Tag: flash fiction

The Commuter

~ Meg ~ 37 Comments

A short story by Meg Sorick.

There were five of them in the car as far as I could tell. Three squished in the back seat and two up front. I could hear the music blasting through the open windows. They all were singing along. Only teenagers could be that happy stuck in rush hour traffic. Lucky dogs.

We inched forward a little and I thought back to the summer between my junior and senior year of college. I had two jobs —both part time, both of them waitressing gigs— but it hadn’t prevented me from going out every night of the week. All my friends were doing the same kind of thing —working our summer jobs, sharing cheap apartments, surviving on Ramen noodles and thrift store clothes, so we had beer money instead. It might possibly have been the happiest time of my life.

In the car in front of me, the song changed and the kids sang louder. The old Chevy positively shook as they danced in their seats. I sighed. Where had the years gone?

Finally, thirty minutes later, the log jam broke and traffic started moving. I changed lanes and passed the concert on wheels. Stealing a glance over, I saw a snapshot of the past. Five carefree souls not worrying about a thing. Just you wait, my little darlings. Life is about to smack you in the face. Student loans, credit scores, mortgages, car payments, insurance, utilities, taxes…

I pulled in the driveway an hour and fifteen minutes after I left work. This commute was killing me. As I dropped my keys on the hall table and kicked off my shoes, I smelled the scent of tomatoes and garlic wafting from the kitchen. I followed my nose. My husband looked up from the stove when I entered. “Hey,” he said with a smile. “Kiss the cook?”

I kissed him, but I was distracted by the scene on the television in the corner. The news was on.

“Accident on the Schuylkill. Quite a mess,” my husband said.

The scene on TV was shot from a circling news helicopter. A crash. Two exits before mine.

“Lucky you were past it already,” he said. “Or you’d have been even later.”

I recognized the old Chevy. Life is about to smack you in the face…

(Header image thanks to Philly.com)

Thick As a Brick

~ Meg ~ 15 Comments

I’ve been reading What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, Raymond Carver’s collection of short stories. One of the characteristics of his writing is the lack of action. Many of them are just glimpses into the lives of his characters. Maybe even just one scene. This piece of short fiction is inspired by Carver’s style of writing.

Thick As a Brick

Wesley hoisted his suitcase into the trunk of his old Chevy Malibu. His disapproving parents watched glumly from the sagging front porch of their clapboard house. 

“It’s not too late to change your mind, son,” his father said. “Don’t be fool, will ya?”

“I’m not changing my mind,” Wesley stated, slamming the trunk lid closed. He sighed heavily and walked over to stare up at them on the top step. “I can’t let an opportunity like this one pass me by.”

“Fancy scholarship ain’t gonna pay for everything,” his mother muttered under her breath.

Wesley sighed again and looked at the ground. “Ma, I have a part time job lined up. I’ll be fine.”

“Sure and then ya be workin’ so hard ya won’t get no studyin’ done. Then what?” she snapped. “Ya lose that money and you’ll be back here on the farm anyways.” She spat on the ground. “Waste a time, ya ask me.”

“Ma, my job is at the chem lab. It’ll actually help with my studies. You’re worrying for nothing.”

“Leave him be, Sarah. Ain’t no use talkin’ to a fool,” his father chimed in. “He got some illusions of grander. Think he’s too good for his kin.”

“Delusions of grandeur,” Wesley mumbled.

“Don’t you mock me, boy,” his father said, wagging a finger at him. “I’m gonna remind ya of this very day when it all goes to hell.”

“Pa, it’s not going to hell. I’ve worked hard, I’ve studied harder, I’ve got a right to pursue my dreams. I’m not asking you for a thing, except to give me your blessing,” Wesley pleaded.

“Well, ya ain’t gettin’ my blessing on this nonsense,” his mother said, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “But… I’ll give ya this.” She gestured over her shoulder. “This’ll always be your home. You come on home if you come to your senses.”

This was probably the most he could hope for, Wesley realized. He nodded. “All right. Thanks, Ma.”

He went up the steps and gave each of his parents a hug, then turned back to the car. With a final wave, he drove down the old dirt track that led out to the main road. His parents watched till he was out of sight. Wesley’s father said, “Seems to me for a smart boy, our Wesley is thick as a brick.”