Humorous Short Story: “Well I’ll Be (Damned)”

This piece showcases the elements of character, dialogue and voice within a short story.

As soon as you stepped outside, you could feel the Earth exhale upon your face. The ground sighed into the air; it hovered slowly. The lightning bugs peppered throughout each droplet. This was a summer night occurrence that I will always hold near to me. A bug near my nose, nearly flew toward my brain as I stepped onto the sidewalk from the apartment staircase. My front door closed quietly in the distance. It was a long day at work, and I was getting ready to leave for a party. The sweat from my skin felt slimy beneath my clothes. It didn’t matter that I took a shower only ten minutes before entering the vapor, but I was just so nervous.

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Character & Narrative: “is.”


The car that slowed down behind her as she crossed, did not seem to care about the slow market lines, and the cargo Nihilia carried that evening. A red laundry cart, with gaping holes that exposed off the five dollar socks and assorted baseball tees from Old Navy. All of it, and more, tumbled through the five dollar laundromat, just minutes before closing.

The sky steadied into black. Boreas circled around her whole body, nipping at her lotus feet within the damp boots, and tattered scarf. He seeped into the fur-tinged hood, and trickled into Nihilia’s dark brown eyes, that struggled to stay aware of the impending curb.

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Flash Fiction Narrative: “A Day for Me”

By Ragina Lashley

Inspired by “Bang Bang Bang” from The Sohodolls


I didn’t think the muscle spasms could last that long. What does it matter, as I have no one waiting for me after this one. The morning sun caresses the side of face. His eyes still twinkle with shock and fear. Something I had to deal with every day when granted another morning. The shock arrives after the experiences are done, and the men finished. I am slightly bruised, but still alive.

The news anchor speaks monotonously as the dead silence permeates the air. A vast difference from the screams of the early morning…

He is yesterday’s catch; a cinnamon musk, with hairy legs, a bald spot, and a beer gut. Smoked Cuban cigars for the taste, and paid for women out of complete boredom. What he failed to understand was that as of yesterday, I had had enough. He was a regular, you could say, but also a complete pain in the ass. No care for anyone but himself. His business just last year was on the brink of bankruptcy because half of the income was going towards his indulgences. Or so he told me.

I don’t believe in a God, but maybe He would understand this sin.

I have my vices, but they only consist of neon colors and glitter dust. Even in its artificialness, it still manages to evoke a genuine smile whenever I smoothed it over my eyes. Today I smooth it on for me.

Today, I do for myself; I smile only for me.

Voice through a Short Story: “Untitled”

By Ragina Lashley


It is a Thursday afternoon when the woman rises from her deep sleep, trying to drowse away the ringing sounds of the previous night. I hear her wide mouth stretch open, sucking in the cold living room air, just as I open the front door. The yawning woman is my pathetic wife. But I don’t see her as anything else, but a woman who swims for happiness in any glass or mug she sees. There is my Mickey Mouse mug on the coffee table, the sunlight pouring little bits of dust on the rim. At approximately 6:30pm last Thursday, it was used for other brews. I can hear the sounds of children shrieking with joy.

Speaking of youth, our angst-ridden son will be turning thirteen in two weeks, and yet all he has to look forward to is a cake made from this woman upstairs, a so-called parent, and a gift bought the day of. That particular gift is from me. You see, I’m his father no doubt. I’m neither hip, nor at peak fitness. But I’m trying, I always am, to stop him from the disappointments life can bring, but it’s just so hard. My work hours are never consistent, and I get hungry late at night.

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What I Think, How I feel about Creative Writing

What I Think, How I feel about Creative Writing


Ragina Lashley


I enjoy creative writing due to the many different ways someone can express whatever they saw, felt, or even heard that day or even that very minute. It can be written on a Post-It, a piece of old napkin, or on the back of one’s hand until they get to a nice sheet of blank paper. Or not. Those words can just be thrown into a pile of all the other words that seem to accumulate in an old drawer, over the years.


I am not a perfect writer, my grammar can be grating to read sometimes, but on most days, my main focus always is, “how can I fit these thoughts onto this medium? How can I best express myself in the short amount of time I may have?” I value note pads a lot. I also value the thoughts many people have, either aloud, or to someone else. But writing them down makes those thoughts really stand for something, especially, if that person manages to emerge so far ahead in terms of personal growth, or just age-wise, they can physically see, and even hear the voice that carries through that piece of paper.


I think creative writing is something that even the most serious, and rigid person, can find enjoyment in. Words are very powerful, they make up our everyday actions, even more so in this age of technology. And they can carry messages from the olden days, from more than a hundred years ago, waiting for someone to read them. And maybe even understand. Sometimes I wish I spoke the way I write. Sometimes. Aside from being a bit absent-minded, I find it a bit easier to write my thoughts down, than it may be to speak them aloud. Especially to other people. They can get tangled into a big ball of mush, or go winding and hiking through a damp, and mosquito ridden trail. All muddy, sweaty and blotted before they can brush themselves off, clean up, and everyone can see them for what point I was trying to make in the first place.


But maybe the journey, the trek of reading one’s creative expression is a bit more fun. Unless you are short on time, and that isn’t simply how you operate. Sometimes the thoughts that we may have to express, shoot out so fast, that the pen cannot reach the paper fast enough. Or the ink skips out before the final stroke of the letter is made. Other times, the thoughts we have can lull, like a spring Sunday morning, around 7:30 am. A cohesive, and clear bright blue, but not a cloud in sight.


I guess what I am trying to get at, is that creative writing can be anything we desire it to be. Ten words, a full page or a novel. Or even just one single word. Right in the middle of the white space. Some may find that, or any of that, tacky. But because of its intentions, I personally cannot find any fault with it. If it is organic from the mind, or an experience. If it is meaningful to you, or to whomever else chances upon it. It just is. It shouldn’t be anything less. At least I cannot find it to be fair to say, or even write.