Flash Fiction, Poetry and Journalism Articles

“Falling is feeling.” 

“I really don’t think so.” 

“Really—try it.” 

“Falling?” 

“Flying.”

“Huh, you’re funny.” 

~

I wish I could explain away fear. I wish, if someone told you, “You don’t have to be afraid,” you’d be able to believe it in your head and your body. But your body betrays you, doesn’t it? Your head might believe it but fear grips your thundering heart and sweaty palms with a vengeance. 

Irvine’s Michael Hom started speed climbing in 2022 and was just 16 when he became the U18 IFSC Youth World Champion the following year. He now holds three national medals and two world medals in the sport.

One of O.C.’s best-known landmarks—the Old Orange County Courthouse—is nearing its 125th anniversary. The unique building has been featured in movies and TV shows such as “American Horror Story: Asylum,” “Catch Me if You Can,” “Legally Blonde,” and “Jerry Maguire.” Though it stopped operating as a courthouse in 1969, the building houses a museum, county archives, and government offices, and remains a draw for visitors, who can even get married at the historic site. 

Check out the many diverse celebrations, cultural experiences, and events taking place across Orange County to celebrate the Year of the Snake.

Through January 27

ASIAN GARDENS FLOWER FESTIVAL 2025

10 a.m. to 10 p.m. daily

Vendors: 6 to 10 p.m. daily

Shop for flowers and Tet decor, be entertained by local musicians, taste traditional foods from local food vendors, and watch lion dancing.

Where to Celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in Orange County 2025

March 11 

ST. PATRICK’S DAY COOKIE DECORATING CLASS 

6 to 8 p.m. 

Linda’s Bakery will be hosting a St. Patrick’s Day cookie decorating class in preparation for the holiday. You will learn how to decorate six adorable, delicious, and themed sugar cookies in a stress-free environment. Best of all, you get to take your culinary creations home to enjoy!

Have yourself a merry little Christmas

Let your heart be light.

Next year all our troubles will be out of sight.

It was one of the best days of my life—

Christmas Day, 2019.

Despite waking up on the floor crammed in a room with my whole family, I couldn’t help but smile. Because it was every kid’s dream—Christmas!

First off, what even are tropes? It’s a word given out in the academic and literary sphere like candy, but the majority of people don’t really know what it means.

The short answer is: depends on who you ask. 

Technically speaking, in rhetoric, tropes are the same thing as figures of speech, like irony or symbolism. But the way most people (especially when talking about literature) use tropes is often synonymous with “clichés.” 

Nowadays, people are thinking about the future, whether it be about their future jobs, careers, or plans for their life. Some people think about the present, but precious few. Many think about their own pasts, whether filled with joy or strife. Others still think about where they came from, and what actions of the people from their past led them to where they are now. 

You can capture a moment in time in a variety of ways. If it’s important or impactful enough, it will often cement itself in your memory. Artists like Vincent Van Gogh attempted to capture a subject or an object as they stood, sat, or lay perfectly still; though these works are often beautiful, from the moment the painting starts, the initial moment in which they looked upon the subject is gone, and a thousand other moments between the first glance and the finished piece pass. 

Many students, faculty, staff, parents, and friends went to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat earlier this November. It was OLu’s annual fall musical, but it also celebrated the 50th anniversary of the musical Joseph, the 50th anniversary of Orange Lutheran, and the 20th anniversary of the Nechita performing arts center. There’s so much work that goes into putting on the fabulous shows that we do at OLu, including this year’s production of Joseph. Lots of different moving pieces had to come together—lots of people had to come together to make it all happen.

I thought I was a solid reader before I attempted to read Lord of the Rings the first time. Heck, I thought I was good. I had tested high on all the reading sections of my past standardized tests, I had flown through the Harry Potter series, and I was a huge fan of C.S. Lewis—I thought, Tolkien? Easy. 

Puzzles. They are such a big part of our lives, though they collect dust on our shelves. Life itself is its own puzzle, with so many aspects to it. People, for example, are very complex puzzles, each with their own nuances and differences, sometimes difficult to read and difficult to piece together. 

When the body dropped from the sky, Emmy knew the world was ending.

Emmy was in the garden harvesting mushrooms under the Oak, surrounded by a plain that emanated into infinity when it happened.

The Body landed with a sickening thump and crack ten feet to her left. Its eyes (it wasn’t a human anymore) bulged out—vulgar, deformed marbles oozing blood. Long, sopping hair sat sideways atop its head like clumps of seaweed. Its broken jaw hung by a thin swath of skin from the decaying, leathery face. 

The glow stick crackles in my hands as I bend it in half. I wince, honestly pitying it. If I were a glow stick, I would hate to have to be bent in half, twisted, and broken to be of any value. I would yearn for days spent in darkness—an un-crackling stick in serene silence inside a frail box. But glow sticks, like the one I am shaking right now, have a short life expectancy and don’t get to stay inside the box for very long. Some crazed kid rips them out of the box from their other lifeless friends, breaks them, shakes them, plays with them, and then dumps them.

The first kiss wasn’t anything special. Just a peck. 

The next day, he left her—changed schools. 

They find themselves on Sunday mornings thinking about each other. What happened that afternoon. What they could’ve done. What they could’ve been. 

She finds herself pacing and thinking about the way he spreads Skippy peanut butter on his favorite sandwich, or the way his eyes glitter when the sun sets, or the way his nose twitches when he’s nervous.

I grew up in a little shack bordering the Windermere village cemetery. My father was a grave-digger. My father was a silent, tall, stocky man. He had a thick beard that stuck out at odd angles and tiny squinty eyes. He always wore a flat cap, brown and dirty with weather and never washed. He wore great big boots that clunked whenever he walked. The children in the village said that he was the Reaper, and that whenever you heard the tell-tale clunk-clunk-clunk of those boots, you were next on his list. 

Mama used to say cemeteries were "hallowed ground." Not to Elle. To Elle, cemeteries were a sandbox of possibility.

When Elle and her sister Ana were kids, they would spend every free moment at the cemetery. They would blot across Cherry Avenue's four lanes of traffic, swing themselves over the cast iron picket fence, and shelter underneath the big oak. Then, as always, and would ask the all-important question: "What do you hear?"

Telephone 

—2003—

Dear Nailah, 

Do you remember that game Telephone? 

It was a game we played when we were the height of the kitchen counters we had to leap to look over, when we were children shouting to a world that remained deaf to us—do you remember? 

“Extremely beautiful, and, typically, delicate.” 

My grandmother’s porcelain vase sits in its glass case, spiraling and intertwining blue and green vines tumbling over each other and entwining themselves in such intricate ways, though their dance goes unnoticed. They sit behind a thick glass case with other memorabilia day after day collecting dust in my grandmother’s house, never to be touched, seen, or felt. 

My toes gripped the edge of the diving board. I shivered as the early morning air rushed past me, daring me to dive in like my friends who stood behind me. I glanced over my shoulder at my four partners in crime, all giggling in anticipation. This was what I got for sticking ice cream down James’ back. I smiled. It was worth it. 

Play the role, perform the gig. Every day. 

—-

Xuan Ji, Tang Dynasty, 904

You see a woman old in her years. You think she looks like she’s lived a long life, but she’s hardly lived at all. She sits in front of the mirror while her maid does her hair and half-heartedly puts on makeup. Soon, the maid leaves to go prepare for tea, and you are left alone. 

“Yes, they’re sharing a drink

they call loneliness…”

I sit and drink from a well I call

home.

A lighted tree, a sink cluttered

with dishes,

A dusty piano,

A broken lightbulb.

“It’s nine o’clock on a

Saturday”

I sit and drink from a well I call

home,

Sitting on my phone alone—

Is home still home

When I’m not with someone?

It happens like this: 

(Or perhaps not, it seems to happen different for everyone) 

The warm, dense fog lifts just a little 

A cold tendril brushes against your cheek

From the deep recesses of 

Both mind and body 

There emerges a dim spark 

Muffled and hidden, 

But growing 

Lies. 

Every one you’ve ever told. 

You write it out, fold it up, and put it in the drawer. 

Pretty soon it’s peeking out. 

By the time you die, it’ll be overflowing. 

Papers, papers, papers. 

When you’re younger, you tell small ones mixed in with some big ones. 

But Momma doesn’t want you to so you don’t too much. 

You need her.