The Flash Project

12 photographs & short stories

Photography and hand-coloring by Vanessa Weseman
Short stories by Jessa Kirk

She thought back to that day on the beach and nearly cried. Her bare feet in the wet sand had left marks that she’d thought would never fade and she’d left a path for him to follow from the house to the dock. The waves had been a blanket of glittering glass shards thrown across the horizon under an already brilliant 9 o’clock sun. Now she squeezed her eyes shut, blocking that tears that threatened to fall as she remembered her heartbeat on that day, in sync with the waves and the footsteps that had followed her to the water.

“Don’t shut the door.  I don’t need a towel.  I’m glad it’s raining.  I couldn’t have asked for better weather.  Don’t you get it?  I don’t care if it’s raining or snowing or hailing because I’m with you and I can’t feel it.  All I know is that I’m standing here, hoping against hope that you’ll keep that door open.  No, please.  Don’t shut it.  Just give me a minute.  Look at me, I’m soaking wet.  It’s miserable out here.  But if you told me that we could try this just one more time, I swear to God…no. Please. Don’t”.

You could come in, but you shouldn’t.  You could take off your wool coat and lean your snow shoes against my front door, but I would advise against it.  I know better than to take your wet socks and pop them into the dryer while we sit on my sofa and listen to that record you gave me.  You could eat one of the orange scones I made this morning, and you could pair it with the butter I churned while thinking of you, but this is just another bad idea.  Another thing you should not do is kiss me.

The bleachers, wet with dew, dampened their dragging pant legs as they climbed.  She could hardly believe that 24 hours ago, she’d been sleeping, waiting for her alarm to signify that it was the morning of her college graduation.  He could hardly believe that he’d stayed up all night.  He put his hand out to the girl—a blatant bid for physical contact—and pulled her up to the top row.  Her hand in his, they watched the sun rise over the campus, illuminating the discarded champagne bottles that glinted on the empty football field below. 

It’s not stealing if it rightfully belongs to you.  If you’re just reclaiming what’s yours, you’re in the clear, legally.  Let’s say—hypothetically—that you left an emerald green notebook on the backseat of Ollie Greenwald’s Dodge Charger.  If you did do this, it would be an even more stupid move than getting in the back of the Charger in the first place, but that’s beside the point.  Anyway, if this were the case, you would be well within your rights to break into his house and retrieve that notebook, which, let’s be honest, he probably can’t even read.

Grocery List, 2/12/1980:  red cups, canned soup, hamburger buns, gin, tonic water, beer, apples, air freshener

Grocery List, 2/12/1985: canned soup, red wine, gin, tonic water, pens, Post-it notes, apples, flowers, chocolate ice cream

Grocery List, 2/12/1989: green beans, pasta, gin, tonic water, apples, strawberries, yogurt, granola, paprika

Grocery List, 2/12/1991:  diapers, disinfectant wipes, tonic water, organic apples, macaroni and cheese, dark chocolate

Grocery List, 2/12/2006: canned soup, oatmeal, frozen pizza, gin, apples, hand sanitizer, dog food

Grocery List, 2/12/2009:  oatmeal, protein powder, frozen strawberries, frozen raspberries, wheat bread, roses

It was a difficult decision.  Peter knew he wasn’t going to pick the recorder.  He’d seen spit drip out of the end of Nelson Pipps’ recorder while he was playing “Greensleeves” during the winter concert and the memory of it made him shudder even now.  He wasn’t going to choose the drums, because his mother had said that she would kill him if he did.  Violin was right out.

As Peter walked home from school that day, struggling to think of a single rock song with a triangle solo, he had the sinking feeling that he’d made the wrong choice.

“I used to be”.  It was an odd answer for her to give; one that her ballet teachers would surely dislike.  But she didn’t feel like a dancer anymore.  She wasn’t the only one to notice the way her natural talent and vibrancy seemed to fade with every barre class.  Where she’d once leapt wildly, she now stretched cautiously, anxious to protect the ligaments that held her aspirations taut in their cords.  It wasn’t until it was a viable job prospect that it began to feel like work.  It wasn’t until her title was official that it no longer fit. 

It hadn’t bothered her until now..  Suddenly, her shoulder ached where her heavy leather bag had hung, full of nail files and credit cards and pocket mirrors.  She reached up to rub the pain in her neck with one manicured hand, and signaled to the waiter with the other, her silver Tiffany’s bracelet swinging against her bony wrist.  Her husband looked up from his plate, the spindly tower of salmon and eggplant trembling precariously.  Impatient, she ignored his raised eyebrow and pushed back from the table, grabbing only her sunglasses before strolling out, blonde hair flapping against tan shoulder blades.

“And I tell myself that there’s life after death. 

And I tell myself that you’re trying. 

And I tell myself that this pain is just love, 

but I can’t help but feel that I’m lying. 

My shoes are untied and I can’t see the street and my map is a trail of crumbs.

And I’m nibbling my way to a path of some kind, but my progress is making me numb.”

The woman’s red hair fell in her face as she leaned forward to strum the last few chords.  

She regretted writing this song.

“And as much as I want to be with you, I’m pretty sure it’s a terrible idea.  And now you’re crying, which I really don’t want, but I’d rather it happened now than later.  Because I don’t think you realize yet that I’m a terrible person.  I mean, really awful.  I forget holidays—not just birthdays, but like, national holidays—and I’m positive that I’m the reason your cat escaped.  And I do feel a bit bad about that now, but only because we’re in this restaurant and people are staring”.

When she opened her mouth black smoke rolled out.

It drifted lazily through the air, 

clogging our lungs and settling in our hair...

but there was no truth there,

she didn't have a heart, 

just a kidney shaped lie box.

drip drop, drip drop,

the blood seeps into that unloving box.

tick tock, tick tock,

time starts to rot that kidney shaped box.

As smoke curled around her tongue and her teeth,

the tarnished enamel reflected beneath.

Straight down to the core, lingering with the bile...

were several things she'd ignored for a while.