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If Only


Sept. 31st

I have always wanted to be a writer. Always. Maybe even since the day I was born, at least since I was three. I love writing, pulling my new pen across the paper, a smell of promise in the air. Ideas come to me rapidly and sometimes I just have to jot them down. Countless textbooks have been defaced because of these notes.

My mother and father don’t think writing is an acceptable job or career. “Indigo,” they’d say. “Indigo, you should be a doctor or a lawyer or another good job like that.” I don’t want to be a lawyer or doctor or anything like that. I want to be a writer and see my name on the front of a glossy, new-smelling book. I want to be a writer like Rick Riordan, who writes books that sound so real, even though they can’t be. I want to be me.

I am fourteen, in my freshman year at Olympia High in Washington. So, basically in the middle of nowhere. I have one sister, Violet, who is older than me by two minutes and she never lets me forget it.

But Violet’s okay. My mom had this craving for purple when she was pregnant, and so we’re both named after purple. Violet got off a bit luckier-at least people know Violet’s a name. Me? I get stuck with stupid old indigo, dumb and honestly, HORRIBLE for nicknames. Like, what are you going to call me? Innie? That sounds like a girl’s name. Not a basketball star, published author, major journalist, and big heartbreaker, freshman year of high school boy. It does not.

Indigo (Diego? Hmm… maybe.)


Sept. 31st, 2011

I do not like writing. I hate it. It needs creativity (I have enough) but just… UGH!!!! It needs hooks and sentence phrasing and why do some words sound better when they mean the same thing!?! Give me math any day. At least it makes sense.

Indigo’s the real writer, sometimes he lets me read his essays (for grammar) and they are so good! He has this gift, he can turn “essay about the comma” into a fantastical story about a knight-in-shining-armor who misuses the comma and gets in a whole lot of trouble about it. Plus, he gets Ms. Johnson who at least doesn’t care if you mess up some words.

No, I get Mr. Smith he is a grammar-and-omission freak who yes, does care if you miss the word “and”. I mean, honestly. What kind of sick mind came up with this horrid little man!!!

I can’t complain though, I got the best math teacher ever Mr. Serra, who loves giving us problems not boring lectures. Some kids hate it; I want to yell at them to suck it up!

Anyways, I am fourteen and at Olympia High in Washington. It’s a public, BIG, high school with about 2,000 kids in it. Sometimes it get over whelming but I like it, the bustling crowds make me feel like I’m always safe.

Indigo hates math, in that we are different. It is quite funny how much he hates it. His face gets all red and scrunched up and he clutches his pencil so tight his knuckles turn white – but he won’t utter a single sound.

Mom told me a bit ago that I need to get my grades up in writing and history.

“Vi,” she said. “Vi, this B is despicable and awful and I need you to change it, like now. Math and science are alright for boys to do, that’s what they are meant to do, but girls go in for literature. So change this. Now”

And that is why I absolutely hate growing up in a traditional family. Why the heck can I not go in for math and Indigo go in for writing? Oh right, because I’m a girl. It’s the 21 st century for gods sake and who the heck cares if I am not a “traditional?”

Violet (just a side note, I hate my name)

I look across to my brother, who is trying to cram cereal into his mouth as well as read the morning paper.

“Indigo,” I say in my best mom-voice. “You are being gross.”

Indigo sighs and rolls his eyes but he puts the paper down and concentrates on his cereal. I can’t help but notice the way his eyes look sadder than usual.

“Indigo? What’s wrong?” I ask softly.

“Big math test today, on algebra. I hate algebra! It makes no sense!” Indigo cries.

“Well, I have a big history test today, if that makes you feel any better,” I say with a little smile.

“Yeah, it actually does. At least I know I’m not going to be the only one getting an F on something today,” he says with a grin. I gasp in mock annoyance and run around to his side of the table, pulling back on the chair to tip him out of it. But he doesn’t go.

Shoot. I forgot how strong he is.

“Violet, wait,” Indigo says, looking confused. “Don’t you see?”

“See what,” I grunt, still trying to flip him over.

“I suck at math and science, and rock at literature, but you are the exact opposite! If only I was a girl and you were a guy…” He trails off, looking sheepish.

“If only…” 

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