Tears and a Spelling Test

by Godfrey Green

Mrs. Lewis ushered Artur along the hallway. I noticed tears in his eyes.

"Why, he's crying!" I said. "What happened, Artur?"

"He got 90 on his spelling test," said Mrs. Lewis."

"So, why's he crying?"

"Maybe because his cousin Radion got 100."

I reached out to Artur. (I was sitting in a chair next to CJ, who I had been helping with his math.) I pulled the tearful 7-year-old boy to me. Mrs. Lewis went into her classroom, leaving Artur with me. I took hold of his shoulders and looked into his beautiful wet blue eyes.

"Why are you crying, Artur? 90's a good mark--a very good mark."

He just stared at me, the tears trickling down his cheeks.

"You used to get marks like 40 and now you got 90. Artur, that's very good! You should be very happy with yourself!"

I found myself picking at him, preening. I straightened his cuffs, noticing how dirty they were. He looked at my hand, watched everything, but never changed his expression or made a sound. I retrieved a tissue from my pocket and dabbed at his eyes.

"You look so unhappy, Artur. I don't like to see you so unhappy."

I pulled him into me and gave him a little hug. People were passing, but I didn't pay attention to them.

"You want to be perfect," I said. "Nobody's perfect." I brushed some lint off his ragged pale blue sweater. "Even your mother and your father make mistakes. Mrs. Lewis makes mistakes. Don't you think Mrs. Lewis makes mistakes?" "He wants to be an angel," I said to CJ, gently rocking Artur. There are no angels on earth. You're only a person. That's all you can be. You do the best you can. That's all you can do. Tell him, CJ. Doesn't everyone make mistakes?"

"Yes," said CJ.

"You won't get 100 every time. Sometimes you'll get 100, sometimes 90, sometimes 80. Even 80 is a good mark, Artur. You used to get 40."

All the while, he said not a word, just stared at me as if in wonder. But the tears had stopped. I stroked and caressed him, held him as if he were a dainty doll that I didn't want to break. He stood so arrow-straight.

"Let's see a smile," I said. I stroked his forehead and under his chin. But he only stared so earnestly with those clear blue eyes.

His breath was better than usual. In fact I didn't even notice it. His skin was so fair. I could see little veins in his face. I didn't know kids had those veins.

CJ sat quietly regarding us. I realized he was probably jealous of the attention I was giving to Artur, but I couldn't help it.

"Artur, be happy that you got 90!" I shook him gently. "A lot of kids got much less than that. You studied and you got a good mark. Be happy!"

Mrs. Lewis came to the door. "Artur, it's lunch time," she called.

I let go of him. He ran into the room.

I sat for a minute. This is what I always wanted, I thought--to comfort a child. My fantasy fulfilled.

I got up slowly and went into the classroom. Artur sat at his desk, alone, crying. "He's still crying!" I said.

Mrs. Lewis came in. "Let him sit and think a while," she said. "Soon he'll realize that he's hungry and then he'll forget about the spelling test. Children cry one minute and they laugh the next.”

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Godfrey Green is a former librarian, currently teaching and being a friend to children. He also assists ESL adults with English. He has published two books of poetry, Toward Freedom and Singing on Subways.

 

Broken But Unbent

by Ed Davis

“Hey,” I said to the pretty young redhead walking the corgi, “do you know whose bike this is?”

She nodded gravely. “Ursula Davenport’s.”

“Well,” I responded huffily, “Ursula should come and get it.”

It was leaning against a tree in the boulevard several blocks from the house I’d bought in Trevor City back in the spring after Henry died. The ugly thing hadn’t moved since I’d begun taking daily walks, once I’d settled in. The redhead flicked her gaze between me and the dog, poop bag at the ready.

“Ursula can’t. She’s dead.”

Damn. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied. “What happened to her?”

“She wrecked.” The woman pointed one long-nailed violet finger. “On that thing. Ursula was following some construction truck. It stopped. She didn’t.”

Now I saw that the front tire was barely attached to the frame. I could imagine it as if it were happening before my eyes. Screech, scream, crash. Silence.

“Head injury?”

She nodded.

“Was Ursula young?”

“No. More like your age.”

She didn’t bat a fake eyelash as she said it. I wondered how old she thought me to be. Since the cancer, I mostly didn’t recognize the woman in my mirror.

“Did you know her very—”

“Nope. She had a dog, mixed-breed, mostly Beagle, for a while, but she took it to the shelter when she couldn’t remember to walk or feed it.”

I nodded, wondering how Ms. Redhead knew all this. But it was a small town. Would my health issues soon be common knowledge, like Ursula’s declining memory? I imagined Ursula: a graying short haircut, a wool poncho in brilliant colors, sunken eyes, brave smile she’d used to get through six decades, depending on how old this child thought I was.

“Do you think,” I said, “anyone would mind if I took the bike and fixed it up?”

“I’d say go for it.”

Now the corgi was kicking dirt backward. While we weren’t looking, it had done the deed. Departure was imminent.

“I think I will. In fact—”

But after a fast, practiced scoop into her bag, Redhead strode away fast, as if old age might be contagious. I bent, feeling again the emptiness in my chest. How long before I no longer mourned what the surgeon had taken from me (both breasts just to be sure)?

The bike weighed no more than my small wheelbarrow. Now I imagined Ursula gardening before a modest blue clapboard house, planting bulbs for next season, which she never saw. I always planted annuals: lots of beauty NOW. Next year, if there’d be one, could take care of itself.

I steadied the broken thing. The frame looked solid, unbent. The bike had good bones; a new tire and it’d be good as—well, not new, never that again. The chain guard and fenders were rusty. I guided the contraption in the direction of my house as if it were made of glass, as if Ursula were clinging to my other arm, bleeding from her cut forehead, neither of us yet aware how serious her injury would prove to be.

Standing up straighter, I slowed, no longer caring who saw me guiding the dead woman’s bike toward my home, where my late husband’s tools would bring back to life this machine I’d ride toward my own death.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Ed Davis has immersed himself in writing since retiring from college teaching. Recently, he’s been publishing flash fiction at venues such as Flash Fiction Magazine, Sky Island Journal, Every Day Fiction and Literally Stories. He walks daily within the bucolic village of Yellow Springs, Ohio, where he lives.

 

Hardening of the Arteries

Creative Non-fiction
by John RC Potter

When her husband passed away after a brief battle with cancer my grandmother tried to lift him up from the casket.

Five years passed.

She was found wandering around town during the winter, without a coat. Her family reluctantly put my grandmother in what was then known as an "old people’s home."

Grandma had what was referred to at the time as "hardening of the arteries."

Visiting her became a chore; eventually my grandmother did not recognise anyone, not even my father. Although Dad faithfully continued his weekly visits to his mother, my sister and I did not; our teenage lives took precedence. A few years went by.

Then curiosity and guilt.

Finally, my sister and I went to visit. The nurse brought a woman to us: wheelchair-bound; a wizened, hunched over old crone, eyes still periwinkle blue, but vacant.

I thought of the song, "Is That All There Is?"

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
John RC Potter is an international educator from Canada who lives in Istanbul. His story, “Ruth’s World” was a Pushcart Prize nominee, and his poem, “Tomato Heart” was nominated for the Best of the Net Award. The author has a gay-themed children’s picture book that is scheduled for publication. He is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Website / Twitter

 

If Love is a Battle

by Judith Taburet

She sat on her bed in the dark, gasping from the same nightmare.

He had shoved her hard against the wall. Then came the kick—sharp, brutal—straight to her stomach. She remembered falling, crumpling to the ground with her daughter clinging to her. “Mam! Mam!” her daughter screamed. But the sound grew distant, as if it were being pulled away. She couldn’t see clearly—only her daughter’s mouth, open in a silent cry, and blood trickling from her lips.

She jolted awake, heart pounding. Air scraped her throat. Her world was spinning. She pressed her palm to her stomach, “Hhhkk! Hhhkk!!”

She wanted to vomit, vomit the suffering, vomit her womb. Her heart swelled, fighting with herself.

Moonlight slanted through the cracked shutters. A breeze stirred the curtain. Then in quiet, she made a vow: Never again.

She rose, barefoot. Crept through the hallway. The house was old, too full of ghosts. Full of him.

At least I can protect my child. She thought.

She went to her mother. She reached the bedroom door. And paused. She swallowed hard. Then knocked.

Toc! Toc! It's me! She whispered. Toc! Breath!

Her mother was sitting upright in bed. Candlelight flickered on the desk by the window, Casting a soft glow across the room.

"I need your help, Mother," she said softly. "Take her. Raise her far from all of this. She needs a safe place—away from my world."

Her mother looked at her for a long moment, then sighed. "Then you have to leave him," she said. "You have to let him go."

"But I love him," she whispered, her voice breaking.

Love. Hate. Love. Kiss. Kick. Kiss.

Her heart was swelling and bleeding. Then she made a vow.

If love is a battle, I would be the last one standing.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Judy T is a writer and photographer hailing from Madagascar, now based in France. Drawing from a rich legacy of advocacy, she infuses her art with a sense of purpose. Inspired by her father, an influential writer who courgeously fought against prejudice and racism in their homeland . Judy T channels her creative voice to shed light on women's stories and Malagasy culture. Her work, both in prose and photography, delves into strong experiences, ensuring they are told with unflinching honesty and strength.

 

The Unseen Echo: How Micro-Moments Shape Our Grand Narratives

essay
by Israel Temmie

The alarm clock shrilled, a tinny, insistent sound that shattered the predawn quiet. Most would swat it into submission, but for Sarah, it was different. That familiar buzz wasn't just a nuisance; it was the echo of a forgotten promise, a tiny tremor that would ultimately reshape her meticulously planned life. This is the essence of the micro-moment: a seemingly insignificant fraction of time, an unnoticed detail, a fleeting thought, that holds the unseen power to ripple outwards and redefine our grand narratives.

In a world saturated with information, where sprawling epics dominate, it's easy to overlook brevity's profound influence. Yet, history, art, and even our personal lives are replete with instances where a mere flicker of an event, a pithy remark, or a singular image, proved to be the catalyst for monumental change. "Sudden Flash," a publication dedicated to the potent art of short-form storytelling, champions the drabble and the dribble, the flash fiction and the concise non-fiction, not as mere exercises in brevity, but as powerful vehicles for profound human experience.

Consider the classic example of a single, unexpected kindness. A hurried commuter drops their wallet, and a stranger, without hesitation, stoops to pick it up, hands it back with a small smile, and continues on their way. For the recipient, a minor inconvenience averted. But for the giver, perhaps it was the first selfless act in months, a tiny crack in a wall of cynicism. Or for an observer, the spark of an idea, a reminder of humanity's grace. This micro-moment, almost imperceptible in a city morning, holds within it the seed of connection, empathy, or even a nascent shift in perspective. It's the unseen echo that reverberates long after the action is over.

The Art of Compression: More Than Just Word Count

The beauty of micro-moments in literature lies in their ability to imply vastness without explicit detail. A perfectly crafted piece of flash fiction doesn’t tell you everything; it shows you just enough to ignite your imagination, allowing your mind to fill in the expansive gaps. It's an economy of language that doesn't sacrifice depth, but rather achieves depth through precision. This isn't about shortening a longer story; it's about identifying the absolute core, the critical hinge point, and then amplifying its resonance.

Think of a photograph. It captures a single instant, freezing time. Yet, a truly impactful photograph tells a story that stretches far beyond the frame. Microfiction operates similarly. A drabble about a forgotten teacup on a windowsill might, to the perceptive reader, evoke an entire life of routine, solitude, loss, or quiet contentment. The reader becomes an active participant, piecing together the larger narrative from the fragments provided.

This art of compression extends beyond fiction. In nonfiction, a brief anecdote or a pointed observation can crystallize a complex idea with far greater impact than pages of exposition. A single line from a pivotal speech, a brief diary entry, or a short, defiant letter can become condensed narratives, echoing the hopes, fears, and struggles of an entire era. Their brevity makes them memorable, quotable, and ultimately, more powerful. They become the "sudden flashes" that illuminate much larger historical currents.

Finding the Echo in the Everyday

So, how do we, as writers and as individuals, learn to recognize and harness the power of these micro-moments? It begins with heightened observation and a willingness to question the obvious. The mundane is often fertile ground for the profound. Look for the anomalies: a perfectly manicured garden with a single wilting rose. Listen to the silences: the pause before an answer, the held breath. Embrace the sensory: a specific scent triggering memories. Identify the tipping points: the exact moment everything shifted, a whispered word or a sudden realization.

The discipline of crafting micro-moments sharpens a writer's skills, forcing ruthless editing, mastering subtext, and understanding implication. These are skills that transfer to any form of writing. For readers, "Sudden Flash" offers unique value: a testament that profundity isn't measured in pages, but in impact. Each Wednesday, they release echoes, carefully curated moments designed to resonate and inspire. They are a reminder that the loudest truths are often whispered, the brightest flashes appear in the dark, and the most enduring stories begin with an unseen echo.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Israel Kolawole, writing as Temmie, is a travel and nature writer dedicated to illuminating the world’s lesser-known destinations and the splendour of the natural environment. Blending adventure with environmental insight, exploring the intersections of attention, time, and meaning. Find more of his work at mymainportfolio.carrd.co.

 

The Options

by David Sydney

In a clearing in Sherwood Forest, Robin Hood pondered what to do. He was a man of action but a little weak on pondering. So, it would be a group decision as to how the newly-formed Merry Men should proceed. As Friar Tuck, before lapsing off in an inebriated state, put it – what would be their "modus operandi"? With his bow, Robin drew the option lines in the dirt at his feet while Little John and Will Scarlet looked on. His heart was not fully in it yet, since Maid Marion hadn't arrived.

“As I see it, these are the choices.” He pointed to the four scratches as Little John counted on his fingers. “We can rob from the rich and give to the poor.” That was one. “We can rob from the poor and give to the rich. We can rob from the rich and just keep it. Or, we could rob from the poor and keep it.” As he came to his fourth finger, Little John mentioned that the rich wouldn't like it if they were robbed. He had experience with the rich. Will added that the poor wouldn't like it either. He knew them only too well.

The Friar stirred, mumbling that he too "grasped the gist of the conundrum". Little John didn't bother to ask what that meant. He folded his fingers into a fist.

Will turned a little, well, red, embarrassed that he couldn't keep up with the Friar's vocabulary, honed from Tuck's studies at the Friary in his adolescence. “How about we rob from the middle class?”

What the hell? Will and Little John had no idea what to say. It was as though they were struck dumb by another of the Friar's "cogitations"’. Robin grimaced. How many extra frown lines could he add to his face? “What are you talking about, Friar?”

Tuck wiped his mouth while shrugging his shoulders. He was the kind of person who could walk and chew at the same time. Had he been dreaming or hallucinating as Robin pondered? Didn't he realize he was dealing with a soon-to-be legendary figure of late 12th-century England? And Maid Marion, if she ever arrived, would be a second legendary figure, and a very attractive one. Yes, it was the 12th-century. Maybe the early 13th. He was apologetic. It must've been the elderberry wine that pickled his mind. "Middle class"? Who'd ever heard of such a ridiculous thing in England?

"Middle Class"? It was certainly no "socio-economic term" that the Friar ever heard at the Friary.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
David Sydney is a physician. He has had pieces in Little Old Lady Comedy, 101 Words, Microfiction Monday, 50 Give or Take, Friday Flash Fiction, Grey Sparrow Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, Disturb the Universe, R U Joking, Every Writer Magazine, Hotch Potch, Mad Swirl, Sip Cup, Literary Revelations Journal, and Rue Scribe.