor to be in his bathroom, sitting on her make shift throne, watching him perform his ritual. This moment was hard for the both of them. Each had made sacrifices, pushing through their fears and

Lennon Sundancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16324661403729615822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1170175948247807572007-01-30T08:50:00.000-08:002007-01-30T08:52:28.263-08:00

I used to embrace my hangovers. I used to wear my bloodshot eyes as badges of honor, a reminder of how hard I had partied the night before, how far I was willing to push myself. I used to enjoy my next day on the couch, or the bed, or the bathroom floor, foolishly thinking that it was the price to be paid for having a good time. I used to honestly believe that the pain was necessary, the guilt

Sal Rileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04374837140799794432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1169992441266102762007-01-28T05:52:00.000-08:002007-01-28T05:54:01.276-08:00

They’re messing around in her car, with the passenger seat all the way down. The engine is turned off and they stay warm from the steam that’s rising off their bodies and coating the windows with an opaque screen. There are people coming out from the bar, smoking cigarettes and shuddering in the cold. They notice movement in the car, but avert their eyes.“We can’t make it another late night again

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1169414764502272262007-01-21T13:22:00.000-08:002007-01-21T13:26:04.520-08:00

Tell me my son, why are you here?Girl troubles Father, girl troubles.So tell me my son, what are your troubles?Fuck me Father, where do I start.Well my son, you said you had girl problems, what are the roots of yours problems?Troubles Father, I have Troubles, that’s a different story than problems.You’re right my son, tell me of your troubles.I’ll tell them to you Father, let’s sort this out

Sal Rileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04374837140799794432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1168183611287162842007-01-07T07:25:00.000-08:002007-01-07T07:26:52.010-08:00

Eric and Liv have snuck outside to enjoy a smoke break. Christmas lights adorn the roof of their parents’ house and the wholesome sound of music and laughter can be heard inside. Eric is in his late forties. His sister Liv is in her early forties. Eric: Want to try a menthol? I roll my own now.Liv: Sure. I used to smoke Salems.Eric: Me too.Liv: I know. I used to steal yours when we were kids.Eric

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1168124088040383272007-01-06T14:44:00.000-08:002007-01-06T14:54:48.053-08:00

I make the superintendent open the door on Christmas. Derek has been missing for several days, neglecting to show up at parties with shrimp cocktail and artichoke dip. He missed the kid’s holiday concert. I just plainly missed him.Last Monday was the last time I saw him. We ate cheap ice cream in his new apartment. He only had one bowl and two spoons. He scooped the fluffy pink and green

Lennon Sundancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16324661403729615822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1166917743403869682006-12-23T15:47:00.000-08:002006-12-23T15:58:37.220-08:00

“Come on! You’re not handing them to me fast enough,” Joey says. Under his breath I can faintly hear a string of muffled swear words. We are putting up the fake tree with the sparse spears of tinsel. We stick each thin branch onto the plastic trunk. It looks anorexic and patchy, like all of its hair had fallen out during chemo. We awkwardly string up lights to fill in the gaps. Fuck, Nye” he

Lennon Sundancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16324661403729615822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1166208716288460502006-12-15T10:50:00.000-08:002006-12-15T10:51:56.303-08:00

I printed off the proof of our correspondence on copper tinted parchment paper. I was making a book documenting the affair Kris and I had last spring. The pages stacked up quickly, eating all of the blackened ink in my printer. Page after page of desperate emails whose poetic, grandiose words clung to one another. I photocopied all of her poems and notes and lists she wrote in her stick figure

Lennon Sundancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16324661403729615822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1165854555320446902006-12-11T08:27:00.000-08:002006-12-11T08:29:15.333-08:00

Two women in their 30s are walking through the halls of elementary school. Susan is the parent volunteer hosting the tour, which is just now concluding. Pamela is a mother on the tour. Susan: Did you have any other questions?Pamela: I don’t think so. Thanks for taking the time to tell us about the school.Susan: Actually, I’d like to just talk to you a second, because our girls would be going into

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1165787581537276862006-12-10T13:47:00.001-08:002006-12-10T13:53:01.540-08:00

I’m jacked on espresso shots listening to the same song over and over again. It has been making me cry for over a week now. But the repeat button has been firmly pressed down by my heavy fingers. I’m thinking about putting masking tape over it. My hand is tired of holding it down. I’m tired. I’ve been hunching again in that depressed way. My body is advertising to the world my dissatisfaction

Lennon Sundancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16324661403729615822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1165445010814835952006-12-06T14:38:00.000-08:002006-12-06T14:43:30.830-08:00

Two mothers are waiting in the hallway to pick their kids up at pre-school.Karen: I wanted to talk to you about the kids’ shareformance next week. I was talking to Megan and, since our three are going to be the three Billy goats, we were thinking of trying to coordinate costumes.Margaret: Yeah?Karen: Well, what we were thinking is that we didn’t want it to end up that, you know, that the kids

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1164813491542508032006-11-29T07:15:00.000-08:002006-11-29T07:18:11.556-08:00

About three months ago, a friend of mine threw a party at her house. Although I usually don’t like to go to these kinds of things, I went out of a sense of obligation, determined to stay for at least a beer and a courtesy chat. It was one of those awkward kinds of gatherings, where the host worries whether enough people will show to make it “an event,” where those in attendance cling desperately

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1164343617633584362006-11-23T20:44:00.000-08:002006-11-23T20:46:57.646-08:00

I went to the hospital today to visit my Dad. I’m not exactly sure why I went, what that movement was motivated by. In part, curiosity, in part obligation. Perhaps more than a little desire to see him prone in bed or weak or to see some sort of imagined deathbed confessional. Perhaps a little out of the desire to see how my stepmother, Trish, would be in that situation. In any case, I went down

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1163547877089539102006-11-14T15:32:00.000-08:002006-11-15T14:32:26.880-08:00

A gentle knock at the door interrupted the comfortable stillness of my uptown studio. I wasn’t expecting visitors, though my visitors rarely announced their intended arrival. I gave it a moment; I was in no mood to deal with another aspiring novelist or disgruntled student from my writing classes at the city college. I had my own problems. The knock came again, this time more persistent. There

Sal Rileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04374837140799794432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1162252339273263872006-10-30T15:49:00.000-08:002006-10-30T15:57:36.770-08:00

When I was younger, I used to drop acid because I enjoyed the fruity bursts of reflection that would bombard my consciousness as if they were so many cherry bombs in the hands of idle schoolboys. As an exercise, I tried to keep notes on cigarette foils and the backs of notebooks, but thoughts flooded past me like the rush of interplanetary travel and I never could keep up. At peak time, I could

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1161990545049476052006-10-27T16:08:00.000-07:002006-10-27T16:09:05.066-07:00

What I’m Talking About Can you just shut the fuck up for once? I'm trying to tell you, I had a hard day. I lost my job. They had been wanting an excuse – looking at me eyes all narrowed, frowning – but I kept on my toes, didn’t give them one. Then today a couple boxes of maple syrup came in on a truck. One had busted open on the way. Sticky brown shit all over. The trucks sit in the sun all day

Natehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00580941870940832650noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1161989724686327232006-10-27T15:54:00.000-07:002006-10-27T15:55:24.690-07:00

Pageant I’m standing on the stage under the hot sun, surrounded by others dressed like me in our Sunday best - pressed pants, white shirts, white dresses - and chains of flowers around our heads, around our necks. My back is sweating slightly, I can feel the drops standing out on my skin. My stomach is fluttering with nerves, I swallow hard to try and calm it and keep my breakfast down. Today

Natehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00580941870940832650noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1161989581551744882006-10-27T15:51:00.000-07:002006-10-27T15:53:01.566-07:00

Reconnecting We were sitting around playing video games, drinking beers. Elena was bouncing around like a seven year old on crack, which she was. Except for the crack part. It was my fault she was all wound up. I'd been giving her airplane ride for a while, laying on my back with my feet on her stomach. I'd put my feet up in the air and hold her hands. I'd sway this way and that way, say things

Natehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00580941870940832650noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1161540757904722582006-10-22T11:11:00.000-07:002006-10-22T11:12:37.916-07:00

I ask mom to send me Oxycontins through the mail when I get my nose done. I’m afraid to ask the doctors for too much pain meds. Afraid they’ll think I am some sort of addict. But I really hate pain. I am a total wimp about it.For a month now, all I can think about is that crazy doc in his sterile lab coats. I think he has a big mustache like a push broom, all stiff and wiry and brown. I pray

Lennon Sundancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16324661403729615822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1161187477549808332006-10-18T09:03:00.001-07:002006-10-18T18:12:10.273-07:00

This overnight shift is killing me. Slowly, at an almost imperceptible pace, my mind is eroding and my back is breaking. Fourteen hours on the line, seven days a week for nineteen straight days. My fingers are worn to the bone from the assembly line, and I've grown hard to the touch of those I used to love. My eyes are bloodshot from endless hours of florescent lighting and lack of sleep. My

Sal Rileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04374837140799794432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1161144474099741342006-10-17T20:52:00.000-07:002006-10-17T21:07:54.110-07:00

Although I was not technically covered by insurance, when I was about five months along, Rick was able to hook me up with an obstetrician at the woman’s prison, some miles down the road from where he worked. They weighed me and prodded at me and pushed down so hard on my stomach that for a second I worried that the pressure would squeeze Emily right out of me. Then they put on these rubber gloves

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1161010251106795642006-10-16T07:48:00.000-07:002006-10-16T07:50:51.126-07:00

Karli had been aborting his child for months. It was the result of T shaped surgical steel wrapped in copper like a piece of jewelry found at yuppie art fairs. The IUD prevented carrying a fetus, but not getting pregnant. An abortion once a month. Andy spent the weekend playing a video game. It had a fleet of cartoon army men– like the dime store, plastic kind she used to have as a kid. The

Lennon Sundancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16324661403729615822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1159649698464233772006-09-30T13:25:00.000-07:002006-09-30T13:54:58.476-07:00

Something stirred in the air. Electrons bumbed into each other with a lack of grace you would find at an over-crowded party. Colors changed, sounds livened or deadened based on their relative importance. There was a click.*********************************************************************In the end you can always pipoint the exact moment that something happened, or changed, you can make it a

Jason Krugerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11790871771380575507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1159632305000549742006-09-30T09:00:00.000-07:002006-09-30T09:05:05.010-07:00

I named my daughter after my dead grandmother. It bothered people, because it hadn’t been so long since she died and it made people feel uncomfortable to say her name like that, so soon after she died. This morning I picked up an old friend of hers who needed a ride to the store. Mrs. Solberg’s a proper lady, with a heavy European accent. She’s eighty years old and wears a corset. She dyes her

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1159411267202979422006-09-27T19:40:00.000-07:002006-09-27T19:59:11.710-07:00

It is the picture of the bride and groom in black and white that holds Juliet’s attention. She stares at it in the art museum, her eyes wandering over the scene again and again. She chooses it over the pictures of the Tattooed Lady, the Human Pincushion, the shirtless midget smoking in his bed with a half bottle of brandy on the bed stand. The groom in his wool suit presses the bride in her

Lennon Sundancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16324661403729615822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1159374546291320882006-09-27T09:25:00.000-07:002006-09-28T15:22:50.810-07:00

"Don't you want anything out of life?"Out of life? What was she talking about? Why this, why now?"I want Cosetta's for breakfast. I want a giant slice of pepperoni and one of those chocolate milk things, I think they're Nesquik, but I suppose any chocolate milk would do."The look she shot across the double bed was exaggerated, designed to make sure I understood this conversation was of greater

Sal Rileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04374837140799794432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1158762860979315452006-09-20T07:31:00.000-07:002006-09-20T07:34:20.993-07:00

Let me start this story by telling you precisely why Marsha was disappointed. If I simply stated the plain facts as they were born, you might come to the rather straightforward conclusion that she was jealous. Indeed, most people find themselves in such a position when confronted with infidelity; most people writhe in pain when the face of betrayal plants itself within their notice. Most people

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1158710922927715032006-09-19T16:36:00.000-07:002006-09-20T07:40:15.560-07:00

I look like a cheesy stereotypical ghost, and I feel like I'm half way there. Plaster dust permeates the air like cigarette smoke used to before the populous decided bars should be a healthier environment. All I can think about is how tired I am, and how much money I am making helping this commercial painter I am currently working with. I check the clock periodically wondering if this job will

Jason Krugerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11790871771380575507noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1157760552166410782006-09-08T16:58:00.000-07:002006-09-08T17:09:12.226-07:00

This story is lovingly dedicated to a typographical error appearing near the end of the story I posted before the story I posted before this one. Dining Out It was our anniversary and David was being a jackass. We had been seeing the marriage counselor for a while, trying to make it work. Since it was our anniversary we decided to do something special. The counselor suggested we try

Natehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00580941870940832650noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1157749506815883252006-09-08T14:04:00.000-07:002006-09-08T14:05:06.836-07:00

She comes to the coffee shop to flirt. She comes to see and be seen, all indirect and discrete. Twenty laptops for eighteen people aged nineteen to twenty eight, and the other two look a lot like grandparents. Count those two out, they’re not part of the game. Thirty six eyes pretend to be working, pretend to be deeply engrossed in their classes, their presentations, their excel sheets, their

Sal Rileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04374837140799794432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1157553230391434022006-09-06T07:30:00.000-07:002006-09-06T07:33:50.406-07:00

She finds Frankie’s dirty, white socks balled up near the bathtub that drips rust tinted water. Claire knows she’s getting laid by the number of white socks she discovers around the house. All the men she knows wear white socks – Dean, Shane, Billy, and now Frankie. The more time Claire spends with a man trapped beneath the weight of her ratty quilt, the more linty, strips of cotton she

Lennon Sundancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16324661403729615822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1157056221064371992006-08-31T13:23:00.000-07:002006-08-31T13:30:21.070-07:00

Dick and Jane He had just been through a bad break up. She was in the middle of one. They met at a party held by a mutual friend. They talked only a little that night and promptly forgot about each other. A week later they were in the same bar. He had originally admired the swell of her breasts under her sweater, and drunkenly told her so. She blushed and laughed out an embarassed thank you. He

Natehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00580941870940832650noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1157055771789436202006-08-31T13:16:00.000-07:002006-08-31T13:22:51.866-07:00

X Marks The Spot I was scrabbling around in the high weeds at the edge of the vacant lot. The brutal Saturday summer sun beat down remorselessly on the back of my neck. I parted the tall brown-green grass, running my fingers down the blade to the ground, where I stirred the surface of the dirt, brushing away gravel and broken glass. A little girl in blue denim overalls stopped on the

Natehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00580941870940832650noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1156479415748226802006-08-24T20:52:00.000-07:002006-08-24T21:16:55.840-07:00

Tom, in his mid forties, is scruffy looking in a t-shirt and jeans. Tom would be described as “a little slow. He’s wearing sunglasses and listening to music on his headphones. There’s a bottle of water at his feet and he’s holding a cardboard sign that reads: Homeless, Please HELP! I lost my job and fell behind on mortgage payments. Please help me.Annette is a well-kempt woman in her thirties or

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1155633003202804432006-08-15T02:08:00.000-07:002006-08-15T02:10:03.220-07:00

Uhhhhhh. Fuck.Consciousness again. I was more than happy, closer to ecstatic in my previous state of dreamless sleep induced by a night of strong, cheap gin. Lots of gin. Maybe some port wine? Things got a little hazy there towards the end, I remember leaving Nye's with that cute little brunette art student…Sara? Suzanne? Samantha?Not important. My head hurts. And fuck, my legs are sore. For

Sal Rileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04374837140799794432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1155196890316777082006-08-10T00:44:00.000-07:002006-08-10T01:04:08.466-07:00

The scene opens with Beth (late thirties – early forties) sitting on top of John (in his thirties), a gun to his head. John is conscious, but has been pacified and is lying face down on the floor. Joan (in her early to mid thirties) is on stand-by, ready to come to Beth’s assistance. It’s 3 a.m. They are in the living room in a one-bedroom apartment on the 3100 Block of Lyndale Ave. S.,

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1154495869231586312006-08-01T22:14:00.000-07:002006-08-01T22:17:49.240-07:00

1. Suddenly we’re playing with a whole cast of imaginary characters, running around in our pajamas, and smearing flour paste all over our bodies. She works at slowly unhinging me, bringing me from premise to premise until I’m totally turned about and unsure of what kinds of boundaries we’re working with.When Harold comes home from work, I can feel him do a visual scan of the apartment. He wonders

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1153927860758085922006-07-26T08:29:00.000-07:002006-07-26T08:31:00.770-07:00

The Percussionist is sleeping in the shape of the letter that bares his name—arms crossed like an X before the drummer kicks off the concert. El Rio de Colorado is the current that leads him home. It is the branch of water left in the sliver of earth, a tear among the red rocks, language floating over the badlands, limp and particular to its light. It is where the mute meets his landscape with an

Michael Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05903710349826640188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1153674075736302152006-07-23T10:00:00.000-07:002006-07-23T14:07:26.270-07:00

He sits on the toilet and begs her not to leave. “Don’t go! Please…” Danny’s voice trails off as he leans forward, jeans pooling around his ankles, skinny legs exposed. His face is flushed and damp, his eyes are pleading, but he is harmless and vulnerable in this position. She can walk out the door. Hillary doesn’t know when walking out the door became so easy for her, when she became able to

Lennon Sundancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16324661403729615822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1152740713624136822006-07-12T14:39:00.000-07:002006-07-13T00:29:46.846-07:00

“My earring,” she said, leaning forward into the rectangular slot of earth before us. The old woman straightened out with some difficulty and the wrinkles in her face deepened with the effort. The soil was dry and our trowels made a grating noise as we scraped an outcropping of stone. Her skin was dry too, despite the blazing afternoon sun above us.“So, you are…were an archaeologist then?” I

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1152670386271693522006-07-11T19:09:00.000-07:002006-07-11T19:42:42.206-07:00

"And we're off like a herd of turtles!" My grandpa said that every morning he drove me to school. Every time he drove me anywhere, in his big red car with the battered canvas top. The ceiling inside was falling apart. The cloth skin of the ceiling had come off some time ago, leaving exposed dry foam rubber type stuff underneath. I used to dig my fingers into it, carving my name and smiley faces

Natehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00580941870940832650noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1152206908352876552006-07-06T10:23:00.000-07:002006-07-06T10:28:28.366-07:00

I got home after ten. The door was locked. I knocked and Mom answered, holding a bag of ice to a swollen lip."Sorry - I forgot my house keys.""We were up anyway. I was just getting Ricky some ice cream, you want some?""No," I said, "we had ice cream in the cafeteria at intermission."Mom dished up a bowl of vanilla from the five gallon tub. Ricky sat at the table with his head in his hands. Mom

Natehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00580941870940832650noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1152167412918251762006-07-05T23:27:00.000-07:002006-07-05T23:36:42.586-07:00

Derek hands her a cup of coffee on the corner of University and 4th. “Happy Birthday…it’s all I could afford,” he says as he kicks a chunk of broken sidewalk. His hands are bloated and shaking more than usual. “But I made you this,” he says as he point to a hunk of cardboard pushed up against the wheel of his bicycle. It’s a rectangle scrap smeared in oil crayons. It looks like a doomsday

Lennon Sundancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16324661403729615822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1152034008551133162006-07-04T10:25:00.000-07:002006-07-04T10:26:48.563-07:00

Hector Alarcon squinted at the students in Mr. Piper’s sixth grade class as he was introduced as the new kid in school. ‘ “Who do you know here?” Mr. Piper asked because Hector’s squinting reminded him of someone who was lost or unsure of their surroundings. “Uh…uh…no one sir.” And the homies,, tough guys in Jordans and hair, slick as lightning, laughed even louder than the

Michael Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05903710349826640188noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1151556603756527522006-06-28T21:47:00.000-07:002006-06-28T21:53:18.373-07:00

A large woman tipped up the alleyway. She caught sight of us and quickened her step, “’Scuse me ma’am, is that your daughter? Ma’am? Is that your daughter?”I let go of Tracy’s hand and gestured that she should follow her father inside. The approaching woman struggled for breath as she rolled up the hill. “Ma’am, that your daughter?”She stood in front of me now. “Yes?” I asked. “Ohh.. maybe you

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1151163885836295502006-06-24T08:43:00.001-07:002006-06-24T08:47:00.763-07:00

“Oh baby, baby,” he shouts. “I want you so bad.” He leans out his car window, dragging deeply on a crumpled cigarette, pressing his fingers tightly near the filter, pinching the tobacco flat. I keep driving, looking forward. “I’m real good. I’ll make you feel so fucking good.” His lips are cracked, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead The traffic light turns red, and I’m stuck in tandem,

Lennon Sundancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16324661403729615822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1150784215070546642006-06-19T23:05:00.000-07:002006-06-19T23:16:55.083-07:00

I had the sensation of being stiff, of having a coffee headache that crackles its way into the spine, into the bone of the head. I could feel gritty residue of the cerebellum transmitting from its plump anus sandy grains of pain into the shoulders, to the muscles. It stung behind the eyes like a grim desert, sweeping in slow motion across the orbital spheres. I was a strip of meat, set out to dry

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1150607345248252412006-06-17T22:05:00.000-07:002006-06-17T22:09:05.263-07:00

The daytime is occupied by a yawning silence. This is when history opens its great maw and swallows me up in its expanse. Pigeons land on nearby houses, preoccupied by their own flights and concerns. Cars drive by; people locked into their own chambers, their own agendas. There are people in houses, in businesses, on telephones, concerning themselves with things that at night will be forgotten.

Midgetnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1150479405306287622006-06-16T10:00:00.000-07:002007-08-16T08:13:51.632-07:00

MN Flasher is looking to develop a team of bloggers committed to exploring the theme of Minnesota in flash form (including fiction, creative non-fiction, and plays). To keep the content of our site dynamic and interesting, bloggers must be able to contribute well-polished pieces on a regular basis. While pieces should reference some aspect of life in Minnesota, bloggers can be creative in

mnflasherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001271214676517468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29743406.post-1150354112458034582006-06-14T23:47:00.000-07:002006-06-28T21:54:25.403-07:00

MN Flasher is an online venue for flash writing with a Minnesotan theme. We are interested in capturing the sensory impressions of Minnesota; of growing up lakeside, crunching on snow, and watching the changing face of Minneapolis' Lake Street.MN Flasher serves as a creative complement to our sister site, MN Crawler, which aims to provide coverage of the diverse people who enrich the Minnesota

mnflasherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001271214676517468noreply@blogger.com0