I can’t speak for all of the Gambling the Aisle editors and staff, and I certainly cannot write their work, but here is a little peek into some work that I, (this is Jenna, by the way) have been doing.
Let me first introduce myself as a writer, instead of just as a reader/worker relating to our magazine. I have a background in Biology, Chemistry, and Neuroscience, and not in English, which made for an interesting path to the written word. Throughout college, I spent most of my time writing lab reports, instead of fiction or poetry. While that may sound bleak (and believe me, it was), it also allowed me to do one amazing thing that has absolutely defined my so-called writing career: write only in my free time.
That was invaluable to me. No one has time to write, seriously. We have full time jobs or school, or both. Now that I’m out in the real world, I write all the time! I write on my lunch breaks at work or until 2 am for absolutely no reason or deadline. Which brings me to the actual writing, which brings me to the heart of this post.
I write in basically two forms, and these days two forms only. I write scripts, and I write flash fiction. I have dabbled in novel writing and am still interested in that, but lately I have really honed in on these two styles of writing, which is fun because they probably couldn’t differ from each other more. Script writing is skeletal, collaborative, and instructional. Flash fiction is weird, crisp, and usually asks more questions than it could ever hope to answer. But they have one thing in common which interests me the most: the language.
A script is only as strong as the strength of the words, and their ability to convey an image in the fewest words possible. Flash fiction is based solely on the quality of the text, as opposed to the quality of the story, the way it sounds or feels coming off a tongue.
With this rambling on different forms of writing coming to a close, here is a short flash fiction piece that I wrote, entitled “Moving Day.”
I never thought I would be the type of person who came home after work and the paint was chipping off the walls and the air was damp even with the air conditioner turned on all day. When I moved in I talked about painting the place and I looked at color samples and thought about things like accents and contrast. I do not think about these things very much anymore.
The air has the most moisture on Mondays because I work such a long day on Sundays that I turn the air conditioner off to save a few. When I first started doing that I rememberd to turn it on when I came home. Now I fall into bed with a drink on the nightstand, piled over things I don’t need but don’t trash. Sometimes I sleep with my shoes still on.
I think maybe I’d like to move to be near the mountains because the sea causes so much of the wetness in my life and I never did care for things that were sticky. Even the tips of my fingers hold together just a moment too long, and when I write the paper grows heavy from the weight of my hand.
Yes the mountains would be nice. I think I’d paint the living room red, not blood red or anything shocking, just a warm rich color like winter time or being picked up from school instead of taking the bus. I would mow the lawn and plant pretty flowers and have bees in my yard. I would set up a sprinkler system and never wear my shoes and let my feet turn just a tinge of green from walking through wet grass every single day.
Then, fall would come, just like every year after you move. And the paint would peel, the plants would die.