Flashing Back

Flashbacks are weird things. Weird, but cool. And yes, the combination is possible. They sorta-kinda get me thinking about the flashbacks that occur for people in real life....whereas flashbacks in writing are usually for stylistic and informative reasons, how and why do people get flashbacks in their daily lives? Sometimes, I can semi-tell if someone is flashbacking....or at least zoned out and thinking super hard about something. I probs do the same thing. My eyes go all out of focus and when I was little my mom would interrupt to tell me to shut my mouth while I'm thinking. I want to know what triggers such long chains of thought, and why I get grumpy when I have to bring my mind back to focus. Once I start thinking it gets annoying to switch off of that chain of thought, and my mind feels all weird and disoriented...maybe that's just me.....T_T

ANYWAYS those sorts of chains of thought seem to be really linked to flashbacks, I think, or a sense of nostalgia, of retracing something from before. Like when I reread a book (Harry Potter! Ender's Game!) or something....which is possibly why people get more out of rereading books...I think.

I'm going to quit writing. I was thinking about this for a while, and now i've COMPLETELY lost track of what I'm talking about. this is a problem.

Swimmer Flashback:

He reeled back from the sight of the mansion’s emptiness and staggered back down across the driveway and lay himself down on the great expanse of rough, cold concrete. While he lay still, his eyes flickered in every direction as hidden memories flooded his mind.

He stood away, backed from the mansion, as the movers hauled out his tagged furniture. Hard lines gripped his face as he looked around and saw the red price tags everywhere, on everything, everything he no longer owned. He had gotten a phone call that morning from the bank, and when they told him they had taken over his property, he’d slopped his claret of Russian icewine onto his crisp designer shirt. He sighed. Well, there was no time for it now. It was already afternoon, and the movers refused to let him back into the house. He busied himself with drinking as much of his best wine as he could without inebriating himself to the point of passing out. He began to feel woozy, and he barely registered that Lucinda’s shoulder was what was holding him up, and that somewhere in the background one of his daughters was sniffling loudly.

After all the furniture was moved out, the bank representative came over and held his hand out for the keys to the mansion.

Neddy just stared back at him with bleary eyes.

“I can’t give you the keys,” he slurred, “where’s my family supposed to go? You’ve taken my business and my furniture; I can’t give you the house.”

“Sorry, but your business isn’t worth a dime. You’ve got to pay it all back somehow.” The representative gently loosened the keys from his hand, bowed politely to his wife, and walked away.

Neddy turned back to his wife and children. His youngest was still sniveling and wiping her nose.

“Where do we go now?” he asked them. He was lost, reduced to a child, no longer the laughing, confident man in the crisp dress shirt, holding his champagne steadily, firmly.

That night was spent at the Westerhazys’. The next night, at the Halloran’s. Then, the Grahams’, the Bunkers’, the Crosscups’, the Sachs’, Biswangers’, Gilmartins’, and the Clydes—each in rotation, throughout the neighborhood. Eventually, Lucinda had approached him, when they were staying at the Levys’.

“Neddy, dear, I don’t think we can keep this up. We need to find somewhere to stay for a while. You need to work.”

They didn’t, he’d insisted. Their neighbors loved them. They’d be able to stay as long as they needed, and once he got his business back, he’d repay them. Besides, he couldn’t work, he refused to work. Once he started such work, he’d no longer been the right set, and then, they wouldn’t be able to get any help from the neighbors at all.

The officers had found his wife the next morning, mangled body on the side of the highway, twisted from the force of falling such a long way from the bridge above. He was deemed unsuitable for taking care of his daughters, and they’d been moved to a foster home. Somewhere. Far away. He didn’t know exactly where.

Suddenly, Neddy opened his eyes. He’d been dozing on the cement, but it was getting late, and his body was losing valuable heat. Getting up from his cramped position, he shuffled stiffly off. Perhaps the Welchers would house him tonight.