Why is hell exotermic – flash fiction challenge

Took part in Chuck Wendig’s  flash fiction challenge again this week! This week the main theme was hell. It is open till 4/11 so you can still join! This time I decided to write a short experiment on form and themes. I hope it’s not too much of it, hahah. (remember kids, the only difference between fun and science is writing it down)

Have fun reading.

***

14th June 2011, I feel alive today.

The smell of thunder has never felt more refreshing. “Rain will wash away everything, if you let it,” Kay said, and she was right. For the first time in weeks I could exhale a city breeze, which is free of dust and everyday rush. Umbrellas are for suckers. I hit the streets this afternoon, wandering around with mouths wide open, wanted to feel raindrops sticking to my hair and eyelashes, cooling the skin down my neck. The rustle of the thunder drowned out the noise. I feel free. I feel alive.

13th June 2011, 3:30 A.M., I feel dead today.

13th June 2011, 3.A.M., a neighbor I met on Saturday knocked at my door. I must have been talking to myself. Screaming, as he put it in his words. He offered me a drink of Jack Daniels, handing me over a crystal glass. I don’t recall seeing a man of his taste in here. He said, he was just stopping by over the weekend. The man spoke in a foreign accent, wishing me a good death.

13th June 2011, 2:45 A.M. Day. I hate autocorrect.

13th June 2011, 2:30 A.M., my eyes refuse to cloth. Did I tell you, that I hate autocorrect? Now, my eyes refuse to close and the mind refuses to spell my name anymore. Good death, everyone, the never ending one.

13th June 2011, 2:15 A.M., googling “Is it possible not to feel one’s heartbeat?”

13th June 2011, 2.A.M., MY EYES REFUSE TO C-L-O-S-E.

13th June 2011, my eyes hurt and my heart ache, but they both refuse to surrender.

13th June 2011, I am not sure what reality is anymore. I was not sleeping for so long the whole weekend seems like a one long day. My eyes refuse to close as I lie down. They keep searching for the notes. I cannot believe I wrote them down all by myself. Now they seem to miss so many information. How one may possibly keep every fact in such a small storage of own mind? Is it even possible for this knowledge to reach out to the blank paper and leave an appropriate stamp?

12th June 2011, the other night I could not sleep, I swear I could feel my spine stiffening. I hope I may break free from this hard bed soon. The whole city keeps me like a cocoon, with my body inhaling the fumes of postindustrial broken dreams. I can see their dust in eyes of the citizens. They kept fighting with grit and fumes for ages – no surprise, this land raised up a troop of strongmen and strongwomen. They seem to be drawn to sunrise like a moth is drawn to a flickering nightlight.

I wish I could hide within their hive.

11th June 2011, I could not sleep at night. I tried to read the notes for the final exam, but only thing they do is asking me questions. I can hear their distracting murmur when I close my eyes. When the darkness comes the patterns are dimming. As I open the windows, I can see them in the lights of the city: leaves of grass in girl’s hair, a violent passion of lovers’ kiss, a machine-alike struggle of runner’s muscles, hiding from the predatory sight of skyscrapers’ lights. The papers I keep in my hand, flashing with a pink highlighter, seems to be screaming:

“What for?”

10th June 2011, 6.P.M., In the afternoon I met a neighbor in the elevator. Strange guy, but well-mannered and dressed smart. He had a lot of bags with him, said he was coming back from Paris, or Moscow, or maybe both. He told something about a revolution. Probably had a seminar. I hope, he was not one of the teachers at my university. Probably not, he seemed to cool for that. Our school is the one that not only God forgot about, but also the Devil.

10th June 2011, I don’t feel dead. I feel like the opposite of alive, though. My head swallows of the heat and the brightness of PC screen. My bed is covered in notes, which means that if I were to die of exhaustion tonight, at least the body would make a decent mummy. All that is left is the mix of rustling paper and my fingers’ rattle of aggressively striking the keyboard that is echoing in a lone room of mine. The hot air is stiffening in my lungs, and there is no wind to keep me company anymore. Every corner got swallowed by the heat wave. Best regards and greetings from hell.

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2 thoughts on “Why is hell exotermic – flash fiction challenge

  1. Świetnie się czytało, udał Ci się eksperyment z formą. Jest oryginalna, ale nieprzesadzona. A treść… niezbyt przyjemna, ale koniec/początek jest oczyszczający. Jestem pod wrażeniem całości:)

    • Sankju, troche się martwiłam czy bez przesady z odwracaniem czasu i fabuły ale cieszę się, że kłuje tylko tam, gdzie powinno. I’m flattered.

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