Each month, the “Finding Your Voice in Writing” classes write flash fiction pieces of one hundred words or under, with inspiration from a prompt they all share.
The Day I Grew Up
Kathy McKnight
At last I’ll find out what the squeals of laughter and excited screams are all about. I’m finally tall enough to ride the rollercoaster with all its intriguing twists and turns, dips and drops. Forever it has been mere inches out of reach.
The car jolts forward, ascends, plunges, twists and suddenly we’re upside down; at some point my stomach contents do erupt. We stop, I disembark and collapse onto the nearest bench.
While waiting for the dizziness, nausea and terror to subside, an invasive grown-up thought occurs to me. Be careful what you wish for, lest it come true.
The Day I Grew Up
Wendy Lamson Collier
From her bed, my mother called me to her. I was ten. Looking at her tear-stained face and disheveled black hair, I wondered, What does she want from me now?
Mother looked at me, her eyes tearing, shaking her head, “I know you help a lot, I know you try, but you must do more! I am falling apart. I just cannot cope anymore. Please, please do more!” I was silent, numb, but nodded my head yes. I walked out of the room quietly mumbling, “Never enough, never enough.” But I was worried, was she really falling apart?
The Day I Grew Up
Diane Baumgart
Growing up always offers challenges; being the oldest of twelve children with an alcoholic father and a dependent mother required responsibility and watchful awareness to keep my siblings and me safe. Was there a particular day I grew up? Yes and no. No, it was more of a continuous ascent of escalating responsibility for my siblings and our safety. And yes, one day, after unfair criticism, I stood up and grew up. Without planning, I left my family home and job, borrowed a friend’s motorcycle, rode a hundred miles to a university town, and started college.
The Day I Grew Up
Evelyn Panfili
After considerable thought, I realize I can’t remember the exact day I grew up. That probably happened in fifth or sixth grade. The moment I stood up to my mother, told her to go to hell, and slammed my bedroom door in her face seems like a good possibility. She never raised her hand or took a belt to me ever again. We were never close and my emancipation from that house didn’t come soon enough. Once I walked out the door, I would never go back.
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