1985: Flash Fiction

Big Brother was watching me. His name was Eric. He can be kind of a jerk sometimes. And he always has to win. Today Big Brother wanted to play hide and go seek.

I climbed into a sleeping bag in the attic. The zipper was pulled tight. This hiding space was perfect. I was sure no one would ever find me. I heard footsteps and I could see flashes of light dancing on the walls. I was winning. It became hard to breath, but I wouldn’t dare cough. I was perfectly silent.

For the first time, I was aware of it as it happened. I had the opportunity to do what I always wanted, but never had the chance. You can dream anything you want and make it real. I wanted to fly. Just the thought that I could, filled with me joy. I sprinted down an anonymous residential street, full of perfectly green lawns and paperboys throwing newspapers in sprinklers, to build up speed for takeoff. When I reached the fourth mailbox on the left, I leapt forward, high, higher into the air, receiving a sudden lift from the wind the moment before my face plunged into the concrete road, leaving cartilage and tissue behind as an unpleasant reminder that I will never fly.

I woke up.

The oxygen level was dropping below 20%. I was winning.

My little sister through a pack of 64 crayons against the wall. The blues, greens, purples fell harmlessly to the ground, casually grazing the white stucco walls and the beige Berber carpet. The oranges, reds, yellows, magentas, and pinks exploded into a volcano burst of color in the fireplace. I heard a silent gasp of gas pass through the air at a normal pace. People were screaming. Our house was on fire. I wanted to run through a car wash. I wanted to take a shower in milk. I wanted to sleep in the freezer. I wanted to take off my burning clothes. My visual angle zoomed out and tilted down. I was watching my family burn. I was on fire.

I woke up.

Eric was shaking me. I didn’t win.

Now I’m sitting at the typewriter in the den. Big Brother is watching me type. They’re fragile, innocent. They’re similar to molecules of firewood. I’ve got a million of them. These little atoms bouncing around. They’re so excited. They could catch a little help and start a great fire in our den to keep me warm. Or they could explode and burn down our house. But most likely nothing will happen. All these millions of ideas I have, they’ll just sit there, in our den, like chunks of wood. Eventually they’ll rot. But right now my ideas are as young as me, they’re fragile, and they’re just waiting. All the need is a little help. A spark.