Introducing Sarah Brentyn, author of fantabulous flash fiction, deep thoughts and darkness, a brilliant blogger, and also a fine friend.
This is Sarah’s new book… great cover, isn’t it? And here’s a taster of what it’s all about:
Delve into the deeper reaches of the human condition and the darkness that lives there.
A girl haunted by her sister’s drowning. A boy desperate for his father’s affection. A woman forced to make a devastating decision. A man trapped by his obsessions.
Experience tales of love, loss, murder, and madness through this collection of flash and micro fiction.
Take a peek behind the smile of a stranger. Get a glimpse inside the heart of a friend. Scratch the surface and discover what is hidden beneath.
These stories will open your mind, tug at your thoughts, and allow you to explore the possibility that, even in the brightest moments, something is Hinting at Shadows.
Official trailer for Hinting at Shadows:
— Sarah Brentyn (@SarahBrentyn) November 17, 2016
She never had a home.
Not as an infant, left in soiled diapers. Or as a child, drawing pictures on the dusty floor of her closet.
Not even when they took her to a real house with her own bedroom, a kitchen that had food in it, and two grown-ups who tucked her in at night.
She was broken. Filled with so much shame she felt stuffed. Like a guilty scarecrow with clean clothes.
She was broken.
Filled with so much shame she felt stuffed. Like a guilty scarecrow with clean clothes.
Maybe they rescued the wrong girl. Maybe if they had gotten her out when she was younger. Maybe then, she’d feel at home here.
She stared at the empty album wondering again what kind of flower decorated the cover before her mind tried to find the word for the color then thought about the emptiness again.
Round and round like the seasons. In and out and back again.
Peach. It was peach, that hue. Pink. And the flower, a rose. Or carnation. Daisy. The emptiness. Pink. Flowers. Like spring. With things that are alive trying to sprout from things that look dead.
The album was closed but she knew they took the fading photos—black and white memories she was starting to lose.
Regret Has a Serrated Spoon
I just did something unforgivable.
Shakespeare says, “What’s done cannot be undone.”
I know the pain of this truth.
I have felt the words “blind rage”. I don’t remember all of what I did in my fury.
No one talks about the confusion that follows, when you’re in a heap on the floor wondering what happened. Or the regret that scoops you out like a cantaloupe.
I am hollow.
How fortunate I am that regret has a serrated spoon. As an empty husk, there’s a chance I can live.
With the fragmented memories of this thing that I did.
Somewhere along the way, she lost the ability to hear her own words.
She watched from afar as tiny fissures formed each day—slowly shattering her mind.
When she spoke, it sounded as if a nest of hornets had been disturbed. A hollow, distant, buzzing noise that made her head feel full of cotton.
But he heard her clearly.
He loved her and she didn’t understand it. Not the love or the words.
Her thoughts were lucid, though. She watched from afar as tiny fissures formed each day—slowly shattering her mind.
She needed him to see that this life was crushing her but, though he listened with undiluted love, he was blind.
I wrote my first story when I was nine years old and never looked back. My work has appeared both online and in print in lit mags, newsletters, websites, newspapers, and anthologies. I have a master’s degree in writing and have taught all ages from Kindergarteners to adults.
When other girls dreamt of being a ballerina, I dreamt of scribbling my thoughts in a notebook and turning them into a book. I bleed ink.
You can find Sarah here: