Julia Cameron’s book, The Artist’s Way, talks about writing morning pages. Dumping everything from your mind onto the page first thing in the morning. It’s meant to be uncensored, as a way of turning off your inner critic. I went through a period of doing this every day, but I had this weird thing going through my head. Because my life was so busy, I felt like I was throwing away precious creative writing time by writing blah random thoughts. So I started writing really short creative pieces instead. These might grow into something else, or they might not. But they kept my writing muscles exercised. It was only later that I discovered the name for these pieces was flash fiction.

I thought I’d share one of those today.

* * * * * *

Confusion reigned supreme. Never had such a cliched phrase been so apt. There were hats and ties and socks hanging, well and truly dead, from every doorknob, lamp and window latch. Empty boxes of ex-food peeked out from under dresser drawers, nervous that they might have their insides torn out once more if they ventured into the full light of day. Said drawers were at multiple degrees of openness, their contents desperately clawing their way out before some sort of explosion scattered them to the winds, although it appeared to be too late.

There was a funky smell that only served to confirm something had crawled under a bed and expired, probably about a week ago. Little light penetrated the room. Those windows that weren’t in various degrees of undress, curtains crumpled on the floor like fainting debutantes, had been smeared with some sort of soapy substance. A tinny, distant sound, that of hidden musicians playing for their lives, wafted from under a pillow that appeared to be trying to crawl out of its cover. Every object in the room spoke of the horrors it had endured, and its pathetic dream of escape from this terrible place.

‘Welcome to the girls’ dormitory,’ the headmistress said.