Short Fiction
Some great links to read examples of flash fiction:
Examples of FLASH FICTION stories--300 words or less
SHUT THE FRONT DOOR
Shut the front door. Forty-two steps. Right turn. Walk one hundred and seven meters. Left turn. Down the stairs. Twelve steps to the left. Body towards the rail-track.
Within seconds the subway train arrives. The doors open right in front of her. Hundreds flood out. She enters the carriage, the first to do so. Two seats left. Her exquisitely formed buttocks find the ugly yellow plastic.
As the doors close, the counting in her head begins. Fifty-one. Fifty. Forty-nine. And eight. Her face shows no emotion at all. Forty-seven. A single bump on the track, a short moment of hesitation by the driver would render the countdown useless. But it never has. Not once in the past six years.
Seven. Six. Her almond eyes open as she gets up. Five. Four. Three. The train is braking. Two. One. And open fling the doors.
Three hundred and seventy-one meters, three flights of stairs further – and a traffic light that switched to red just as she put her left leg on the first white stroke of the zebra crossing – she arrives at the glass revolving door. Right on time. Seventeen minutes and twenty-two seconds, door to door. As planned.
Things sure run like clockwork since androids rule the world.
Within seconds the subway train arrives. The doors open right in front of her. Hundreds flood out. She enters the carriage, the first to do so. Two seats left. Her exquisitely formed buttocks find the ugly yellow plastic.
As the doors close, the counting in her head begins. Fifty-one. Fifty. Forty-nine. And eight. Her face shows no emotion at all. Forty-seven. A single bump on the track, a short moment of hesitation by the driver would render the countdown useless. But it never has. Not once in the past six years.
Seven. Six. Her almond eyes open as she gets up. Five. Four. Three. The train is braking. Two. One. And open fling the doors.
Three hundred and seventy-one meters, three flights of stairs further – and a traffic light that switched to red just as she put her left leg on the first white stroke of the zebra crossing – she arrives at the glass revolving door. Right on time. Seventeen minutes and twenty-two seconds, door to door. As planned.
Things sure run like clockwork since androids rule the world.
CHERRY BUDS WERE BLOOMING
Cherry buds were blooming but she wasn’t fooled. Winter was coming. She heard it in the whispers of the birds, she sensed it in the air.
Though everyone else was convinced spring had finally arrived, she expected hard times to follow. Cold, snowy days in June. Unforgiving blizzards in July. Eternal darkness after that.
The next day she was fired from her job as weather woman at the local TV-station.
Though everyone else was convinced spring had finally arrived, she expected hard times to follow. Cold, snowy days in June. Unforgiving blizzards in July. Eternal darkness after that.
The next day she was fired from her job as weather woman at the local TV-station.
Cancer for Sale
The sign on the lawn was written in crude, childish letters, which puzzled me even more than the message itself. As my next client had cancelled, leaving me with an idle hour, I decided to walk up to the door, knock, and ask what the sign meant.
It took a while for someone to arrive. Some cluttering and muttering was audible, followed by a slow shuffle, as of someone dragging a bag of sand behind them, before the door was opened and a small girl came peeking through the askew door with big, inquisitive eyes.
“Mummy and daddy aren’t home,” she said off the bat.
“Did you write that?” I asked.
She nodded.
“What does it mean?”
“It means what it means.”
“It says you sell cancer.”
“Then that’s what it means. You interested, mister?”
I was, I suppose, if only to quell the nagging enigma.
She flung open the door completely.
“You can park your keester on the couch. I’ll be right back.”
Though her face had not been different from that of any other girl, her body showed a wear and tear uncommon at her age. The dragging sound, heard before, came from her club foot. It wasn’t yet prevalent on the quaint picture that hung on the living room wall however, that saw her posing with a thirty-something couple, feigning a smile.
“Head’s up, mister.”
I turned around and in a reflex caught the green, glowing rod. Its radioactive energy soared through me like instant lightning.
“What have you done?” I yelled in agony, as I sunk to my knees and caught the pungent odor emanating from under the floorboards.
“I gave you what you wanted,” she said, her gloved hand picking up the rod.
“That’ll be 50 bucks.”
SEE THEM RUN
See them run, pushing the boundaries of their weary bodies.
Smell their toiling sweat.
Watch them suffer.
Somehow they have convinced themselves there is still time. If the messenger is intercepted, they reason, perhaps the inevitability of it all is suspended. Perhaps they, their sons and brothers won’t have to enlist in an unwinnable war. Perhaps their families won’t starve from hunger this winter.
Have they not noticed the machinery is already turning? Do they not understand that wars are not started or avoided by scraps of paper but by pieces on a politician’s chess board and that the sacrificing of pawns has already begun?
Surely they can hear the thunder of the cannons behind the hills, they can see the black smoke rising? Or do they simply block out the impending conflict? Do they cling to fantasy, rather than acknowledge the reality of war?
See them run, still.
Watch how they delude themselves with visions of peace.
The fools.
Smell their toiling sweat.
Watch them suffer.
Somehow they have convinced themselves there is still time. If the messenger is intercepted, they reason, perhaps the inevitability of it all is suspended. Perhaps they, their sons and brothers won’t have to enlist in an unwinnable war. Perhaps their families won’t starve from hunger this winter.
Have they not noticed the machinery is already turning? Do they not understand that wars are not started or avoided by scraps of paper but by pieces on a politician’s chess board and that the sacrificing of pawns has already begun?
Surely they can hear the thunder of the cannons behind the hills, they can see the black smoke rising? Or do they simply block out the impending conflict? Do they cling to fantasy, rather than acknowledge the reality of war?
See them run, still.
Watch how they delude themselves with visions of peace.
The fools.
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