Approximately 15 years ago, I started the greatest flash fiction writing group the world has ever known. I am certain this will be true 1,000,000 years from now. We were a plucky group of underdogs who met near-weekly to wow the rest of the members (and hopefully the world) with our apparent, yet unrecognized, genius.
We would rotate the member who would give the topic of the assignment. One week, it would be me; the next, some random member who was feeling especially creative and frisky.
You might be wondering what “Quad Fs” means. I know I would. One of our members, a young high school student, was filling out a college application. She wanted to be a writer. She called me to ask me if our writing group has a name; she needed it for the application. Thinking quickly on my feet, I said, “Oh yeah, we have a name. We are the Quad Fs. That stands for the Flash Fiction 500 Friends.” I went on to tell her that we went by that moniker because that was the worst name I could think of. She, of course, got into the college of her choice, and the group slowly dissolved as it, composed predominantly of old men, lost focus. So it goes…
It worked this way: an email would be written with the topic de jour. We all then would get to work. Here is a random example of a typical task.
TOPIC: A TEENAGE GIRL GETS A LETTER FROM GEORGE MASON UNIVERSITY…500 WORDS…GO!
ROB HAREN
Rosemary bounced through the door, simultaneously kicking off her Vans and throwing her backpack against the couch. She didn’t notice that her giant chapstick fell out and rolled under the big chair.
“Rosemary, you have a letter on the table.”
“Mom, geez, you know I hate being called Rosemary! Gah…call me Rosie.”
Mom put down the parsley she was chopping up to garnish the evening meal and walked over to the table.
“I noticed it was from a university, but I didn’t pay much attention. Which one is it now?”
Rosie tried to remain calm; this was bad, really bad. “George Mason mom, well, actually it is not officially called George Mason Mom; it is just George Mason. I think I’ll go upstairs and research this school. Do I have a little time before dinner?”
“A little time is all.”
Rosie ran upstairs to the computer room – buttons pressed, switches flipped…and (most importantly) the door locked. Rosie touched the wall in the specified pattern to open the portal. The cylindrical staging area opened, and Rosie took a deep breath before heading in.
“Rosemary, good… you got the letter. I wasn’t sure the teleportation had worked properly.”
“Of course I got the letter. What is going on?”
The holographic figure, a sage-like older man (you would never believe how old!), winced as he told her that all hell was breaking loose. “Rosie, they got out, they escaped. My last experiment went very, very wrong. You and I both know where they are going. I sent communiques to all the others; they are already on their way. You understand exactly what I am saying, right?”
“Uh huh.”
The old man saw the look in her eyes. “Now listen, Rosie, stay right where you are. You are not to leave your house, and even if they show up on your front porch, you are not to engage them. Do you understand me? That is an order. If they come there, you are to get your mom and immediately come to the portal, OK?” He looked at her and knew it had been a mistake to warn her; he should have just sent someone to get her.
“Rosie, please listen, there isn’t much time…” Rosie cut him off and skipped out of the portal. She was about to get her battery packs and ammunition when her mom said, “Rosie, there is a group of people on the porch asking for you. What is going on? When did you start hanging out with the Goth kids?”
Rosie quickly grabbed her mom and pushed her into the portal. As soon as she knew her mom was safe, Rosie did one of those teenage-girl waves, then grabbed her weapons. Lock…load…(remain calm)… Now!
If you do a little research, you will find that there is a famous professor at George Mason who is trying to create life in the laboratory. Sister, you don’t know the half of it.