For the record, we are Sudden Flash.
There is some confusion because of the "your" prefixed to our email address and URL. The reason is simple: suddenflash was already taken as a Google account name. We added "your" because that seemed friendlier than appending some random numbers.
That's it.
Renovation
by R.K. West
No one really knows why restoration stopped on the abandoned St. Julian hotel, where commoners and kings once came to relax in luxury.
Perhaps the worst part was that, although the lobby bar stayed open, the doors had been removed from the restrooms. The L-shaped entrances continued to provide visual privacy, but the constant sound of tinkling and flushing, coupled with the wafting scent of harsh disinfectant, made patrons reluctant to linger at the partially dismantled bar.
Unsuspecting tourists wandered in from the street, guidebooks in hand, to order the hotel’s signature cocktail, the Juliani. An obvious imitation of the Bellini at Harry’s Bar, the Juliani was an overpriced concoction of peach puree and Spumante, tinged with raspberry liqueur and topped with grated ginger. Nobody liked it. The locals just ordered beer or a glass of Riesling, which they quietly poured into foam coffee cups to be carried outside.
Nearby businesses blamed the hotel for increased problems with littering and public urination.
There were rumors that the St. Julian would be replaced by a Chinese-funded glass and steel tower, that the property was being repurposed as a mansion for some eccentric Arab billionaire, or that the restoration was about to be resumed by the original owner’s descendants. For a while, it survived as a fading tourist trap, the once-elegant bar reinforced with plywood, the silk-upholstered lobby furniture replaced by acrylic picnic benches, the restroom entrances finally covered with heavy drapery. Small signs advised patrons to keep hold of belongings and watch out for pickpockets. Local people came only when pressured to give out-of-town relatives the celebrity tour.
Eventually, an international parking syndicate bought the property, razed the building, and put up a multi-level garage, which has been credited with jumpstarting the economic revival of the downtown retail and dining district. Across the street, there is a small dive bar called Julie’s that offers peach martinis.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Author's note: The opening sentence for this story came from The First Line Literary Journal, which accepts submissions of short stories that all start with the same first line, chosen by the editors.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
R.K. West can be found on Bluesky.
No one really knows why restoration stopped on the abandoned St. Julian hotel, where commoners and kings once came to relax in luxury.
Perhaps the worst part was that, although the lobby bar stayed open, the doors had been removed from the restrooms. The L-shaped entrances continued to provide visual privacy, but the constant sound of tinkling and flushing, coupled with the wafting scent of harsh disinfectant, made patrons reluctant to linger at the partially dismantled bar.
Unsuspecting tourists wandered in from the street, guidebooks in hand, to order the hotel’s signature cocktail, the Juliani. An obvious imitation of the Bellini at Harry’s Bar, the Juliani was an overpriced concoction of peach puree and Spumante, tinged with raspberry liqueur and topped with grated ginger. Nobody liked it. The locals just ordered beer or a glass of Riesling, which they quietly poured into foam coffee cups to be carried outside.
Nearby businesses blamed the hotel for increased problems with littering and public urination.
There were rumors that the St. Julian would be replaced by a Chinese-funded glass and steel tower, that the property was being repurposed as a mansion for some eccentric Arab billionaire, or that the restoration was about to be resumed by the original owner’s descendants. For a while, it survived as a fading tourist trap, the once-elegant bar reinforced with plywood, the silk-upholstered lobby furniture replaced by acrylic picnic benches, the restroom entrances finally covered with heavy drapery. Small signs advised patrons to keep hold of belongings and watch out for pickpockets. Local people came only when pressured to give out-of-town relatives the celebrity tour.
Eventually, an international parking syndicate bought the property, razed the building, and put up a multi-level garage, which has been credited with jumpstarting the economic revival of the downtown retail and dining district. Across the street, there is a small dive bar called Julie’s that offers peach martinis.
Author's note: The opening sentence for this story came from The First Line Literary Journal, which accepts submissions of short stories that all start with the same first line, chosen by the editors.
R.K. West can be found on Bluesky.
Aarggh!
by Wynter Stone
I used to be annoyed by editors whose submission guidelines included long lists of stern warnings.
After being an editor for only a few months, I now empathize with them.
First, too many authors fail to read and comprehend the submission guidelines. As a writer, I sometimes feel frustrated because it seems that every publication has a different set of basic requirements. Even so, most are not particularly difficult. They are generally designed to make things a little easier for the editors, who are likely overwhelmed by the flood of submissions that arrive every day. They just want every piece to be in a predictable and manageable format, one that will help simplify the process of getting an item published.
Next, it seems that many authors just submit the first draft of whatever they happened to write that morning. No matter how talented you are -- even if you are Margaret Atwood or Stephen King -- first drafts are rarely finished works. Editing and rewriting are nearly always necessary. Some writers don't even bother to proofread their work for spelling, punctuation, and grammar. If you don't care about your story, why should I? Yes, I know how hard it can be to proof one's own work. The brain tends to see what we meant to write rather than what we actually wrote. One simple rule that really helps, both for proofreading and for the overall quality of a story, is to read it aloud. Better yet, get someone else to read it to you.
Some other common problems: changing a character's name halfway through the story; too many different characters crowded into a very short piece; flipping between past and present tense; confusing dialog that does not make clear who is speaking to whom; stories that stop suddenly without an ending; author bio is longer than the story.
Having said all that, I want to tell you that I am always grateful for all the authors, whether well-established or just starting out, who send us their work. We receive a lot of really good material, and we are proud of the stories and essays we publish every week. Any gripes we have are balanced by our appreciation for what these writers have accomplished.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Wynter Stone is a co-editor of Sudden Flash.
I used to be annoyed by editors whose submission guidelines included long lists of stern warnings.
After being an editor for only a few months, I now empathize with them.
First, too many authors fail to read and comprehend the submission guidelines. As a writer, I sometimes feel frustrated because it seems that every publication has a different set of basic requirements. Even so, most are not particularly difficult. They are generally designed to make things a little easier for the editors, who are likely overwhelmed by the flood of submissions that arrive every day. They just want every piece to be in a predictable and manageable format, one that will help simplify the process of getting an item published.
Next, it seems that many authors just submit the first draft of whatever they happened to write that morning. No matter how talented you are -- even if you are Margaret Atwood or Stephen King -- first drafts are rarely finished works. Editing and rewriting are nearly always necessary. Some writers don't even bother to proofread their work for spelling, punctuation, and grammar. If you don't care about your story, why should I? Yes, I know how hard it can be to proof one's own work. The brain tends to see what we meant to write rather than what we actually wrote. One simple rule that really helps, both for proofreading and for the overall quality of a story, is to read it aloud. Better yet, get someone else to read it to you.
Some other common problems: changing a character's name halfway through the story; too many different characters crowded into a very short piece; flipping between past and present tense; confusing dialog that does not make clear who is speaking to whom; stories that stop suddenly without an ending; author bio is longer than the story.
Having said all that, I want to tell you that I am always grateful for all the authors, whether well-established or just starting out, who send us their work. We receive a lot of really good material, and we are proud of the stories and essays we publish every week. Any gripes we have are balanced by our appreciation for what these writers have accomplished.
Wynter Stone is a co-editor of Sudden Flash.
Flash Challenges
In the past, we've written about "Gimmicks" among publishers of flash fiction. These are special challenges to the author, such as writing a story with a specific word count, or embedding certain words in the story.
We have put together another list of sites that use restrictions and requirements to bring challenge and discipline to the craft of microprose.
Gooseberry Pie publishes pieces of exactly six sentences and no more than 400 words.
Five Minutes explores five minutes of a life in one hundred words
The Last Line is the companion to The First Line. There, all stories start with the same sentence. Here, they all end the same. Story length is 300-5000 words.
100 Word Story publishes stories of exactly 100 words.
A Story in 100 Words - guess what?
Flash Flood accepts submissions (up to 300 words) one week per year and then publishes a flood of stories on National Flash Fiction Day in June.
50 Word Stories are really short, but sometimes that's all it takes.
Backwards Trajectory publishes poetry and prose, up to 200 words.
Blink-Ink has been publishing stories of approximately 50 words since 2009.
Aster Lit publishes stories from writers aged 13-25. They publish prose up to 3,000 words.
Bloom publishes pieces of no more than 2,500 words by authors age 40 and older.
Persimmon Tree includes prose pieces under 3,500 words, and "short takes" of 250-500 words, all written by women over sixty.
Centaur publishes a small number of stories, up to 400 words, in quarterly issues.
The Citron Review publishes short prose, up to 1000 words, and micros, up to 100 words.
Paranoid Tree publishes pieces up to 400 words, online and on paper.
Prime Number Magazine has a monthly contest for 53-word stories.
We have put together another list of sites that use restrictions and requirements to bring challenge and discipline to the craft of microprose.
Gooseberry Pie publishes pieces of exactly six sentences and no more than 400 words.
Five Minutes explores five minutes of a life in one hundred words
The Last Line is the companion to The First Line. There, all stories start with the same sentence. Here, they all end the same. Story length is 300-5000 words.
100 Word Story publishes stories of exactly 100 words.
A Story in 100 Words - guess what?
Flash Flood accepts submissions (up to 300 words) one week per year and then publishes a flood of stories on National Flash Fiction Day in June.
50 Word Stories are really short, but sometimes that's all it takes.
Backwards Trajectory publishes poetry and prose, up to 200 words.
Blink-Ink has been publishing stories of approximately 50 words since 2009.
Aster Lit publishes stories from writers aged 13-25. They publish prose up to 3,000 words.
Bloom publishes pieces of no more than 2,500 words by authors age 40 and older.
Persimmon Tree includes prose pieces under 3,500 words, and "short takes" of 250-500 words, all written by women over sixty.
Centaur publishes a small number of stories, up to 400 words, in quarterly issues.
The Citron Review publishes short prose, up to 1000 words, and micros, up to 100 words.
Paranoid Tree publishes pieces up to 400 words, online and on paper.
Prime Number Magazine has a monthly contest for 53-word stories.
Finding Clarisse
by James C. Clar
Thunderstorms are somewhat rare on Oahu. The temperature seldom varies enough or quickly enough to goad the air into that particular form of violence. When they do come, they arrive with a kind of magnificence – loud, electric, otherworldly. Visitors often miss the magic. They grumble about the rain, about the loss of beach time. “Hey,” they say, “we get this at home.” Who can blame them? They came for sun and warm, gentle breezes, not Iowa weather disguised in a grass skirt and a lei.
Residents, on the other hand, know better. They grudgingly welcome the storm and the sharp crack of thunder riding the trade winds; the “liquid sunshine” and the jagged bolt of lightning ripping its way through a sky gone unaccountably black. It’s a reminder as well; the islands aren’t always soft.
Late one afternoon, during just such a storm, I felt something – something strange, something portentous – pull me outside. Living alone and with no real obligations to speak of, I was free to indulge such impulses. The usually bustling streets of Waikiki were awash and all-but deserted. Rain hammered the Ala Wai Canal, now invisible behind a curtain of water. Palm trees flailed like tortured animals. The usual dry susurration of their fronds had become a rasping chorus, insectile and urgent. The distant lights of Moiliili and St. Louis Heights on the mountainside to the north shimmered like a dream half-forgotten, distorted and surreal.
I was soaked within seconds, wandering without direction up and down the grid of streets that ran between Ala Wai Boulevard and Kuhio Avenue. Thunder cracked overhead as I trod the faded heart of Waikiki. Then, in the flash of a particularly vicious bolt of lightning, I had the proverbial epiphany. I knew what I had to do.
I began entering condo buildings, dripping pools of water in the foyers as I pressed intercom buttons more-or-less at random. In the old days, you’d need a doorman’s permission to enter. I wondered how I would have managed back then.
“Clarisse, is that you?” I’d ask in a disembodied voice.
“Wrong unit, brah. No ‘Clarisse’ here.”
Not everyone was so polite.
“Get lost, asshole. You gotta try harder than that!”
So much for Polynesian hospitality. I pressed on, literally and figuratively.
Eventually, I came to a mid-century building with windswept palms, a coral walkway, a porte-cochere like something out of a vintage postcard or travel brochure. I chose a button. I was more deliberate this time. The name below the intercom had faded and was illegible.
“Aloha, Clarisse, are you home?”
There was a pause. Then a voice. It was tinny and uncertain.
“Yes. Who’s there?”
“It’s me. Eddie.”
“Eddie? I don’t know anyone named Eddie.”
“That’s all right,” I replied. “I really don’t know anyone named Clarisse. But I’ve been looking for you a long time.”
A drop of water ran from my forehead and down my nose.
Silence. Then, after a moment or two …
“I guess I’ve been looking for you, too. Come on up.”
I heard the click of the lock releasing. Before stepping inside, I turned around and looked back. The rain had stopped. The sky was clearing. The tang of iodine hung thick in the air, along with the scent of ginger and plumeria. People were beginning to reappear. The streets gleamed, swept clean by the storm. The run-off flowed into the drains and, inevitably, merged with the warm, amniotic waters of the Pacific.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who divides his time between the wilds of Upstate New York and the more congenial climes of Honolulu, Hawaii. Most recently, his work has appeared in The Sci-Phi Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, Antipodean Sci-Fi, The Literary Fantasy Magazine, The Blotter Magazine and Freedom Fiction Journal.
Thunderstorms are somewhat rare on Oahu. The temperature seldom varies enough or quickly enough to goad the air into that particular form of violence. When they do come, they arrive with a kind of magnificence – loud, electric, otherworldly. Visitors often miss the magic. They grumble about the rain, about the loss of beach time. “Hey,” they say, “we get this at home.” Who can blame them? They came for sun and warm, gentle breezes, not Iowa weather disguised in a grass skirt and a lei.
Residents, on the other hand, know better. They grudgingly welcome the storm and the sharp crack of thunder riding the trade winds; the “liquid sunshine” and the jagged bolt of lightning ripping its way through a sky gone unaccountably black. It’s a reminder as well; the islands aren’t always soft.
Late one afternoon, during just such a storm, I felt something – something strange, something portentous – pull me outside. Living alone and with no real obligations to speak of, I was free to indulge such impulses. The usually bustling streets of Waikiki were awash and all-but deserted. Rain hammered the Ala Wai Canal, now invisible behind a curtain of water. Palm trees flailed like tortured animals. The usual dry susurration of their fronds had become a rasping chorus, insectile and urgent. The distant lights of Moiliili and St. Louis Heights on the mountainside to the north shimmered like a dream half-forgotten, distorted and surreal.
I was soaked within seconds, wandering without direction up and down the grid of streets that ran between Ala Wai Boulevard and Kuhio Avenue. Thunder cracked overhead as I trod the faded heart of Waikiki. Then, in the flash of a particularly vicious bolt of lightning, I had the proverbial epiphany. I knew what I had to do.
I began entering condo buildings, dripping pools of water in the foyers as I pressed intercom buttons more-or-less at random. In the old days, you’d need a doorman’s permission to enter. I wondered how I would have managed back then.
“Clarisse, is that you?” I’d ask in a disembodied voice.
“Wrong unit, brah. No ‘Clarisse’ here.”
Not everyone was so polite.
“Get lost, asshole. You gotta try harder than that!”
So much for Polynesian hospitality. I pressed on, literally and figuratively.
Eventually, I came to a mid-century building with windswept palms, a coral walkway, a porte-cochere like something out of a vintage postcard or travel brochure. I chose a button. I was more deliberate this time. The name below the intercom had faded and was illegible.
“Aloha, Clarisse, are you home?”
There was a pause. Then a voice. It was tinny and uncertain.
“Yes. Who’s there?”
“It’s me. Eddie.”
“Eddie? I don’t know anyone named Eddie.”
“That’s all right,” I replied. “I really don’t know anyone named Clarisse. But I’ve been looking for you a long time.”
A drop of water ran from my forehead and down my nose.
Silence. Then, after a moment or two …
“I guess I’ve been looking for you, too. Come on up.”
I heard the click of the lock releasing. Before stepping inside, I turned around and looked back. The rain had stopped. The sky was clearing. The tang of iodine hung thick in the air, along with the scent of ginger and plumeria. People were beginning to reappear. The streets gleamed, swept clean by the storm. The run-off flowed into the drains and, inevitably, merged with the warm, amniotic waters of the Pacific.
James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who divides his time between the wilds of Upstate New York and the more congenial climes of Honolulu, Hawaii. Most recently, his work has appeared in The Sci-Phi Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, Antipodean Sci-Fi, The Literary Fantasy Magazine, The Blotter Magazine and Freedom Fiction Journal.
The Disciple
by Oscar Wilde
And when they saw that the pool had changed from a cup of sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, they loosened the green tresses of their hair and cried to the pool and said, `We do not wonder that you should mourn in this manner for Narcissus, so beautiful was he.'
"But was Narcissus beautiful?" said the pool.
"Who should know that better than you?" answered the Oreads. "Us did he ever pass by, but you he sought for, and would lie on your banks and look down at you, and in the mirror of your waters he would mirror his own beauty."
And the pool answered, "But I loved Narcissus because, as he lay on my banks and looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I saw ever my own beauty mirrored."
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Oscar Wilde (1854 – 1900) was an Irish author, poet, and playwright, one of the most popular and influential playwrights in London in the early 1890s. Today, he is well-remembered for his novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray.
Just for fun, we occasionally publish vintage stories from historic authors.
When Narcissus died the pool of his pleasure changed from a cup of sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, and the Oreads came weeping through the woodland that they might sing to the pool and give it comfort.
And when they saw that the pool had changed from a cup of sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, they loosened the green tresses of their hair and cried to the pool and said, `We do not wonder that you should mourn in this manner for Narcissus, so beautiful was he.'
"But was Narcissus beautiful?" said the pool.
"Who should know that better than you?" answered the Oreads. "Us did he ever pass by, but you he sought for, and would lie on your banks and look down at you, and in the mirror of your waters he would mirror his own beauty."
And the pool answered, "But I loved Narcissus because, as he lay on my banks and looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I saw ever my own beauty mirrored."
Oscar Wilde (1854 – 1900) was an Irish author, poet, and playwright, one of the most popular and influential playwrights in London in the early 1890s. Today, he is well-remembered for his novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray.
I Can Count
creative nonfiction
by Marie Cloutier
We're nine and it's huge in my friend Heather's hand, the red calculator, raised white numbers and a white cat whose face you slide to open it. I can count... I release the clasp on my fake pearl bracelet, yard sale hoard. "Trade you." She looks at the calculator, at me, gauging worth. "Let me see." I hand it over. Plastic beads overflow her little girl hand. "I don't know." Please, I think. Please. I wait, my breath aching. Can she tell? Counting seconds. She ponders. She weighs the bracelet, pursing pink lips. "Okay," and gives it over, my treasure.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Marie Cloutier (she/her) writes about girlhood and womanhood and complicated loves and losses. Her work has appeared in Bending Genres, Dorothy Parker's Ashes, the Sheepshead Review and elsewhere. She is at work on a memoir. Her website is www.mariecloutier.com.
by Marie Cloutier
We're nine and it's huge in my friend Heather's hand, the red calculator, raised white numbers and a white cat whose face you slide to open it. I can count... I release the clasp on my fake pearl bracelet, yard sale hoard. "Trade you." She looks at the calculator, at me, gauging worth. "Let me see." I hand it over. Plastic beads overflow her little girl hand. "I don't know." Please, I think. Please. I wait, my breath aching. Can she tell? Counting seconds. She ponders. She weighs the bracelet, pursing pink lips. "Okay," and gives it over, my treasure.
Marie Cloutier (she/her) writes about girlhood and womanhood and complicated loves and losses. Her work has appeared in Bending Genres, Dorothy Parker's Ashes, the Sheepshead Review and elsewhere. She is at work on a memoir. Her website is www.mariecloutier.com.
Your Ad-Free Experience
Following the recent incident that caused subscribers to see unfortunate ads (not chosen by us), we "upgraded" to a "premium plan" with follow.it, to spare our subscribers from being spammed.
Now, more than ever, we hope flash fiction fans will take advantage of the opportunity to support is by making a small voluntary donation through Ko-Fi. Thanks!
Now, more than ever, we hope flash fiction fans will take advantage of the opportunity to support is by making a small voluntary donation through Ko-Fi. Thanks!
We Didn't Send You An Ad For Weed!
It has come to our attention that subscribers using the follow.it service, received an ad that was labeled as being posted by Sudden Flash. The ad was for mariijuana sold online.
WE DID NOT POST THAT AD! As you can see, this site does not contain advertising of any kind.
We are currently investigating this incident.
WE DID NOT POST THAT AD! As you can see, this site does not contain advertising of any kind.
We are currently investigating this incident.
On Being Phil Marlowe
by James C. Clar
Detective Spangler moved behind my chair. Breeze, his partner, stood in front and said, “We’ve got two stiffs connected to the Matthews dame you’re working for. It’s time to spill what you know.”
“Sure. And to hell with detective-client confidentiality, right? Go pound salt!”
Spangler’s sap hit just behind my ear. From the floor I watched the dust motes dance gaily in the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the window of my office.
Marlowe, I thought, you’re an ass. It’s like you’re always playing out a scene in some cheap dime novel. You really need to mature as a character!
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who divides his time between Upstate New York and the mean streets of Honolulu, Hawaii.
Detective Spangler moved behind my chair. Breeze, his partner, stood in front and said, “We’ve got two stiffs connected to the Matthews dame you’re working for. It’s time to spill what you know.”
“Sure. And to hell with detective-client confidentiality, right? Go pound salt!”
Spangler’s sap hit just behind my ear. From the floor I watched the dust motes dance gaily in the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the window of my office.
Marlowe, I thought, you’re an ass. It’s like you’re always playing out a scene in some cheap dime novel. You really need to mature as a character!
James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who divides his time between Upstate New York and the mean streets of Honolulu, Hawaii.
Gilbert’s
by Jeff Nazzaro
I hadn’t seen a doctor in years, but then I lucked into a job that offered health insurance, so I chose a primary care physician from the health insurance company website and, though I felt fine, made an appointment for a check-up. Part of the physical was a blood test. A few days later, I had a voicemail on my phone: “Mr. Lacroix, this is Carmelita from Dr. Golden’s office. Could you please call me back so we can discuss your lab results?”
I’ll admit, out of fear I didn’t want to, but I called back. There was an anomaly, it seemed. My bilirubin levels were a little high, and they wanted me to come in for a retest on an empty stomach. I went in at seven the next morning, no breakfast, no coffee even, very little sleep, and looked away as the phlebotomist drew a fresh tube of blood from my arm. Three days later, another voicemail from Carmelita. We played tag for a couple of days. When we connected, she delivered Dr. Golden’s diagnosis: Gilbert’s Syndrome.
I knew it! I always knew I had something, something horrible and incurable, named after a hyphenated pair of famous virologists or an athlete, like Creutzfeldt-Jakob or Lou Gehrig’s disease. This explained everything. I was dying a slow, horrible death. I wouldn’t live to see forty. Okay, I was forty-three, but I definitely wasn’t seeing fifty. I would waste away, suffer, and die.
“What does that mean?”
It meant, Carmelita explained, that I had elevated levels of bilirubin in my liver. There were usually no symptoms, and there was no known treatment. I looked it up. All true. Wikipedia said Gilbert’s Syndrome had been discovered by a Frenchman, from which I deduced that Carmelita and I had been saying it wrong. There was a little something about jaundice. Also, in addition to his eponymous complex, Napoleon had it. I already knew he was French. More or less. My girlfriend was relieved. She’d first been concerned, then relieved, and finally just unimpressed. She definitely was not amused when I tried to get out of doing the dishes by claiming my Gilbert’s Syndrome was acting up.
I am coming to terms with being a Gilbert’s Syndrome sufferer, or, I should say, survivor. I now have a retort for the accusations of hypochondria that have dogged me through several doomed relationships with women. I remember the whites of my eyes appearing yellow for a period of time some years back, based on the fact that a few people made remarks like, “Wow, your eyes are yellow,” and now I know why. Oh, to have seen the looks on their faces when I said, “Of course my eyes are yellow. I have Gilbert’s Syndrome. Do you go around telling those with dwarfism they’re short? Hey, guy with emphysema, little trouble breathing over there?”
I even found an online support group, the People for Action on Gilbert’s Syndrome, based in the UK. Folks of all ages post on their website, blaming their worldly problems on their Gilbert’s Syndrome diagnoses. I read their posts and wonder if they use the English or French pronunciation of Gilbert when they talk about his syndrome in real life or hear it in their heads as they type or read, but mostly I just sit and peruse and think how wonderful it is that the site exists. I might even try posting there myself. I have worldly problems, too, after all, and I’ve always wanted something to blame them on. I’ve always wanted a group I could call my own.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Jeff Nazzaro teaches creative writing at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles. His flash fiction has appeared in numerous print and online publications, including Every Day Fiction, Brilliant Flash Fiction, and Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine.
I hadn’t seen a doctor in years, but then I lucked into a job that offered health insurance, so I chose a primary care physician from the health insurance company website and, though I felt fine, made an appointment for a check-up. Part of the physical was a blood test. A few days later, I had a voicemail on my phone: “Mr. Lacroix, this is Carmelita from Dr. Golden’s office. Could you please call me back so we can discuss your lab results?”
I’ll admit, out of fear I didn’t want to, but I called back. There was an anomaly, it seemed. My bilirubin levels were a little high, and they wanted me to come in for a retest on an empty stomach. I went in at seven the next morning, no breakfast, no coffee even, very little sleep, and looked away as the phlebotomist drew a fresh tube of blood from my arm. Three days later, another voicemail from Carmelita. We played tag for a couple of days. When we connected, she delivered Dr. Golden’s diagnosis: Gilbert’s Syndrome.
I knew it! I always knew I had something, something horrible and incurable, named after a hyphenated pair of famous virologists or an athlete, like Creutzfeldt-Jakob or Lou Gehrig’s disease. This explained everything. I was dying a slow, horrible death. I wouldn’t live to see forty. Okay, I was forty-three, but I definitely wasn’t seeing fifty. I would waste away, suffer, and die.
“What does that mean?”
It meant, Carmelita explained, that I had elevated levels of bilirubin in my liver. There were usually no symptoms, and there was no known treatment. I looked it up. All true. Wikipedia said Gilbert’s Syndrome had been discovered by a Frenchman, from which I deduced that Carmelita and I had been saying it wrong. There was a little something about jaundice. Also, in addition to his eponymous complex, Napoleon had it. I already knew he was French. More or less. My girlfriend was relieved. She’d first been concerned, then relieved, and finally just unimpressed. She definitely was not amused when I tried to get out of doing the dishes by claiming my Gilbert’s Syndrome was acting up.
I am coming to terms with being a Gilbert’s Syndrome sufferer, or, I should say, survivor. I now have a retort for the accusations of hypochondria that have dogged me through several doomed relationships with women. I remember the whites of my eyes appearing yellow for a period of time some years back, based on the fact that a few people made remarks like, “Wow, your eyes are yellow,” and now I know why. Oh, to have seen the looks on their faces when I said, “Of course my eyes are yellow. I have Gilbert’s Syndrome. Do you go around telling those with dwarfism they’re short? Hey, guy with emphysema, little trouble breathing over there?”
I even found an online support group, the People for Action on Gilbert’s Syndrome, based in the UK. Folks of all ages post on their website, blaming their worldly problems on their Gilbert’s Syndrome diagnoses. I read their posts and wonder if they use the English or French pronunciation of Gilbert when they talk about his syndrome in real life or hear it in their heads as they type or read, but mostly I just sit and peruse and think how wonderful it is that the site exists. I might even try posting there myself. I have worldly problems, too, after all, and I’ve always wanted something to blame them on. I’ve always wanted a group I could call my own.
Jeff Nazzaro teaches creative writing at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles. His flash fiction has appeared in numerous print and online publications, including Every Day Fiction, Brilliant Flash Fiction, and Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine.
You Had Time
by Heather Wyatt
The walk to school is seven minutes from my house. The first bell rings at 7:24. I start walking at 7:14, a total of ten minutes, so I can swing by my locker, grab my composition notebook, and head to Mrs. Freeman’s first-period English class. To my knowledge, I am the only senior who does not have a car. Also, to my knowledge, I am the only senior who lives in the Lakeside Villas trailer park. No lake or villa to be seen, though. This morning, I am wearing an Ani DiFranco t-shirt (thrifted), Nike joggers (stolen), and Old Navy flip-flops. I have knock-off earbuds in, and despite the t-shirt indicating better taste in music, I am listening to “Only Hope” by Mandy Moore. My backpack contains two pens, an Uncrustable, and the handwritten short story that is due today in English. I don’t have a printer, and I know that Mrs. Freeman hates that, but I don’t have another choice. The short story is about an unlikely girl who catches the attention of the quarterback of the football team. The girl has cancer and is dying, but they manage to fall in love before the end of the story. They even get married. Is it a rip-off of the movie A Walk to Remember? Yes, did I do it anyway? Also, yes. I just hope that Mrs. Freeman has never seen it. She has to be at least 60 so I think I am safe. I make my way to the parking lot of the school and as I cross it diagonally, I fail to look to my right. When that happens, Carter “Trey” Van Buren runs over my goddam foot with his pencil-dicked hand-me-down, jacked-up Chevy. He’s wearing his football jersey when he gets out and says, “What the fuck are you doing, dumbass?” My foot is definitely broken. In multiple places, probably. Someone heard everything and several teachers start running towards me. Before Carter parks and walks away I ask him to give Mrs. Freeman my essay. He just rolls his eyes and says, “I didn’t even know you were in my class.”
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Heather Wyatt is a writer and English instructor living in Birmingham, Alabama with her son, husband, and dog. Her first book, My Life Without Ranch, a non-fiction combo of self-help and memoir, was published in 2018 by 50/50 Press. Her poetry chapbook Call My Name, released in 2019, is available from The Poetry Box. Her poetry, essays, and a short story have been featured in numerous journals since 2006.
The walk to school is seven minutes from my house. The first bell rings at 7:24. I start walking at 7:14, a total of ten minutes, so I can swing by my locker, grab my composition notebook, and head to Mrs. Freeman’s first-period English class. To my knowledge, I am the only senior who does not have a car. Also, to my knowledge, I am the only senior who lives in the Lakeside Villas trailer park. No lake or villa to be seen, though. This morning, I am wearing an Ani DiFranco t-shirt (thrifted), Nike joggers (stolen), and Old Navy flip-flops. I have knock-off earbuds in, and despite the t-shirt indicating better taste in music, I am listening to “Only Hope” by Mandy Moore. My backpack contains two pens, an Uncrustable, and the handwritten short story that is due today in English. I don’t have a printer, and I know that Mrs. Freeman hates that, but I don’t have another choice. The short story is about an unlikely girl who catches the attention of the quarterback of the football team. The girl has cancer and is dying, but they manage to fall in love before the end of the story. They even get married. Is it a rip-off of the movie A Walk to Remember? Yes, did I do it anyway? Also, yes. I just hope that Mrs. Freeman has never seen it. She has to be at least 60 so I think I am safe. I make my way to the parking lot of the school and as I cross it diagonally, I fail to look to my right. When that happens, Carter “Trey” Van Buren runs over my goddam foot with his pencil-dicked hand-me-down, jacked-up Chevy. He’s wearing his football jersey when he gets out and says, “What the fuck are you doing, dumbass?” My foot is definitely broken. In multiple places, probably. Someone heard everything and several teachers start running towards me. Before Carter parks and walks away I ask him to give Mrs. Freeman my essay. He just rolls his eyes and says, “I didn’t even know you were in my class.”
Heather Wyatt is a writer and English instructor living in Birmingham, Alabama with her son, husband, and dog. Her first book, My Life Without Ranch, a non-fiction combo of self-help and memoir, was published in 2018 by 50/50 Press. Her poetry chapbook Call My Name, released in 2019, is available from The Poetry Box. Her poetry, essays, and a short story have been featured in numerous journals since 2006.
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