When I mention flash fiction, most people don't know what I'm talking about. It's basically really short prose pieces. Some definitions state that the word limit is under 1000, while other definitions don't specify a word count. It's also sometimes called short-short fiction.
Anyway, I've written lots of flash fiction. I haven't written much lately, but in the past I really churned out "story snippets" as I then called them. I was happy to find out that I was far from alone in enjoying this writing format.
Below are a couple of flash fiction pieces that I've written.
"So, here we are."
"Yeah. I never would've thought that we'd be together like this again."
"Especially not here of all places."
We stood outside the little cafe where we'd had our first date over thirty years ago.
He had a little less hair and a little more gut. I was a little saggier and had gray roots. All in all we weren't too bad looking though.
"So, you want to come back to my place?" he asked.
"On a first date? What kind of girl do you take me for?"
Of course we both knew I was joking. Hell, we'd been married for ten years, then not for the next twenty.
"I'll follow you in my car."
Once we were back to his place we had a few drinks, reminisced, then went to bed. We had the kind of sex you'd expect from two slightly tipsy, middle-aged, exes: mediocre.
As I went to the bathroom afterward, I noticed stubble in the sink, dirty laundry overflowing from the hamper, and that the toilet seat was up.
I remembered then all the reasons it didn't work the first time and I added yet another relationship to our collection. Once friends, once husband and wife, once enemies, and now once, we were a one night stand.
It’s too late. I’ve been philosophizing the merits and pitfalls of death. There are fears and hopes. Fears of leaving behind everything familiar, of the unknown, of passing the point of no return. Hopes of leaving all earthly concerns, of not having to worry about this mortal realm.
My thoughts are cut short by the pain though. I can barely breathe. My throat hurts, and my neck is raw and burning.
Somewhere between the thoughts of carrying my plan through and hearing the chair hit the floor, I realize it’s too late for second thoughts. I curse my braveness of acting in solitude. There would be no accidental intruders for some time yet. I wonder what they would think when they saw me, but again, my thoughts turn back to my pain. As I dangle from my noose, I realize it’s too late to wonder.
written in 2005
Dear Rene Angelil
1 year ago