RE: Vignette 26 & 29 by Justin McElfresh

Re: Vignette 26

Call me a dick, maps. There are at the water closet of me. rather in principles have a bulb of a territory. no besides the lack Pissing on stars over pound your fist the seat. But of my care, I large momentum. Don't. them There are no I'm claiming my drop, all my head other the pages, the leaves, hands. I let the than electric

Re: Vignette 29

comma period comma period comma period period period period period period comma comma period period period period comma period period

by Justin McElfresh

Vignette 29

Sour milk drops landed on the ledge of the window sill where I sat, legs dangling to the ground which was 8 floors below. It was a parade day and if I had fallen, I would have hit others before touching cement. Balanced, I lifted my hands and threw out little sprigs of basil. There was no confetti in my house. We had no television and the neighbors fought over their daughter's college tuition. The sun was hidden by a cloud. My cat dipped his paw in his milk and he was shaking and shaking to dry off the wetness. I wanted my brother to bring me the sandwich that he promised. Below, I found the top of his hat moving against the grain, the size of a button. He opened the door to our building. My cat jumped onto the ledge and began to lick the painted wood. I wondered which one of us was hungrier. When he started to chew on my pile of basil, I decided it was him. My brother's keys rattled in the lock and I pulled my legs back inside.

Vignette 28

Thankfully, the clouds rolled in. The sky turned silver. The grass felt cool. The worms rose to where the eye can see. The slight caress of electricity crossed over the hairs of our arms and all of the dogs in the neighborhood began to bark. If this change hadn't happened so noticeably, I would not have found myself lying in your arms, wrapped in a blanket, wondering what the next day would bring, with a hint of fear in my eyes. You did not even know my name, Wyeth.

Vignette 27

Dolly had a little mouse who she would chase around the room until she got tired. The mouse would squeak in a deep tone, uncommon to mice. It sounded like a bassoon mixed with a roll of thunder. Dolly liked to mimic this sound, which sounded more like a harmonica mixed with a heavy window closing. Dolly named her mouse Mirky. If it weren't for the candle in the corner of her room, she wouldn't know whether the sound she heard was the voice of God or Mirky.

Vignette 26

There are no principles in my hands. I let them drop, all of the leaves, the pages, the maps. There are no stars over my head other than the electric bulb of a water closet. Call me a dick, I'm claiming my territory. Pissing on the seat. But besides the lack of care, I have a rather large momentum. Don't pound your fist at me.

Re: Vignette 24 by Meadowlark Bradsher

Or here's the LINK

Re: Vignette 18 by Raymie Iadevaia

Meet Raymie Iadevaia: http://www.raymieiadevaia.com
Based on Vignette 18

Janey Smith's Vignettes are up on Everyday Genius

Here's the link:
http://www.everyday-genius.com/2010/07/janey-smith.html
Thanks to Janey for her candid appropriation of my writing and her consideration for this project.

VIGNETTES: SHORT FICTIONS ON MY LIFE AS A CHEERLEADER BY ERICA ELLER by JANEY SMITH

1. The light of the slide projector . . .

The light blinded me. I looked out into this thing, saw all these people.
I stood there. There was this bird. It said, “Tweet, tweet.” I held the
bird in my hand. The bird looked small, like you. But, you were
nowhere, though. So, I took the subway. There was a man on the
speaker said, “Tweet, tweet.” The bird got scared, bumped into a
window, fluttered its wings, got caught for a second in the door. I said,
“Oh, shit.” The bird didn’t know what to do, I think. The train stopped,
the door opened. It flew. It flew and it flew. I got up real fast to go find
it, bumped into something, found you.

2. I walked to the top of the stairs . . .

I walked to the top of the stairs, stopped in front of the locked door,
knocked and listened for your footsteps. You knocked back. I could
hear your voice, kind of, thought you said, “Help.” I ran down stairs to
find hammer to break door down, find you. When I came back, I got
lost. The stairs were all messed up. The door which was there was
thirty feet up in the air, in a tree. You kept knocking, though. I looked
at the sky, saw bits of my pom pom, I think. I started to believe
strange things. Started to believe that maybe my pom pom took you
away. I played with a loose thread on my skirt, the one you liked. I am
afraid of what might happen if I keep trying to stand on Marsha’s
shoulders.

3. The light shone through the branches . . .

Light shone through branches. Then, my pom pom’s shadow,
blended with branches, swooped into sky. My pom pom traveled
super fast, made me think about life, if I still had my bus pass. I put
my arms out with longing eyes, watched my pom pom disappear. It
came back, flew away again. I was happy to watch it do that. I kept
my arms out. We would soon share the darkness, I thought.

4. The birds lifted in a storming flock . . .

The baby birds lifted their little wings, flapped wildly like moths stuck
on my cell phone light. I tried to call Marsha. The baby birds swooped
all around me, made me feel light-headed, like a million spinning
halos on my hair. I stood there, waited for the bus. The woman next
to me stood there, waited for the bus. The baby birds stood on the
bus stop hutch, singing happy songs. Cars passed. The cars made
the woman’s hem-line quiver. I studied her purse, carefully, noticed it
still contained my one pom pom that, I knew, she took from me. I
stepped towards her, grabbed the purse like a crazy woman, ran
away super fast, bits of pom pom floating in air. I went into an
alleyway, sat near a gated door, my pom pom slightly worn, but still
warm, still warm.

5. Sometimes I believe I am upside down . . .

Sometimes I am upside down. When sun moves through Marsha’s
hair at noon and I watch it, lying beneath her, doing my stretches, I
am upside down. When a fly lands on the wall in the gym, and I’m
alone listening to band practice, I am upside down. For me, a storm
on the sun is a fly on the wall. It moves a little, I believe, makes
shadows here on Earth, where I lose things, like a single, solitary
pom pom—alone and I am upside down.

Based on
Vignette 8
Vignette 9
Vignette 13
Vignette 14
Vignette 15

Re: Various by Justin McElfresh

Re: Vignette 22

the youngest chimera in a fanfare of five sat in the backfire secret of their six-secret aisle on its wean soviet. the lull of the proponent and the distant non-descript lap allowed her miniature to ward. as the aisle increased in amateur, her faun put on his pachyderm masseur, while the others had to endure the formality of the thinning airgun. the youngest femur asleep within ten misapprehensions. the midriff chimera femur asleep in thirteen misapprehensions. the eldest held on to her wakefulness by reaper a commando bookmark for twenty one misapprehensions. meanwhile, their faun, the pinch, put the aisle into automat pinch. soon thereafter, his co-pinch, their motor, had drifted into a stroll of light-year dressmakers. without knowing that his airgun-masseur was defunct, the pinch femur asleep, last of all. together, they shared a flipper of mild dressmakers for forty five misapprehensions, in the tiny carafe suspended in airgun, 15,000 footmen above the grouse. after that periwinkle of timpanist, a mirror spark of turbulence woke them all. when he regained his bearings, the pinch maneuvered the aisle closer to the east where the ample pachyderm would no longer threaten to seize their conservatives.

Re: Vignette 13

- .... . / .-.. .. --. .... - / ... .... --- -. . / - .... .-. --- ..- --. .... / - .... . / -... .-. .- -. -.-. .... . ... .-.-.- / .- - / ..-. .. .-. ... - / .. / -.. .. -.. -. .----. - / ... . . / - .... . / --- .-- .-.. .-.-.- / - .... . / -... .. .-. -.. .----. ... / ... .. .-.. .... --- ..- . - - . / -... .-.. . -. -.. . -.. / .. -. / .-- .. - .... / - .... . / -... .-. .- -. -.-. .... . ... / ..- -. - .. .-.. / .. - / ... .-- --- --- .--. . -.. / ..- .--. / .. -. - --- / - .... . / ... -.- -.-- .-.-.- / .. - / - .-. .- ...- . .-.. .-.. . -.. / ..-. .- ... - . .-. / - .... .- -. / .. / . -..- .--. . -.-. - . -.. / .- -. / --- .-- .-.. / - --- / - .-. .- ...- . .-.. .-.-.- / .. / .-- .- -. - . -.. / - --- / --. --- / .-- .. - .... / .. - / - --- / .. - ... / -. . -..- - / .--. . .-. -.-. .... .-.-.- / .-- .. - .... / .-.. --- -. --. .. -. --. / . -.-- . ... --..-- / .. / .-- .- - -.-. .... . -.. / .. - / -.. .. ... .- .--. .--. . .- .-. / ..-. .-. --- -- / ... .. --. .... - .-.-.- / .- ..-. - . .-. / .. - / ..-. .-.. . .-- / .- .-- .- -.-- / .. / .-- .- ... / .... .- .--. .--. -.-- / .--- ..- ... - / - --- / -.- -. --- .-- / - .... .- - / - .... . .-. . / .-- .- ... / .- -. / --- .-- .-.. / .. -. / - .... . / .-- --- --- -.. ... --..-- / -. . .- .-. -... -.-- .-.-.- / - .... . / - .-- .. .-.. .. --. .... - / -... . --. .- -. / - --- / ..-. .- -.. . / .- -. -.. / .-- . / .-- --- ..- .-.. -.. / ... --- --- -. / ... .... .- .-. . / - .... . / -.. .- .-. -.- -. . ... ... .-.-.-

Re: Vignette 10

and and and and are are away back because but but could gone have hoped i i i i i i i i i'm if in in inseparable it it middle middle night night no not not of of realized stop stop stop stopped stopping sure tell that that the the the the the the the the the then thinking to to want want war war war war war was way went went where wondered would you you you you you you you

Find Justin McElfresh online:
http://roughdraftjustin.blogspot.com

Re: Vignette 6 by Damon Smith

Based on Vignette 6

Find Damon Smith online.
See the Video on YouTube for larger viewing options.

We Who are About to Die features Vignette Fictions

We Who are about to Die posted a friendly feature about Vignette Fictions thanks to Dan Lichtenberg. Thanks to Dan for the kind words.

Re: Various by Brent C. Johnson (and his friend)

Re: Vignette 23

Re: Vignette 18

Re: Vignette 17

Re: Vignette 15

Re: Vignette 12


Re: Vignette 10

Re: Vignette 9

Re: Vignette 8

Re: Vignette 7

Re: Vignette 6

Re: Vignette 5

Re: Vignette 3

Re: Vignette 2

Re: Vignette 7 by Sarah Borruso

Fragments From the Top of My Head

All of this amounts to everything.

Black holes
Yellow ceiling

Invisible hands
Shadow puppets

Cold feet
Dusty knees

Autopilot circulation
Stiff neck

Tall tales
Small thoughts

Big gossip
Hot air

Where were you?
Where was I?

You are a memory
Real
Unreal
Here
There
Inside my head.

Based on Vignette 7

Re: Vignette 3 by Kayvon Ghashghai and EE

"The paths my footsteps take in the world will never reveal how their course has affected the outcome. I run to keep going. If I stop to think, I'll probably lose time."

Based on Vignette 3

Vignette 26

My shrunken head sat cooling in a glass jar by the window. Above the distant fog, I could see the emerald spires of the city rise up. In the evening, my maid would lay me to rest amid the tentacles of an amorphous machine where I would wait in artificial lament for my meager paycheck. I had never felt more alone.

Re: Vignette 1 by Alisa Golden

Based on Vignette 1

Re: Vignette 1/Vignette 22 by Natacha Ruck

So what if I lied. The girl needed a push. You wouldn’t believe it to see her now, addressing the crowd of her followers from Jakarta to Glasgow, her bare feet drumming their hearts into action, but she was such a cautious child. And lazy. Always counting the steps it took her. She’d refill her glass at the bathroom sink if her brother and sister had pushed her to the right end of the couch.

Hagiographers will tell you that it was only her first phase, that rational way of apprehending the world, counting, listing, categorizing, but the bottom line is she always ended up picking the easy path. I know, I raised her. It was as if she tried to use the least amount of energy–of air–that her body needed.

So when the oxygen ran out and I almost crashed that damn plane, it was no wonder she stayed conscious the longest. Back then, she barely breathed. I woke up from the bump –thank God for autopilot– and I saw her grey eyes staring at me. That’s what rattled me the most. She was awake. Watching herself die; watching us die. Were we not worth the effort? In that computer brain of hers was there no room for the value of life?

So I told her the story of the dog and the bird. That’s what dads do. It was a lie, but it made sense at the time. And she ran with it. Those six years on the Island really changed her. Maybe it was being in a such a small circle of land surrounded with water, with just us to make sense of. Once she had listed and categorized everything she became free maybe not to care and to love, but to connect, to channel and give back.

And to take on the world, one bird at a time.

Based on Re: Vignette 22 by Dia Felix

Also based on Vignette 1

Re: Vignette 22 by Dia Felix

Dad regained consciousness just in time to pull back on the clutch and lift the plane back up toward the sky. We had been heading right for the rocks. It would have been the end of us. I was the only one awake, until the sudden uphill re-roused mom and three of my siblings. (The youngest, the only boy, stayed asleep, his gameboy limp in his hands). Dad landed the plane softly and smoothly on a white beach, the iconic sort of island landscape you might expect to see in an advertisement for a Mexican beer. Mom was patting Dad on the back as he vomited, overcome with emotional distress. Sarah, Sri Racha, and Wilemus, my three sisters, were standing, drawing things in the sand with a stick. Rudy, the youngest, the boy, was still buckled into the plane, asleep. I walked around to different trees, slicing things open with my little knife. Seeds in thick black syrup, orange pulpy guts, rubbery bark, sour smells, sweet rich smells, I probed and discovered, starting an invisible taxonomy in my mind--things that wanted to be eaten, things that might hold drinkable water. I was ready to survive this. Although I had been equally ready to die. I had seen us heading for the rocks and had not protested.

Often I had wondered if I was some kind of guru figure, maybe this was supportive evidence.

Mom was comforting Dad. I heard her use the way of speaking that she often used with us when we needed her, when we were acting like babies. I had never heard her use it with Dad, or maybe any other adult. Something like, "You did the best you could, Ted," and "We're gonna be alright now," and "It's not your fault, it was that mechanic" and "let's let the spirit guide us through."

At night it was totally silent. I never slept, which is probably since I am some kind of guru figure like I said before. We were in the plane, asleep in our seats under thin blankets. In the middle-seed of the night, I heard small high chirps coming out of the water. I slowly got out of the plane, not wanting to rouse anyone. I walked into the ocean like a slow self-guided baptism. I was magnetized to something wordless, I felt in the hands of god. I went in deeper and deeper, until the water was over my head. I felt little teeny dolphins swimming around my ankles, playing with me.

Based on Vignette 22

Re: Vignette 20 by (Anonymous)

When I was a child, my dad did not care to read my writing because he said it held no weight. My mom read everything I wrote and told me I had talent. When my dad passed away I was helping my mother by clearing out the attic and found old books with my father’s handwriting. Pages and pages of stories written and re-written, some crossed out with heavy disappointment, others were smeared by what seemed to be tear drops, all carried the tune of “not good enough”. As I continued to clear a path, I found a book my mother had written. It was published by a small company outside of Boston and it was filled with stories of hope, love and happiness. When I asked her about it she replied, “that was nothing, but you are everything”. I would like to believe what my mom said, but my dad was usually right. I continue to write for no one, as though my writing holds no weight.

Based on Vignette 20