Five Sentence Fiction

Five Sentence Fiction is about packing a powerful punch in a tiny fist. Each week Lillie McFerrin will post a one word inspiration, then anyone wishing to participate will write a five sentence story based on the prompt word. The word does not have to appear in your five sentences, just use it for direction.

The following are a few of my favorite entries that I wrote:


She counted them from left to right, over and over again, but each time she ended up with nineteen. Ten fingers and nine toes wiggling as she numbered them off one by one. She was positive she went to bed with twenty; the missing toe, not missing at all. Yet somewhere between night and daybreak, the little piggy made its heroic escape. How curious, she thought, as she counted them again.


There wasn’t much she could say; she’d followed him all the way from 3rd Avenue and River. Twice she stopped to force down the sour bile the rose in her throat; it should have been enough for her to abandon her plan, but it wasn’t. She wanted to know, even though knowing would ruin her. When he spotted her across the room, the corners of his mouth pulled down tight; a gesture she both loved and feared. Would he believe her if she claimed it was a coincidence?


She came to the library often enough that the librarian knew her by face; her smile was warm and inviting, like the library itself. The countless rows filled with countless books, all keeping their secrets locked tight within their pages. Her stomach growled and her heart ached, both hungry for that which they did not possess. She wondered what it was like to be full of food and words. To visit the library for more than just to escape the weather.


The first flakes of the season floated down from the grey clouds, landing on the brownish grass and forming a thin blanket of white. Astrid watched from her bedroom window, dreaming of all the snowmen, snow angels and snow forts she’d soon be making. Visions of snowball fights, sledding and sucking on delicious icicles – smooth yet sharp enough to harm – raced through her mind in flashes and bursts. She wiped away the fog her excited breath had caused against the cold glass. Her mother’s warning about icicles hanging from the car crossed her mind; Those are too dirty, stick with the clean ones, though Astrid wasn’t sure how to tell the difference.


The sign on the side of the road announced – with half-hearted, paint-peeling enthusiasm – that the town was named Radiance. Finlay drove through slowly, hoping to catch a glimpse of its glowing beauty. Its buildings were drab grey and yellowing white, its grass browning and turning to dust right before his eyes. The people wore expressionless faces, and various shades of dull-coloured clothing, oblivious to the irony that surrounded them. If this was their idea of Radiance, Finlay wondered what lackluster looked like to them.


The clouds rolled in long before I opened my eyes, casting shadows that only touched the tips of my dreams. A rumble, building like the cascading beats of a tympani drum, reverberates in the distance. I awake, not startled, but comforted by the first fat drops kissing my cheeks. The air is thick with static and the icy hands run their icy fingers down my spine. It’s most certainly too late to run.


I watched her walk along the dust-covered streets, alone with her thoughts. Her long strands of hair caught up in the wicked wind, swirling into a knotted mess above her head. She reminded me of Medusa, and I turned away fearful of being cast into stone. But I wanted to smell the earth and sky in those wild locks of hair; I was prepared to risk whatever evil befell me. As I stepped in the shadows, she disappeared, taking all that once was, with her and leaving me alone with the wicked wind.


She inhaled the musty pages of her old journal and let her mind take the long walk back to the past. So many years had passed, yet in those brief moments, she was there once more. It amazed her how the scent of dust, mingled with buried secrets could evoke such a visceral response. She was much too logical to believe in nostalgia; much too scared to have blind faith. As his image crept from the tattered pages of a long forgotten journal, she cried out in pain.


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