Flash Fiction
According to WikiPedia, “Flash fiction is a fictional work of extreme brevity that still offers character and plot development… Some commentators have suggested that flash fiction possesses a unique literary quality in its ability to hint at or imply a larger story.“ As a writer, I tend to be pretty verbose, so I write flash fiction as an exercise in brevity. Each of the stories below are exactly 100 words.
THE FLYING MAN
I saw the flying man on Sir Francis Drake. Rush hour, bumper to bumper, the sun setting right in my eye. Could not avoid the glare even pulling the visor down. The man came flying from the east, from behind me, soared over the roof of my car and the next two. I could tell the flying part wasn’t planned because if the man had intentionally flown he would have positioned himself in a more aerodynamic pose, like Superman, or an arrow, or the man on the flying trapeze. Instead he was crouched as if crawling rapidly across the sky.
DOMINION
When the doctors told him she’d never walk again he sold her shoes. And her clothes. She left the hospital in his Wellington boots and yellow vinyl raincoat. He took her to Walmart, she thought to pick up her cancer medications. He left her in the car. She felt even death could not be so cold. He returned with a wheel chair but he pushed her past the pharmacy and into the gun department. “Her record’s clean,” he said. He spent her money on a handgun. When he passed out she flushed the firing pin. He’d never figure it out.
MANOLO BLAHNIKS
3 a.m. She should be safe in bed but the boss’s secretary got drunk at the office party and had to be driven home. There was no parking within a city block. Her Manolo Blahnik stilettos were not made for walking. And she is being followed. Hard shoes slap the pavement in time with hers. She slows, he slows. She hurries, he hurries. The city is dead as a morgue. The clicking of her shoes seem to scream “I can’t run! I can’t run!” She will never afford another pair but she kicks them off and sprints for her car.
PAWN SHOP
He came in to hock a hand gun. She was there to sell a ring. He kept the gun in his pocket and waited his turn. The snarky old duffer behind the counter, stinking of cheap cigars and cheaper rum, demeaned the only thing this woman held dear. Her cloth coat was too thin for the storm. She had no gloves. Her hands were red and raw. Then he made the decision that would put them on the evening news. He took the gun out of his pocket, aimed it, cocked it, and said, “What’s it worth now, old man?”