#SwiftFicFriday – Week 134 Prompt

#SwiftFicFriday – Week 134 Prompt

Welcome to the new and improved flash fiction writing prompt series – #SwiftFicFriday!

I’ve changed the rules, so if you didn’t see my tweet, check them out!

The gist:

  • You have THREE DAYS (AM Friday-PM Sunday on the east coast) to submit your entry.
  • Include social media links/handles/anything you want to promote (Twitter, FB, etc) & word count in the comment with your submission.
  • Submission must be between 150-300 words.
  • All stories are property of the authors.
  • Winner will be determined via reader votes on Mondays.

Ready, set, write!

Prompt: This week, let’s play with emotion! Write a scene where the character is struggling against anxiety.

Happy writing!

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6 thoughts on “#SwiftFicFriday – Week 134 Prompt

  1. Is You Is…..?

    I hate it when this happens. There you are…there I am…deep sleeping, getting my 80,000 winks or whatever the required evening requirements are for someone my age, thinking, well not thinking at all. dreaming…or nightmareing, whatever it is, it is out of your control. My control. It’s just my brain processing, which I am thankful for…you know, that the old machine that sits atop my shoulders is still functioning.

    It can be worrisome, wondering if your thoughts are sound, based in reality.

    I mean, who really knows?

    I suppose you can get tested. Go to one of those sleep factories where they wire you up and study you.

    Not for me. I’m too private.

    Still, these things happen. Deep sleeping and suddenly this idea grabs me by the short hairs and won’t let go. This time, it was a stupid song…I don’t even think it’s a new one…old as the hills, to not coin a phrase…a classic, come to think of it…goes like this, over and over again like a vibrating street corner siren…IS YOU IS OR IS YOU AIN’T MY BABY?

    Over and over again…like a broken record…when we had records…which I guess we still do…the old becomes new…unless you’re me…I don’t think I’ll ever be new again.

    But there I am, tossing and turning…another song, right, but I’m stuck on IS YOU IS OR IS YOU AIN’T…

    I know what you’re thinking…am I going to wake her and start singing the song? I can see myself doing that very thing…but she’d probably wap me…she likes her sleep too and the last thing she needs is me interrupting that delightful pastime that I seem to have misplaced.

    Crikee, I’m humming it now…or am I dreaming that?

    Who the hell knows?

    294 words
    @billmelaterplea
    http://www.engleson.ca

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Zorro’s hand trembled reaching for the bag of chips under the fluorescent lighting. Why were there only three brands of chips? Shouldn’t there be more?

    Zorro might have thrown up if their racing heart wasn’t choking them. Fairies, spooks, and hauntings were all fine. Cool even. But not this. Not… Martin.

    Zorro took their armful of snacks to the counter. They already stocked up today. They didn’t need this. Shit. Did they need the money for something else?

    Zorro wobbled out to the van. Gavin was at the library. Alvina at city hall. Dalton and Myra were… Out there. This is what Zorro did. They provisioned. They weren’t here for the creepy stuff like the others.

    Zorro added the redundant snacks to the pile in the van. Breathe. Just breathe. They pushed through their throbbing tunnel vision and selected from their stash.

    Zorro rolled a blunt. Lit it. Hit. Hold. Exhale.

    Hit. Hold. Exhale.

    Zorro leaned their head back against the wall of the van. They should get back to the others. Those guys would figure this out. Everything was going to be okay.

    Breathe.

    185 Menagerie words
    @DavidALudwig

    Liked by 2 people

  3. I had to do something. Sitting down wasn’t going to fix the problem. Neither was sending someone on the internet a scream filled note.

    No. I had to do something.

    So I stood at the kitchen sink, with the dishwasher opened, and the dish-rack for what didn’t fit in the dishwasher, and my hands coated in dish soap, while I used a sponge to scrub each item in that sink clean.

    “One item at a time! One damn item at a time!” Separating silverware was a pain in the ass. Especially if a fork got stabbed into the pile at the wrong angle, and collected up other pieces between its tines. “Separate things! One piece at a time!”

    For lots of people, panic was debilitating. They shut down, curled up in little balls, or cried. Some hid somewhere. That wasn’t me. I had to be careful when panic attacked me, because I got angry. It was like some raging wild beast lived in me, and when I panicked, that beast entered full up defense mode, like a cornered bobcat, all claws and teeth, and non-stop movement.

    “It’s scrubbed clean. Now put it in the dishwasher. Careful! Don’t bend anything. Don’t break anything.” I added the spoon to the silverware rack in the washer, and picked up a cereal bowl from the sink. “Don’t break anything you idiot! Be careful!”

    My cousin told me once they got upset when they heard me talk to myself like that. They never figured out I wasn’t being hard on myself. Instead, I was holding the rage the panic caused in check.

    “One thing at a time! And be careful!”

    See, I’d learned how to use my panic and rage to get the housework done. I was good with that.

    296 Words
    @mysoulstears

    Liked by 2 people

  4. Box of Tears
    Sheri White
    350 Words

    When Charlene was a little girl, her mother would put her in a crate for real, but mostly imagined transgressions. Once the lid was closed, Charlene would scream and cry in terror.

    “Please, Mommy, please! Something’s crawling on me! I’m scared! I promise I’ll be good!”

    Charlene’s mother ignored her daughter’s cries. She chain-smoked in the kitchen while drinking vodka.

    Charlene left at sixteen, and never heard from her mother again. But memories of the box tormented her. The tickle of spider legs crawling on her skin invaded her dreams. Each day, she woke up screaming.

    When she was finally allowed to climb out, she would brush away the silky webs while she cried. Spiders would skitter along the boards of the crate, as if they would chase her.

    Now years later, she returned home. Charlene stood in the doorway, fighting back tears. Her legs felt rubbery, the way they did when she stood on a high bridge.

    She knew she’d never have closure with her mother. But maybe she could stop the nightmares.
    Charlene took a deep breath and clenched her fists. She approached the box and peeked inside, expecting to see spiders, but it was empty.

    She felt better, but Charlene knew she needed to get into the box.

    She didn’t stop the tears streaming down her cheek as she stepped in and sat down cross-legged. The she realized the box wasn’t truly empty. It held her past; the gouges her fingernails had made, the walls covered with her blood. It held her soul.

    She broke down, hugging her knees and sobbing. She cried for the little girl who wanted love; she cried for the women she had never grown to be.

    Finally, she got out of the box.

    She picked up the can of gasoline she had brought and poured some into the box. She let it flow behind her down the stairs to the front door. She lit a match, looked back one last time, and threw the match into the foyer. She felt the heat on her back as she walked into a new life.

    https://www.facebook.com/sheriw1965

    Liked by 2 people

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