Here are three (yes, three – I spoil you, I really do) pieces I did a while ago. I really enjoy writing flash fiction but I’ve found it’s often much harder and takes far longer to write than, say, chapters in a novel. The literary equivalent of a roast dinner, or something. Far quicker to consume.
If you like/hate/want to scream and shout and let it all out/wave your arms in the air like you just don’t care … let me know!
It is bright beyond the window. Hot sun. Easy smiles. The girl makes a final adjustment to the display and looks back at the boy. OPENING TODAY! They laugh and hug and dance. Bargains, discounts! Dogs welcome!
Remember this feeling. Please. Hold it tight…
Later, some years, she turns the sign one last time. Closed. The shop drags in gloom from outside. Folds it away in dusty corners. Smothers items that no one bought. The woman almost looks back. Shadow of the boy, now man, now with another.
A suitcase at her feet. Everything must go.
His Wish to End
When all was done and said, there was only the table and the food left uneaten. Plates around the room, paired with cups. The ghosts of talk.
He stood by the window, looking for signs. A face in the high clouds. Laughter in bird song. A dance in the wind-blown trees. He stood until the light outside began to fade.
Later in bed, in the dark, he turned to the pillow beside him.
‘Is it possible to stop your own heart in dreams?’
‘Good night,’ he whispered.
He was kinda slow. Didn’t talk right. Had this ugly scar that meandered up from his left brow and over his shaven scalp. We called him Frankie. Most days he worked the line with spit balls on his back. Or a note that said ‘Retard’. If you asked me why we did these things, I’d have to say it was just a bit of fun.
Didn’t think he would top himself.
We found out later he’d got the scar in a collapsing building; a steel beam left him with a mental age no higher than the kid he rescued.
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