Category: Flash Fiction

Clueless

I gawked at the short, muscly woman walking through the massive doors. She wore beige pants and a loose blue blouse, with tomboyish, straight black hair sitting snug on her head.

She avoided the artists, wandering alone breezing through people and portraits alike.

Soon she found a chair in a corner to people watch. She seemed incapable of appreciating art and I wondered why she stayed. Yet she lingered, unperturbed as the clock ticked closer to judgement. When it did, I stood, gulped and turned to the stage.

She was the judge; the renowned artist I had dreamt of meeting.

Need for Change

bench

“But everything would change the moment you say ‘I do,’” Becky pleaded with her sister. “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

Belinda turned away from the mirror she had been admiring, to face her sister. She was tired, tired of waiting for the dust to settle down, tired of waiting for the one person who’d show her happiness again. Because despite fantasising much, Belinda knew she’d never be happy while she clung to her past, wallowing alone in the hallow house that her teenage daughter had hung herself in.

Belinda needed out, and Richard had a shiny green card.

Resistance

Martha was the pickiest eater her colleagues knew. She’d decline late-night parties and would never go to the hot dog stand. She ate from her packed lunch, often some chicken and quinoa, oatmeal and fruit, or whole-wheat tortilla with meat.

When they went for lunch treats, Martha would choose salad with dressing on the side. Her team would roll their eyes and “LOL” to each other while she’d pick on her salad, looking unperturbed.

But unknown to all, Martha had a poster of mascarpone pizza in her bedroom, right next to a photo of her obesity-stricken family.

Blast From the Past

He walked down the empty corridor looking at the pictures that lined the walls. Old youngsters laughed back at him, their arms around each other, huddling behind a rusty trophy.

He read the description. “Dr. Charlie memorial soccer tournament. Class of 1935.”

Charlie’s eyes unfocused for a second before focusing again. 1935 was a long time ago. More than sixty years after he had gone. He tried to calculate when he had died, but soon remembered he’d never cleared a single mathematics examination. Giving up, he walked on.

A little further, he stopped at another picture. It was a portrait of a woman clad in graduation robes, smiling wide in joy and pride. The picture looked newer. And the woman familiar. He squinted at the description that read, “Mrs. Charlie Yaxley. Senior Professor, Mathematics.”

Realisation shot through him like current. He staggered forward, reaching out. Just as he reached his arm to caress her cheek, a stern voice rang through the corridor.

“Charlie!”

It was Tracy, his maths teacher. “This is a huge museum, stick with the group or you’ll get lost.”