Flash fiction
The art of telling a story under one thousand words. The writer can take the thousand or need just 101 words, and there you have Flash fiction.
Here at WWA we have a fondness for the flash fiction tale. A moment in life, the brief characterization, and the brevity of language. What is not to enjoy from a little flash fiction. Consume while sat in a waiting room, riding on public transport or anytime you have a vacant five minutes.
Flash fiction will, at best, give you entertainment, a little thought, a little provocation, and you might find a little excitement within the words. We hope you find them all in our Flash fiction.
Runaway
He ran. Ernie pushed his legs to move even faster. Window, door, wall, window, door wall, window door wall. Archway, wall window door, door, window, wall. The terrace houses flashing the corner of his eye seemed so far away. He put his head down. The pavement came up to his boot, lace still flapping and whipping his shin. Concrete slab slamming in his calve and thigh muscle. Three streets Ernie had run. His hands limp at the wrist flapping like the balloon skirts on a windy day in the park. His arms piercing the night air in rhythm with his legs.
The end of the street. The washed pavement from the rain through the night had drained the grit placed to stop the freeze from the days before. Ernie arched his body, leaning to make the ninety-degree turn without losing speed. His eyes caught the grit clumped together, which he would have recognised as the stars of Capricorn were his blood not pumping through his muscles. His foot missed the sharp sand by fractions of an inch.
John was not so lucky. His eyes were only for the usurper of his wife. His work shoes landed on the gravel and slid. His thigh clashing with the knee of the leg that need to bring his foot down. Airborne his head struck the corner of the house. Rasping down the brick work till his body, with a slamming stop, hit the concrete slabs.
Before the black, his last sight of the darkness was the flapping tails of the man’s overcoat receding into the distance. His last thought: regretting sneaking out the factory to see his wife.
Unaware his pursuer was down, Ernie kept running as hard as his body could. Covering the next two hundred yards in less than a minute he knew he was nearing his end. His body screamed for air.
At the next corner in the tightly packed terrace streets he looked back. His eyes pierced the darkness and saw nothing but weak streets lights. He slowed his legs down as he descended the gentle slope of the street.
Finally still, his body bent, hands on his knees, his head up, breathing heavily through a gaping mouth but his eyes focused on the corner. He was alone. His breath and heart returned to normal. Lighting a cigarette, he headed for home.
A home gifted to him by a distant Aunt. Once a year she would visit for an ‘inspection’ stopping for a weekend. He serviced her out of pure gratitude. Slumping down on the sofa he took a gulp from the whisky bottle.
Perhaps he should stop seducing married women. “Not gonna happen,” he muttered under his breath.
You hurt the families, her husband will shout, perhaps even beat her.
He frowned. “Not my problem.”
You are responsible as much as they are.
“They could say no. They could love their husband. The husbands could look after them better.”
Wouldn’t it be better to see single girls?
“But they all want marriage. They all want to be with me forever.”
Ernest Jackson-Cooper you will have to marry one day.
He groaned. Pouring more whisky in his mouth, he swallowed quickly and muttered. “Don’t see why. I am happy as I am.”
He heard a laugh.
I don’t think you are. You have not been for years.
“Shut up.” He gripped the bottle between his thighs and lit another cigarette. There was that laugh again. He shouted a loud slurred curse.
It should have been you. Archie was a good man.
Germany, the final days of the war. They knew, him and Archie, that the end was close. They took more care. On the edge of Berlin. Clinging close to a wall, Archie’s head exploded from the sniper bullet. The blood splatting over Ernie’s face, into his eye. A chimera vapour failing to disperse.
“That I agree. But it was not me. The tank could have fired earlier.”
But it did not. They saw the flash and the blew him up. You did not even avenge your friend.
“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.”
I can never shut up. You can never forget who you are. A worthless piece of excrement. The thoughts echoing as he drained the bottle till nearly empty.
He would sleep soon. Head dropping, stupefied by the bottle he clutched between his thighs.
John nether shouted nor beat his wife. A passing Bobby found him. His head twisted sideways; he looked like a drunk sleeping using the wall as a pillow. The Bobby pushed him with his boot, “come on mister, you can’t sleep here.”
The policeman saw the black pool of blood. Ran to the nearest police box and called it in.
His wife visited John in hospital. He was still sleeping, head wrapped in a bandage. He remembered nothing. She was relieved.
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