Flash Inspired by Poems
Dear Subscribers, I’m going to try out a new feature for both free and paid subscribers over the next few months! Each week I’ll be posting a poem I love with an accompanying prompt for microfiction writers. I find that poems have been wonderful inspiration for my own flash fiction pieces, and I thought it would be interesting to see if it does the same thing for others.
The poem-prompts feature will be free for everyone, but paid subscribers will have the added benefit of posting their work. I will respond to all of the posted stories.
Below is the first poem-prompt in the series. “Things to Do in the Belly of a Whale” by Dan Albergotti. I shared it not terribly long ago at Prompts of Resilience with wonderful results, and I wanted to share it here too as it makes such a dynamic prompt and a great poem to kick off my new feature. If you’ve already responded to this piece over at the other newsletter, you might want to try it again, making a radically different list.
The Prompt:
Inspired by Dan Albergottis’ imaginative (and hopeful) list poem, write a list story or prose poem from the POV of character about how to cope when something radically strange happens, ie falling down a rabbit hole, seeing your missing father alive in the clouds, jumping from an airplane and the parachute won’t open, or something realistic, like Nuala O’Connor’s beloved historical flash “The Egg Pyramid” in which Frieda Kahlo makes a list of “what you can do” when your husband sleeps with your sister. The word count for your list story is 150 words. I look so forward to reading them!
Optional prompt words: mess, tendrils, happy, blossom, footprint, finger, match
Traffic Delay
At an endless traffic delay, I see you holding a slow down sign. How can this be? You left us years ago in a fiery blaze. I never understood the sheriff’s lack of investigating. Now I stare dumbfounded. My heart’s been broken by men too often. Broken by the warm hugs you used to give; the lies you told. Broken by drugs. Broken by the way you left us. I never got to give you a final kiss. They said, “No, you don’t want to see him like this.” I understood. It wouldn’t have been you, but now here you are right in front of me, smiling at a passerby, waving at me to move on. My tears fall. Sunlight burns my eyes. I continue moving behind the endless parade of cars. Everyone is going somewhere. Everyone driving with purpose. Everyone but me. I lay on my horn. Wave furiously.
RECIPE FOR SUNDAY JOY:
Grind coffee, wipe counter, smell brew, heat buns, inhale happiness, soften butter, fluff cream, warm cups, find tray, fold napkins, dispense sugar, shine spoon, pluck blossom, place on tray, climb stairs, put down tray, open door, pick up tray, lay tray next to sleeping spouse, close door.
Tickle his nose, give him kiss, watch him rise, see the glow of a bathroom light.
Hear toilet flush. Fluff pillows. See him emerge and nod toward the tray.
“What’s all this?”
“Sunday morning treat, my love.”
Watch him sip from cup.
“Aack,” he says, tongue like lizard. “Too sweet.”
Strip off nightgown. Avoid eye contact –– no time for misunderstandings.
Open dresser drawer. Strap on bra, plunge into yoga pants, dive into sweatshirt, grab tray, open door (single-handed), tread down stairs, place tray in sink, drink coffee, eat bun, lace running shoes, leash dog, grab keys, and drive, drive, drive, into the hills.