Woo-hoo! It’s flash fiction Friday, but a day late 😉 So, anyway today I’m going to share this piece of flash fiction, and hopefully inspire you to join in with some of your own. There’s no rule to this other than whatever you write is based upon, inspired by, or otherwise encouraged by the provided image heading this post. So, take a look at the image and wherever it takes you, just write. After all that’s the real purpose here, to get those creative juices flowing. My own attempt at this is below, and please feel free to share your own take on this challenge in the comments or by providing a link to your work, so we can see what everyone comes up with. Have fun!
The bedroom is dark, not totally devoid of light, but just enough to cast shadows upon the wall. The light from the hallway under the door. The black light that hangs in the closet, a remnant from when this was my big brother’s room and his closet walls were adorned with velvet posters of Led Zeppelin and The Rolling Stones that changed colors under the ultraviolet bulb. The posters are gone now, but the black light is irresistible and now casts strange shadows against the wall making Johnny Depp as Edward Scissorhands seem like he could come down and sit beside me just to say he knows how I feel. I often feel like Edward, lost in a world that didn’t want him, misunderstood by all except one, and yet I don’t have that one , unless you count my gray tabby, Captain Howdy. Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t name him. It’s another remnant from my brother who I think got it from either a Stephen King novel or a song by Twisted Sister.
Sometimes I find the darkness in my room liberating, as if in the black pitch I can truly be me without putting myself on parade, masquerading as mommy and daddy’s happy little girl. And yet sometimes the darkness becomes claustrophobic, as if my world is a box that steadily gets smaller and smaller like something out of Alice In Wonderland. It’s in these moments, when everything is closing in around me, that I count to fifty and breathe. It’s a trick my grandmother taught me. A way to overcome fear, nervousness, or any situation that seems so alien it’s dangerous.
When I was little I was afraid of the dark. I would whine and cry for my father. He wouldn’t come. My grandmother would finally get up and come to my rescue. We would count to fifty together and it made everything better. I’m no longer afraid of the darkness; it just gets so stifling lonely sometimes. Boys my age don’t understand this. Nor do many of the girls. If they do they don’t admit it. They would rather pretend that loneliness doesn’t consume them or cover them like an ever present shroud. But I can’t pretend. I am lonely and the only ones who understand are hanging on my wall.