I’ve been keeping up with the story writing so far this month. I took a break on Thursday, and only wrote a 55-word flash piece. You can see it on Austin Brigg’s site, along with a few others I’ve written.
I wrote four pieces yesterday to make up for my break on Thursday. I feel pretty ambivalent towards most of them, but following is the one that I still liked this morning. It’s from the Flash Fiction Project on Google+, and also partially inspired by a song by Tool called Aenima.
Looking out at the dark waves now, it’s hard to imagine how things used to be. Grandpa said this was desert, one of the hottest places on earth. That was before. There were a lot of things that were before. Grandpa shows me pictures sometimes, but they are hard to believe. I can’t make my brain believe in white clouds in a blue sky, or in a huge place they called the City of Angels. Grandpa was here when it happened though. He has the pictures. He tells the stories. It’s still exciting to him, in that terrible way that tragedies continue to be exciting. When he sees another old-timer, they always ask the same question.
“Where were you when it happened?”
Their eyes sparkle with the tears as they recount lives lost. They always talk about Disneyland. The Happiest Place on Earth, they say. I find it hard to believe, except that all the old-timers remember. They point out across the water and tell me about the ancient trees, and the big red bridge, and Hollywood. And their eyes glitter with the memories, like it was really something to behold. I stare out across the water and try to imagine it, but all I see is a lot of dirty water. I look at the sky and try to imagine it, but I see the same muddy air I’ve always seen. It’s the ashes, Grandpa says. They’re still there, up in the atmosphere. Everything was covered in ash, he says, even as far away as Europe and Australia. All the world was burning, he says.
But I don’t really believe him. How could the world burn when there’s so much water?
Thanks for reading!