Where I think out loud
The Lascaux Review is a literary online journal that publishes short stories, poetry and essays from emerging and established writers and authors. They conduct annual short story, flash fiction and poetry contests. I recently braved up and entered their Flash Fiction Contest Lascaux 250 – The premise is to write a story in 250 words or less and they give you a picture as a prompt.
I didn’t win…:(
BUT! I wrote a nice little piece and got to read hundreds of other great stories. The winning story: “Counting” by Jodi Barnes, haunted me for days. You can read it here: lascauxflash.com
I would have edited more… I would have used better sentences … I would have… I would have…. but sometimes, no matter how protective or insecure I could be about my writing or my stories… sometimes, the need to let them go overpowers me.
Getting images out of my head and into words, is one of the most fascinating and arduous activities that I have ever attempted. Luckily, it is the fascinating part that always wins.
I don’t write because I have something incredibly important to say or because I can say it better, I write because the loneliness of a blank page incites me to reconsider the obvious, to transform the emptiness of any ordinary day trying to reach out to the ethereal meanings of life.
I write because I would be too lonely if I leave that page forever blank. I’d be isolated from my divinity and too crowded on my inside if I couldn’t use words to make up a world, a person, a glimpse of humanity …
Here’s “Free At Last” – The prompt was this picture.
by Mariana Santangelo
The first time that I tried to end it, Isabel cut her face with a razor. She said that she needed to rend her skin, vibrate in physical pain to ease her heartache.
I ended up pleading for forgiveness and implored her to take me back.
This time around, I would follow the Three Golden Rules of Break Up that my roommate had trained me on and I would remain unattached, especially to my own emotions.
Rule #1: A neutral place.
I asked her to meet me at The Blue House.
Rule #2: Honesty
Technically impossible with Isabel. Some women cannot handle honesty.
Rule #3: Don’t let it linger.
Precise words. Crucial.
I showed up early, made my way through the bar, gulped down a double Scotch and plodded through the lengthy hallway reclaiming my bravery.
I sat on the blue chair by the window.
I recognized her worn out combat boots as she stepped down the stairs; her bare, scrawny legs storming down erratically. She stood by me looking frail, drunk and broken. Beautiful for a moment.
“Where were you?”
“I got a drink at the bar. I thought I was early.”
“You are late. Too late…”
She walked away as in a numb stupor. Down from her leather jacket’s sleeves, two strings of blood framed her steps. As she walked along the white and blue tiles, leaving her life behind with a crimson trail, we were both released from her turbid snare and the agony of her existence.