Category: Flash Fiction

The writing prompt

’Twas a bleak evening. Unwarranted rains lashed against the window while Narnia deleted the clump of text on her screen—her feeble efforts at writing an article.

It’d been a while since she’d strung one sentence to another, in perfect coherence, forging each paragraph as worthy as the next one. All established writers face this, she assured herself. Except that her first publication was still due.

As she crumped the metaphorical piece of paper that held her desperate story, she stumbled upon something rather uncanny.

In retrospect, that was her impetus to publish her first novel, and many subsequent ones.

A tribute to The Daily Post. It meant a lot to me.

Ceremonial feelings

The whole world was gearing up. It was, after all, their Royal wedding. Excitement bubbled on every surface of the streets, for murmurs of rumours had spread like wildfire already. Babbling crowds lingered, in vegetable markets and liquor stores, wondering, guessing the colour of the dresses, the types of flowers, the length of the veil, and—the designer who made all possible.

The family’s feverish mirth was only too obvious, and even the bride was getting along fine.

But he struggled.

Millions of eyes would observe him throughout the ceremony. The pastor had never been more nervous in his life.

Game age

English teachers at the Mount High School stared at each other. “Methinks,” a student had opened her essay. She wasn’t the only one.

Although they mixed up thou and thee, all of a sudden students were making conscious, albeit tardy, efforts to converse in the ancient tongue. As if a great wave of archaism had swept over the school.

Perplexed, sixty-year-old Professor Henry questioned Timothy.

“Oh, we’re practising for this game—Speak like Socrates. Whoever speaks the longest wins an iPhone.”

Socrates was Greek, Henry wondered. But Tim had left. It wasn’t about the language. ‘Twas all about the game.

Job requirements

“How can I help you?”

“Hi… Geoff. I’ll be your colleague from today.”

Silence. How can a handicapped man be a sales person at a multi-facility enterprise, Geoff wondered. His job involved running around all the time, and climbing up and down thousands of stairwells a day. This new person wouldn’t stand a chance, more so since he couldn’t even stand. He was skeptical of this man who leaned on a tattered stick, sporting a determined expression.

That was five years ago.

“How can I help you?”

It was Rick, the infamous handicapped salesman.

Awkwardness is a lack of experience.

Rite of passage

Sawyer tried console himself as he looked around his home. Scattered all around were leaves, twigs, and damp sand. Avoiding his eyes, his wife swept the trash away, mumbling to herself as she did so.

She was too afraid of saying anything that’d ruffle him. He’d had a rough time as it is, and coming from her, even the undeniable truth would only irritate him further.

Unable to bear the ringing silence, “I’m so sorry!” he cried breaking down. “I thought it was time.”

His wife sighed in silence. “Maybe it’s a rite of passage to farming. Cultivating premature crop.”