A Clock Purse

Inaugural Flash-Style Flash Fiction Submission

This story was written in a 2.5-hour window for the 'Flash Fiction Battle' on Saturday, October 12, 2024, against Andrew Robert Colom.

Longer Version: (non compliant with the contest rules)

It sounds like a stupid place to hide because it is. But listen, I’m not the smartest person in the world, nor am I particularly interesting, beautiful, or anything. I’m just an ordinary girl who wears a shit ton of black eyeliner, trying to look like someone.

So, there I am, hiding under the kitchen table at this wild, dumb party with the football players and cheerleaders. The light is dim, and JT looks perfectly at ease, leaning on his elbow, legs stretched out like he's at a picnic. But we weren’t invited, and now she’s out there looking for me. I clutch my clock purse—the reason for this whole catastrophe—and weigh my options.

Honestly, I can’t even tell these Sweet Valley High twins apart, but I’m almost positive it was Tammy who caught me off guard in the hallway at school. She shoved me, then yanked my awesome new clock purse off my shoulder. I just stood there, totally dumbfounded as Tammy got right in my face. Her eyes were wild as she told me she fucking hated me and thought I was super annoying. It was weird because she’s a senior and I’m just some nobody sophomore. We’ve never even spoken.

I mean, I did notice, with a kind of great satisfaction, one of the twins in their itchy woolen cheerleader uniforms, scratching at their backs in sync, swishing their long ponytails. One of them has a nicer face, but the one in my face had a hard look. Last week, I saw one of them in the cafeteria with her pleated skirt having ridden up, and you could see her ordinary white underwear, the marks of the wooden bench, and even the tacks imprinted on her beautiful tanned thighs.

But standing there, all my stupid satisfaction was gone. I felt like I was shrinking, like the hallway was stretching out in some weird fish-eye lens. Me, with my braces, knobby knees, and see-through skin showing every vein. Flat-chested, boyish, and wearing my tacked-on new wave look. Why did she care about me?

JT had been watching the whole scene, lounging Jordan Catalano-style against the lockers. Now, I’ve had a thing for JT for a while. His eyes do this crazy Halloween green thing when the light hits them, and he’s always hacky sacking right by where I lock my bike. We’ve smiled at each other and had a few random conversations, but when he came up to me after that, my heart raced. He told me not to worry, said Tammy was just raging out because she’d been dumped. But then I realized—my purse was gone. I’d spent all my gas station money on that purse. JT said he’d bum me a smoke since my smokes were in the purse, and we went outside and started hatching the plan.

Here’s the truth: Tammy has the same purse. Hers is from The Limited, mine’s a knockoff from Contempo Casuals. I thought it suited me better. She’s more Gap, and I’m more "I draw cartoon girls, listen to The Cure, and wear saddle shoes" vibe. Sure, I copied her, but I didn’t think she’d notice.

JT was really into this whole “get the clock back” plan, and I had such a big crush on him that I went along with it, soaking up his attention.

JT started showing up at the gas station during my shifts. Alison, my coworker, warned me to stay away from stoners, but I couldn’t. I’d give him free Camel Lights, and we’d sit on the stoop, smoking under the streetlights, where I knew I looked better than under the harsh fluorescents inside. The street glow softened his face, and we’d blow smoke into the air, making little clouds around the lamppost. He talked about the plan, and I’d just nod, lost in him.

Eventually, JT’s plan was to crash the twins’ Homecoming after-party. He said we’d disguise ourselves as popular kids and hide in the crowd. I went along with it, called my dad, and convinced him to buy me a dress, thinking I could tuck the tag in and return it later for cash. I even let my mom perm my hair—she was so excited. She did my makeup too, blue eyeshadow and all. I actually liked how I looked in the simple beaded black dress. When JT’s mom picked me up in their station wagon, it almost felt like a real date.

We danced and laughed at the Homecoming dance, then had his mom follow the popular kids to the party. She was nice, totally clueless. We snuck in without a problem. The place was packed and dark, so no one noticed us. We went upstairs, splitting up to search for my purse. I guessed right between the frilly pink room or the sporty modern room, finding my clock in the frothy pink room, broken at the bottom of the closet.

I went to get JT, opened a door, and saw two people making out—something I’ll never unsee. Some guy’s pale ass, pants down, and some blonde girl’s hair all fluffed up... you get the picture. I hoped JT wasn’t stuck in a closet or something.

I headed downstairs, trying to play it off legit, like I belonged there, clutching the purse behind me. I was sweating and grabbed a drink, nearly choking on its cough syrup taste. As I scanned the room for JT, I saw Tammy on the other side, dancing. She spotted me and, like a predator, locked in on my purse. There was no hesitation—she lunged. I ducked and bolted, ninja-style, down a hallway into a dimly lit kitchen. That’s where I found JT, passing a joint to some pretty girl. The music was pounding, and I swore I could hear Tammy screaming in the distance.

I grabbed JT’s hand and dragged him under the kitchen table. He looked surprised, probably too stoned to remember our plan. He just slumped back, all relaxed, clearly having lost track of the plan.

Moments later, Tammy’s twisted face appeared, crouched down, makeup smeared. She looked deranged, wielding a pair of scissors. She actually started chopping at me with them. I glanced at JT—who, like I said, was completely out of it. So, I ran.

I pushed through the crowd, kicking off my heels, running blindly into the street, clutching the clock purse. I didn’t stop until I dove into a bush, collapsing into the quiet of the night.

For a moment, I just sat there, heart pounding, listening to the silence and fearing the sound of following footsteps. I almost lost it, almost fell into the swamp of sorrows. I started thinking about JT, about losing him back there—his easy, slumped form under the table, how beautiful and relaxed he looked, how he obviously didn’t even care. And Tammy, hating me for no reason at all. Why me? Am I just that annoying that you see me and you just can’t help yourself, you want to bash my face in? I started to sink into this heavy, pitiful feeling—like maybe everything was just pointless. I was nobody, a sophomore wannabe with cheap knockoff clothes and an identity made of eyeliner and Smith’s lyrics. All I had left was this stupid broken clock purse.

That’s when I looked down and saw it—the strap was cut, dangling loose from my hand. Tammy had slashed right through it with those scissors, and for whatever reason, that cracked me up. I started chuckling, then full-on laughing, doubled over in the bush, clutching the purse to my chest, tears streaming down my face. My laugh echoed through the empty street, bouncing off the silence, and I couldn’t stop.

And then it started raining.

At first, just a few drops, but enough to make my ridiculous perm flop into wet strands, hanging limply in my face. That made me laugh harder. Then the rain came down for real, hard and steady, drenching me as I sat there, letting it soak me through. My soaked hair stuck to my face.

I stood up, still laughing, wiping my face with one hand while clutching the broken clock purse in the other. I realized I wasn’t far from the gas station. Alison was working tonight—I could go there, and she’d give me a lift home, and I could tell her the whole story.

Barefoot, shoes in one hand, I started walking. The wet pavement glistened under the streetlights, the trees casting long shadows with every flash of lightning. My bare feet slapped against the asphalt. I opened the purse, found my pack of cigarettes inside, miraculously dry. I lit one, the smoke curling up through the rain, soaking wet but still burning.

And I kept walking, laughing to myself, cigarette in hand, the clock purse clutched tight as the rain fell harder, the world around me flickering with every burst of lightning.

Short version: (a compliant version)

It sounds like a stupid place to hide because it is. But listen, I’m not the smartest person in the world, nor am I particularly interesting, beautiful, or anything. I’m just an ordinary girl who wears a shit ton of black eyeliner, trying to look like someone.

So, there I am, hiding under the kitchen table at this dumb party with the football players and cheerleaders. The light is dim, and JT looks perfectly at ease, leaning on his elbow, legs stretched out like he's at a picnic. But we weren’t invited, and now she’s out there looking for me. I clutch my clock purse—the reason for this catastrophe—and weigh my options.

I’m almost positive it was Tammy who caught me in the hallway at school. She shoved me, yanked my clock purse, and got right in my face, telling me she fucking hated me and thought I was super annoying. Weird, because she’s a senior and I’m a nobody sophomore.

I mean, Last week I did notice with satisfaction, the twins in their itchy woolen cheerleader uniforms, scratching their backs in sync, uniform ponytails swishing. One has a nicer face, but the one in my face had a nastier look. Last week, I took great pleasure in noticing one of them in the cafeteria with her pleated skirt riding up, her plain white underwear visible, wooden bench marks on her perfectly tanned thighs.

But standing there, all my stupid satisfaction was gone. I felt like I was shrinking, like the hallway was stretching out in a weird fish-eye lens. Me, with my braces, knobby knees, and see-through skin showing every vein. Flat-chested, boyish, and tacked-on New Wave look. Why did she care about me?

JT had been watching the whole scene, lounging Jordan Catalano-style against the lockers. I’ve had a thing for JT for a while. His eyes do this Halloween green thing when the light hits them. We’ve had a few random conversations, but when he told me not to worry, I realized my purse was gone. I’d spent all my hard-earned gas station money on it. JT said he’d bum me a smoke, and we started hatching a plan.

JT started showing up at the gas station during my shifts. Alison, my coworker, warned me to stay away from stoners, but I couldn’t. I’d give him free Camel Lights, and we’d sit on the stoop, smoking under the streetlights. I knew I looked better under the soft street glow than under the harsh fluorescents inside. The smoke would rise in little clouds around the lampposts, and he’d talk about the plan while I just nodded, lost in him.

JT’s plan was to crash the twins’ Homecoming after-party, so we snuck in. The place was packed and dark, so no one noticed us. We split up to find my purse. I found it in the frilly pink room, broken at the bottom of the closet.

As I scanned the room for JT, I saw Tammy on the other side, dancing. She spotted me and, like a predator, locked in on my purse. There was no hesitation—she lunged. I ducked and bolted, ninja-style, down a hallway into a dimly lit kitchen. That’s where I found JT, passing a joint to some pretty girl. The music was pounding, and I swore I could hear Tammy screaming in the distance.

I grabbed JT’s hand and dragged him under the kitchen table. He looked surprised, probably too stoned to remember our plan. He just slumped back, all relaxed, clearly having lost track of the plan.

Moments later, Tammy’s twisted face appeared, crouched down, makeup smeared. She looked deranged, wielding a pair of scissors. She actually started chopping at me with them. I glanced at JT—who, like I said, was completely out of it. So, I ran.

I kicked off my heels, running blindly into the street. I didn’t stop until I collapsed into a bush. I almost lost it, thinking about JT, about how relaxed he looked under the table, how he obviously didn’t care. And Tammy, hating me for no reason. Why me? What’s the point? I was a nobody—a wannabe in knockoff clothes with nothing left but a stupid, broken purse.

But then I looked down at the cut strap and started laughing.

Then it rained. My perm flopped into wet strands. Still laughing, I stood, clutching the purse. I wasn’t far from the gas station.  

Barefoot, shoes in hand, I walked. The wet pavement glistened under the streetlights, trees casting long shadows with each flash of lightning. My bare feet slapped the asphalt. I opened the purse, found my pack of cigarettes inside, miraculously dry. I lit one, the smoke curling up through the rain, soaking wet but still burning.

And I kept walking, laughing to myself, cigarette in hand, the clock purse clutched tight as the rain fell harder, the world flickering with every burst of lightning.

Andrew Robert Colom

Inaugural Flash-Style Fiction Contest