~ Micro Fiction ~
Rainy Day and Coffee
Becky Spence, York, United Kingdom
The rain poured and I waited. Alone in the crowd, I watched you. Saw you pull yourself tall, eyes searching for recognition. The clock in the square struck three, hands juddering through time. Our time, everyone else working, learning, not us we'd meet for coffee or tea. Lost afternoon, walking and talking, figuring each other out. I walked across the square stood at your side, grabbed your hand and we walked into the rain.
Learner
Candida Spillard, York, United Kingdom
Cycling to work. She loved it: wind in her white hair, fresh spring morning. Loved the stretch along the river path. Quiet. Trees. Reflection. Her Mentor had said she could pick up the energy.
"Pick it up, lass; you need it at your time of life: keep you young. I can bring you an extra life, but only you can go out there and collect the energy you need for living it."
But she had to negotiate the crossroads first: red light, always took ages. Always wait for Green: always look before pulling out...
The car that shot the lights came out of nowhere and knocked her flying. Bloody cyclists who won’t wear a helmet. She hit the tarmac head first and awkwardly. That was it: sixty four years, I suppose it’s not too bad considering. I always knew these crossroads would get me in the end. Well, no more headaches: always look on the bright side of...wait!! The words my Mentor taught me! Said he’d test me on them: bit late for a test now.
Bring, me, one, more, life -
She woke up. Her Mentor was sitting on the bed.
“Brava, lass” he said,
“Passed first time”
The Soldiers of the Future
Karen Storey, London, United Kingdom
One pan thick with charred remains, the second barely coming to the boil and he'll be home in minutes. She switches off the wireless and checks her freshly set hair, hoping that her appearance at least will escape censure.
He marches from the station, his swagger stick an umbrella. God, how he misses the war. No one respects their elders any more, least of all those whippersnappers at work. After the day he's had, she'd better be ready with dinner.
Faced with his grimace at the acrid air, her greeting peters out. Snapping the front door closed, he hands her his bowler and briefcase and wordlessly stomps upstairs. He stares into the bathroom mirror, furious hands gripping the sides of the basin. What possessed him to marry a girl twenty years his junior? For the sons she will bear, his reflection reminds him, the soldiers of the future.
Despite underdone vegetables and the joint too tough to slice, he makes an unaccustomed joke. She rises and he slips an arm around her, sour breath playing on her neck. Her stomach lurches. She knows what must follow: the pain as he rams himself inside her and then, in days to come, the slights and stinging slaps when once more she bleeds away his dreams.
She can bear it no longer. She wrenches free and smites him with the truth, her baby given up for adoption when she was little more than a child herself. If they have no children, she is not to blame. His face purples. Spittle sprays as he roars his rage. Liar! Whore! Bitch! He is going to give her his son, right there, right now.
How the carving knife comes be in her hand, she doesn’t know.
The Heirloom
Maryann Holloway, New Jersey, USA
"How old is this junk?" asked Mark.
"My grandparents met during the war. The trunks were hers from when grandpa brought her home as a war bride,” said Tricia.
"What’s our plan?"
"They never had wealth. I think we should just haul it all to the curb."
"No family heirlooms?"
Several hours later, covered in grime, they locked the door and left. Since trash collection was the following morning, Josh, the owner of Kelly's Antiques was making his weekly travels through neighborhoods looking for treasures. When he saw the large amount of trash, he knew he should investigate. Josh spotted the trunks and loaded them into his truck. Deciding that the rest was not worth his time, Josh returned to his shop satisfied with a successful evening.
Always amazed by what people threw away, Josh was pleased when he found a gold locket kept in a small drawstring bag at the bottom of one trunk. Inside the locket were photographs of two young adults. Josh polished the locket and put it on display for his customers.
A few months later, Mark entered Kelly's Antiques to look for an anniversary gift for Tricia. A colleague of hers received an antique ring as a gift and Tricia spoke about it for days afterwards. Mark hoped to find something just as special. None of the jewelry seemed right until he spotted the locket. The piece was beautiful but it was the photographs that most interested Mark. He purchased the locket and had it gift-wrapped.
During their anniversary dinner, Mark waited anxiously as his wife opened her gift. He wasn’t surprised by the look of shock on her face.
“I know right. The woman in that photograph could be your twin.”
“No Mark. These photographs are of my grandparents from the 1940s.
The Hunt to Read a Newspaper
Christine Brand, Surrey, United Kingdom
Reception said they would deliver to the room. They didn't. Then they said "I've only been here a week, but try the local village, it's only a mile away."
There was indeed a village only a mile away. With a church, a duck pond and a riding stable. Without a shop. The country lanes were deserted, not even a farmer on a tractor to ask for directions.
The next village was bigger. With a pub, a cricket green and a boarding kennels. Without a shop. Still, tranquil, birds singing, dogs barking, no-one to ask for directions.
Finally, a petrol garage. Smiling local, friendly face, news!
I return forty minutes after I left the hotel; sitting comfortably with my tea I open the paper.
Same old same old… where's the crossword?
~ Flash Fiction ~
Ending Life
Namitha Varma, Mangaluru, India
What is a fitting end to human life, you ask? Suicide, of course. No one but you have the right to take away your life. Not even the so-called God.
Now you’ll argue that if you are committing suicide, there was God’s hand in it. But that is an argument for another day.
This morning I decided to end my life. I had two arguments for my case and I had blocked out any opposite argument, so I was all set.
a). Why should anyone else decide when my life would end? Why should it be left to someone else to decide that I’ve had enough of life, or life has had enough of me? I will decide whether my life should end or not.
b). I do not want to leave it to fate to figure out the best way for me to die. If I got to make choices in life, I ought to get the chance to make choices in death too.
I started on the task very methodically. I opened an Excel spreadsheet and started listing the ways to commit suicide. I search Google extensively, making sure I was on incognito mode so that mom or dad wouldn’t see the search terms and freak out when they use the computer. I made notes on each method, with advantages and disadvantages, props required for the act, time required for the act, whether it will be noisy, or messy, whether it can be done at home or need an outdoor venue, et al. I entered all the information in the spreadsheet in a crisp format so that sorting would be easier. At the end of the day, I had a 30-row sheet, beautifully formatted, colour-coded according to difficulty levels.
I was proud of my work and wanted to show it to someone. I uploaded it to Google Docs as a public document, shared it on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest, wherever I could. And then went to sleep.
The next day, I opened my social networks and email to a lot of comments on the document.
“Great work!”
“This was soooo helpful!”
“What an idea, sirji!”
“Dude, this is mindblowing!”
“Yaar mujhe bhi excel sikha de…” (Dear, te
ach me also how to work on Excel.)
“I didn’t quite understand how to procure cyanide; can you add a section on that?”
“Air bubble in the circulatory system. That is SO cute!”
“I wish I could drown, but I know how to swim, so I guess the reflexive survival instinct would kick in and not allow me to die?”
“Madarchod saale, tereko aur koi dhandha nahi hai kya?” (Motherfucker, don’t you have any other work?)
I was proud of myself. I went to dad, who was reading his morning newspaper. “Dad, I’ve decided what I want to do in life.”
“About time too. You’ve already wasted a year after Class 12 deliberating on that. So, what do you want to be?”
“I want to be a business analyst. Maybe I’ll start my own company one day, dad. I think I’ll sell ideas.”
“Ok ok. Good timing. Admissions for BBA-MBA integrated course will begin at Birla Institute of Technology next month. Go download the form and fill it. I’ll do the rest.”
I did as I was told. And the comments on the document kept pouring in. It’s nice to have satisfied customers. I love my life.
~ # ~
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