Another clip show post. This one was titled "Flash fiction kid no steal the candy" which probably means that it is a product of the flash fiction workshops we would have. At the start of the class we would take 10 or 15 minutes to write no more than a page. Good stuff comes under pressure, usually and I know that seeds for more involved and lengthy pieces were sewn during those sessions.
Flash Fiction kid no steal the candy
“I know he took my candy.” Ignacio hid in the shadow of his Grandma, peering around her considerable girth so that the excessive white of his eyes starkly contrasted with his dark complexion, as he continually positioned himself behind his advancing protector. I continued to fire accusation projectiles propelled by circumstantial evidence; Ignacio’s Grandma was having none of it.
“My Ignacio is not a thief, and, look: his Halloween candy sits there, right on the top of the chiffonier. He hasn’t eaten half of it yet.” She said all this with a thick Spanish accent; no problem understanding her, though. Looking up at the considerable booty, I thought, why, of course he stole my harvest: his grandma was rationing it out. She stood over me with her hands pushing on her hips, and looked down at me with pity in her eyes. She told me to go home, and, perhaps, most surprisingly, I did.
My house was only five lots away. My younger sister, Bethany, was Ignacio’s friend, and she had been the one to have him over. She was his accomplice; unwittingly or not. Now, she was gonna pay. As I made my way down Woodward Street, I could hear her playing on the swing set in the back yard, the chains, having no relationship with any lubricating substance, cried out in a simple harmonic creak, an audible protest of the impending winter. “Why’d you let him over here!?” I tore into Beth. Her head swiveled rhythmically, her face keeping contact with my eyeballs as the swing slowed; her legs no longer pumping, she let them hang as her purple mitten clad hands grasped the rusty chain links.
“He stole my candy! You probably let him do it, didn’t ya?” Beth had always been a loyal younger sister, allegiance not born out of proper treatment, but, from a younger sister’s adoration of her only older brother. She didn’t respond. She did, however, continue to look at me. The swing had become still; I could now see her lower lip trembling. I turned, stomped inside through the open garage and into my bedroom. I flung myself onto the bed, rolled over, and, there it was: my plastic jack-o-lantern. I went to my closet and retrieved the confections of conviction; these first few items may taste like urinal cakes, I thought to myself, biting into a peppermint patty. Nom-nom-nom-nom-nom-nom…