From “Ingrid” by Marissa Martinez (March 2016, ENGL 71 Fiction Writing)
Ingrid pulls on her backpack, tightening the straps so the bag is tight enough so nothing and no one could take it from her. She looks at herself in the mirror: boots, jacket, her father’s leather gloves, and the flight goggles she got on her 12th birthday. The straps of the goggles gradually became looser and looser as she grew up. But now, at 17, they were fit for a pilot.
“Ready, Ingrid?” she hears Gil call.
For good measure, she takes off the backpack and re-checks it. Her pilot application is in order, complete with certification of birth in the grand old city. The only thing missing is the signature at the bottom of her parent/guardian. She had put it off long enough.
Gil stands in the hallway.
“Can you sign this?” Ingrid passes the application to her longtime friend and caretaker.
Gil scans the paper to the bottom and he smiles sympathetically. She just wants to get to the hangar and get into a plane. Everything has led up to this. From her first flight as a child to her flying lessons to the hours upon hours in the air to the night her parents made her go with them to that pointless ball. If only they had stayed home and watched old movies like they always had.
From “Thursday Night” by Marissa Martinez
Eva’s favorite day of the week was Thursday. She went to work and had lunch at the taco truck that came by every week and then she went home, watched reruns of sitcoms and folded her laundry. There was nothing special about Thursdays, they really were just another ordinary day. But it was the anticipation for Friday–casual Friday!–and the weekend that made Thursdays worthwhile.
Carmen, on the other hand, barely kept track of the days of the week (To be honest, she only knew what day it was based off of her cute patterned underwear with labels. Even then, sometimes she got the days screwed up. Or worse–in hallway conversations she sometimes needed to check her pants to check if it was Tuesday or Wednesday). She kept track of other things, like when blockbuster hits were scheduled to come out or when Ross had a sale.
One Thursday evening, Eva was thinking about the hot, relaxing bath she would take on Friday night when she heard something rustle outside her window. She froze immediately and looked at the blinds which were slightly open. How long had they been like that? Could you see her laundry–her delicates–from outside? She clutched her phone, ready to dial 911 and the apartment security number, but then she heard a click and the faint sound of music. It sounded like the soft beats of R&B?
Carmen should have regretted going to her crush’s apartment at 9 o’clock at night. It was absolutely outrageous (but then again, Carmen never thought before she did most things). Standing on the dewy grass, she realized that maybe she was coming on too strong. Too late now, though. She pressed play on her phone and the music exploded from the speakers.
Flash Fiction From “Smokestorm” by Marissa Martinez (January 2016, ENGL 190)
Another morning wrapped in soot-covered clouds and electric heat. The hideout was already sweaty with refugees and dusty with hope. Even before the clouds swallowed the sun, Trevor was used to cramped spaces and dirty foreheads. Growing up on the streets did that to a kid. He witnessed the officers plugging up storefronts and chimneys before smoke became a threat, or a godsend as they claimed. And now he was plugged up in this tiny backroom with a bunch of helpless strangers. The couple who ran the place gave out rations for everyone, but Trevor didn’t like to be taken care of. The food would be disgusting whether they made it or he found it somewhere else. He hated it either way.
Trevor had not seen the streets since the smoke rained down. His eyes stung and his throat burned. Screams rung in his ears and sirens blared from every corner of the city. He heard the familiar quick release of pressure from the rope gun. Someone on his left dropped to the concrete and the officers advanced. Keeping his head down and his pack tight, Trevor ran.
Weeks later, they were supposed to shelter in place. It was too dangerous outside.
A baby began to cry in the hideout. What a shame—that baby will only know darkness. All these people only knew darkness. Nobody even bothered to keep their chins up! as they used to say. That was a long time ago, though, when the rays of the sun could reach the rooftops. Trevor never hoped for anything, but a warm spring day sounded good right about now.
Marissa May Writes 