Flash Fiction Friday

Okay, so it's not Friday, but Flash Fiction Thursday doesn't sound as catchy!  I think I will make Flash Fiction a regular part of my Friday blog, though, so for once, I'm early, not late.

Flash Fiction is 5 minutes of timed writing.  I use it to get the creative juices flowing.  Here's today's exercise (with just a little editing).

Today's writing prompt: "Alice tried to remember who had given her the key."
Photo courtesy costiq,
Alice tried the door, but it was locked. Just one more thing that made her feel shut out of life.

Her parents died when she was 9 and she had been at the orphanage ever since. Then suddenly, last week, they had shipped her off to live with a distant relative in this big old house down south.

The only thing she had been brought with her was her clothes, sparse as they were and her childhood jewelry box, which had been locked up for the 3 years she had been at the orphanage.

She opened the box and fingered the skeleton key while the ballerina spun lopsidedly in place. The music had died a long time ago. How appropriate, thought Alice. She tried to remember who had given her the key, but no face came to mind.

The chances of it opening a locked door in a strange house were remote, but she gave it a try anyway. She was surprised to hear the click of the locking mechanism as she turned the key.

She pulled the creaky door open to reveal a rickety set of stairs leading upwards to an attic.

And....TIME'S UP!

(Copyright© 2010 Jan Christiansen. All rights reserved.)

I would love to read your Flash Fiction using the same prompt.  Just click on "comments" at the bottom of this post, set a timer for 5 minutes and write away.  You can clean it up just a little after the timer goes off, then click on "post comment" to share it with us.

1 comment:

Carol said...

I should so do this on my blog on Friday's too :). We could do it together!

Here's mine:
Alice tried to remember who had given her the key. She stared at her hand and then looked at the door. Then her hand. Then the door.

She didn't remember the door. She didn't remember the key. The only reason she knew her name was Alice was because that's what the driver's license in the purse she carried said. And she only knew it was her because she'd studied her reflection in the television screens of the electronics store. The face on the 64" LCD was the same as the one on the small plastic card.

The key had a flimsy metal ring – like one used by an auto dealership or mechanic when you left only the key they needed and not every key that opened every door for every part of your life. On the ring was the key, a purple piece of paper and a yellow plastic tag with an address. She stood in front of the door belonging to the address. Did she knock? Did she see if the key worked? Did she run for her very life and start over somewhere else?
Why had she been in that alley in the first place? It was seedy. There were drug dealers and prostitutes in the area – she knew that much. What if she was wanted for something? Maybe she was trying to buy drugs. She didn't feel high though. Maybe she was a hooker. No, her clothing didn't match with that lifestyle.

Maybe she was tailing her husband to see what he was doing when he said he worked late every night. Or her boyfriend. She wasn't wearing a wedding ring, but there were pictures of her with a man – slightly overweight, sort of balding but with a nice smile – in her wallet. There were no wedding pictures though. Maybe he was her brother. Maybe she had been following her brother to see if he was paying for sex.

She shuddered involuntarily. None of her scenarios were particularly appealing to her. So was she supposed to open the door? Knock? What if she didn't live here? What if the other woman lived here?