Multiplied Grace? : A Flash Fiction Piece

A few months ago, a writing friend challenged me to try writing flash fiction. Flash fiction is a very, very short story, often only a few hundred words meant to capture a moment in time.

I finally decided to give it a try.

The result? I won’t be writing flash fiction regularly anytime soon; I much prefer having thousands of words to work with, not hundreds. Nonetheless, story, like most art forms, are meant to be shared. So this month, here’s the odd (and for me, thought-provoking) flash fiction piece that resulted from my friend’s challenge:

 

Multiplied Grace?
By Chawna Schroeder

 
The top sheet of blank paper glared at me, my pen frozen above it. I was terrified to write these letters—petrified I’d get it all wrong—but I had to go through with this. My salvation could depend on it.
 
Lord, give me the right words. Then I began to write. Dear Quinn…
 
As simply and plainly as I could, I shared how I met Jesus and explained how Quinn could know Him too. The basic Gospel message, no frills, no embellishment. Yet my pen wobbled, leaving an unsightly streak at the end of a word. What if Quinn wouldn’t listen? What if I couldn’t convince her? Would I be damned to hell alongside her?
 
But that was a question too horrible to contemplate. One I hoped I never need answer. With a shudder, I pushed on, pouring every bit of earnest persuasion I could into my words. Please, God, let her listen.
 
I finished my note and folded it neatly into the envelope with Quinn’s name. One done. I started my second letter, this time to Petunia, with the same message in slightly different words meant to appeal to her hippie mentality. Letters to Maisy, Frankie, and Sarah-Jane followed that, all deviations of the first.
 
Collecting the envelopes, I placed them around my house where I knew each would find them. Sarah-Jane’s among her favorite kitchen gadgets. Frankie’s atop the tool bench in the garage. Maisy’s in her toy box. Petunia’s tucked beneath the strap of her yoga mat.
 
Quinn’s electric violin was last. Though I’d never heard her play it, just as I’d never seen Frankie banging away with the tools or Maisy playing with her Legos, I knew this was Quinn’s favorite object in the house. Would leaving my note here be enough to convince her of the seriousness of my plea? Or would she see it as a challenge to what she held most dear? I honestly didn’t know. I could only leave the note and hope—pray—that she would read it before trashing it.
 
“Please, Jesus, save me,” I whispered, “all of me.”
 
And I tucked the envelope into the violin case for the last of my multiple personalities.