The Slap Short Story

Have you ever read the short story titled ‘There’s a Man in the Habit of Hitting Me on the Head with an Umbrella’ (by Fernando Sorrentino) ?

Throughout the book, "Smack", Eric Schneider discusses the role that social setting played in the development of illegal subcultures in New York City following World War II (Schneider, p. 17). As Alison Hibner states, learning social setting is critical to the understanding of how certain spaces and geographic areas allowed the drug subculture to thrive and continue for many years following the war. The transformation from marijuana-smoking to the heroin-abusing after World War II was for the most part, witnessed at jazz clubs, after hours bars and cafeterias by drug-dealers, musicians, pimps and hookers and hence, led to a small subculture that consisted of these drug addicts and users (Schneider, p. 17).

In Steven Millhauser’s The Slap, a the sudden appearance of a serial slapper terrorizes a small commuter town. The man slaps unknowing victims then vanishes, leaving all residents on high alert. The tension and uncertainty about what is occurring leaves the town shocked, afraid, and outraged. The author uses this situation to show a theme about human interaction. The theme of The Slap is, “security is an illusion,” and the author reveals this theme by describing how the slapper's victims react, how the town reacts, and the change the town goes through before and after the slap.

“Swish” I couldn't believe my eyes. I don't wanna ever forget the day that I met my dad for the first time.When I saw my eyes started pouring like crazy. Furthermore,later in the afternoon we started talking. The was saying like “how's school” “what you bin up too ?” I told him was everything good and i'm doing well in school. When he left,I was a little unhappy but that day was the best day of life and ima remember it for the rest of my life.

Have you heard about ‘Flash Fiction Rodeo Contest Five?’ I jump right in, don’t overthink, quickly going ‘live.' Eleven nine-word sentences, character limits to keep in mind. All to be tweeted, and completed, by October 29.

y Boyfriend’s Slap I taste stale coins and wet words; my lip cracks like blistering sidewalks midsummer. There’s a country song buzzing worlds away, low static radio bleeding love songs while my love song grips my hair by the roots, keeps me spitting static pink blood into an industrial sink, sings Baby, won’t you be my summer night? the slick slide of his tongue hot in my ear, strong fingers dug in tight like five hungry hyenas. His hand trails down and down the knobs of my spine, buried under bruising flesh; with the stars above us he croons, yellow light above the stove flickering erratically, mosquitoes panicking as the glow grows warmer, the lightbulb straining like my wick is shrinking; inevitability is a quiet thief.

“Hunter, you shouldn’t even bother to tag me. I’m too good for you,” I told him, so he

Hinton, an amiable tobacco planter in Virginia, inspected the mill infrequently and trusted him to make an honest trade. There was no way to forecast when loggers would arrive, depending on the weather and the wind and water currents so Matthew remained available year-round. He was tall, burley with bushy, red hair, and freckles that almost connected into a solidly tan face. People never forgot him because his freckles were such an assortment of colors, red, brown, tan, beige, pink, auburn, rust, black, and orange. He entertained visitors with stories of animals and men fighting themselves and each other along with spine-tingling stories about ghosts and Indians that intimidated the settlers. If they were true, it did not matter.

Sugar sat up as Wyatt leaned back in his chair and stretched. He turned his attention to a monitor that was anchored to the wall above the communications set up, on which four security camera feeds ran simultaneously, each taking up a quarter of the screen. There were wide-angle day/night security cameras trained on the exit points for each of the emergency tunnels, one aimed at the surface door at the top of the mudroom stairwell, and one that was positioned approximately halfway up the driveway that provided a view of the front yard, which Wyatt felt would be the most likely point of approach for any unwelcome visitors. That monitor and the cameras, along with the ham radio, were wired into both the main generator and a separate,

Lifty huffed, snuffing his cough back into his throat as he chucked Petunia into his bedroom.

Outside, a middle aged man walks outside from the back entrance after a long day at work. As he moves through the back alley, a swift cracking noise echoes the area. He drops on the ground, instantly going into a state of unconsciousness as cackling and footsteps run away from him. This horrible scenario has been occurring for the past few years in various urban areas to people who seem “vulnerable.” This “knock out game” has various methods of operation but for the most part, “…it typically involves either one forceful punch to the head or a more generalized assault to a random individual (typically standing or walking alone) without any warning or provocation, and without any ulterior motive such as theft or retaliation” (Zonfrillo,

She noticed a crack in her skin after the first time she saw a Pride parade, no older than the age of thirteen. The crack was like that of a broken porcelain doll. It was small, and barely noticeable, but it stretched from past her hairline to the very top of her forehead. She thought about telling her mom about it once she noticed it, however decided it best to just wait for it to heal like any sort of injury she had had in the past. If she had to wear her hair differently to hide it, than that was just a small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things.

I sit at the kitchen table going over the eviction papers. But we have done nothing wrong I think in my head. My husband John paces beside me furrowing his brow. “I just don't understand. Why us? Why would they come after us?!” exclaims John.

Crack crickle snap The leaves under my feet grabbed my ankles like little tiny hands. It was a cool and dark october night. The thick fog was rolling over the treetops. The wind blew my hair like leaves on the wilting trees. I was with my friend Jim and we were going to play man hunt. i was it first. He ran off into the night to hide. We were in my backyard, so nothing bad could happen, right. Wrong. I heard a loud scream It sent a chill down my back. Then silence I was looking for Jim but he was nowhere to be found. i yelled his name a couple of time. Jim, Jim, but no answer. I started to walk towards where I heard the scream. There was a giant hole in the ground with a sign next to it that said Free Candy. I wasn’t falling for a stupid tenagers

I just can not believe you didn’t kick us out of your room this year since we are all beyond annoying and can’t seem to keep our hands off of your stuff. You have been by far my second favorite teacher at school of course behind the man, the myth, the legend Mr.Swagdone. I’m only joking of course because I wouldn't have “tolerated” so much time spent with you if you were not my favorite. I want to thank you for every single game of Boggle we played because even though you won virtually every game we played I enjoyed every attempt of defeating you. However, the best part by far of playing Boggle was Takyi writing down a word and always assuming that it was a word even when it wasn’t. Seriously though I will one day destroy you at Boggle and I will rub it in your face forever. I want to