102, 103, 104, 105 Word Stories
Here, you’ll find four flash fiction pieces that highlight moments of loss, love, and joy, written over the course of the past year. Short pieces to remind us that we’re all human.
Boys
The plaintiffs always looked the same, like kids who’d raided their fathers’ closets in baggy dress pants and shirts.
They’d tell their stories in a shaky way, filled with fear. Reverting to boys describing the monster they’d seen under their beds.
For a long time, that’s what James saw as he presented their one mistake before the jury.
That was before he saw the bruised face of the girl he’d kissed on the forehead each night as he tucked her into bed.
Now he clutched her sleeping fingers. Watching the nurse tuck her in, he saw the true capability of a boy.
Collectors
We’re all collectors, accumulating pieces of others. Capturing an interest of someone’s in a bottle, wrapping a laugh in a bow, nesting them on our shelves.
My favorites sit front and center tucked behind sheets of glass, in golden frames.
That night, the grass poking up through your curls as your finger traced its way across the sky. To Venus then The Seven Sisters.
Your smile in the city. The “you’re a good writer” hidden in a string of conversation after you read one of my stories for school.
It’s not often we realize when others change us— in these moments I knew.
The Best
I hit into him after he spins me, our hands still intertwined.
The jukebox hums while other couples twist around us, their eyebrows raised.
“Was that really necessary?” I ask, my cheeks hot.
“You’re the best”, he whispers, smiling against my forehead as he leans in to kiss it.
– – –
The radio on the bedside table buzzes the foggy but familiar tune from years before.
I’ve traded the dance floor for a hospital bed, my skirt for a paper gown.
He smiles down at me and intertwines our fingers making our arms dance slowly.
“You’re the best”, I whisper, drawing his hand downwards to kiss it.
Kintsugi
[kin-tsoo-gee] noun.
the Japanese art of repairing what’s broken by mending the areas of breakage with urushi lacquer or resin and powdered gold
Ellis prefers glue to gold, mostly because it’s at the bodega on the corner.
Anya and Ellis sit cross-legged on her carpet, each holding two torn pieces of a once-favorite photo strip, the off brand Mod-Gloss still wet and sticking to their hands.
Ten minutes later, the pieces still separate, the glue still tacky, Anya sighs.
“If I had known—” she starts.
“I probably would’ve torn it too,” Ellis admits.
“If it doesn’t stick?”
“We use tape. It’ll be stronger now anyway.”
Process
Stories most often come to me as flash fiction, as shown by the four pieces included. In each I was inspired by small things: my paralegal friend explaining client-attorney privilege, personal experience, my grandparent’s relationship, and the art of kintsugi, which has stuck with me since a history class in high school.
Overall, the act of writing and editing these pieces for the anthology has made me a stronger writer. I’m much more comfortable with revision (and much more able to write to a word count).
Explore More
N Comly
Comly is a senior majoring in communication and media studies with a minor in English at Montclair University. She most often writes short, finding that there’s something special to conveying larger ideas and emotions in flash and microfiction. In her free time she loves being outdoors, baking, and running. She can almost always be found in the middle of a sitcom and, true to New Jersey stereotypes, is always in the mood for a bacon, egg and cheese bagel.