Tag: flash fiction

All will be well

With rain drops dripping from her hair, flowing down her spine, and becoming one with her feet, she walked away as friends watched her. They knew her well enough to give her privacy when she most needed it.

Vehicles raced around her. Within, so did her mind. Not only had Jason had let her down, but also her story. As her publisher, he should’ve delivered on his promise. It had taken her six years to complete the book, which Jason had ended in months.

She went home, disappointment seeping through her veins. Yet her face remained impassive. With one physical book and thirty-seven ebooks, she’d been writing all her life. This wasn’t her first failure and it wouldn’t be her last—but it hurt all the same.

Taking a deep breath, she showered, and went into the kitchen. Expecting her stood a pot of tea—Akira’s panache.

Kindness nearby

Mary knew what she was getting into when she moved to the town of Morehall. Few people chose to make it their home because it would rain ten months of the year. History had warned, but her realtor had assured her otherwise. “Climate change has worked in your favour.” She had said. “It doesn’t rain as much as it used to. We get at least seven dry months. We have the occasional rain, but it’s nothing major. Look—I live here, I send my kids go to school here. I’m telling you, it’s the perfect town to start your retirement. This is a quiet neighbourhood with an excellent hospital, lots of greenery, natural scenery…”

Except—

Mary scowled as she clutched her window observing the showers pouring for the third day in a row. According to the over-entusiastic voice in the radio, it was just the beginning of Morehall’s signature rains.

Signing, Mary poured herself another cup of coffee and pulled out Live and Learn, and Pass it On. Her mother-in-law had given it to her while she’d been pregnant with Harry, and Mary had no one to pass it on to.

Knock, knock, knock.

She frowned to herself as she opened the front door. In the one week since she’d moved, no one had called. It was a twenty-something girl wearing a red frock under her rain poncho. She held in her hand a paper package.

“Hi” she smiled. “I’m Lisa, and I live down the road. I noticed you hadn’t come out, so I brought you some bread, and eggs from our farm.” She extended the package and Mary accepted, her heart overwhelmed and eyes whelming.

“Thank you, Lisa.”

“Oh, what else are neighbours for?”

To pass on what you enjoyed, of course.

The director

“Why can’t you ever get my words right?”

Jonathon’s director, Mark, was yelled again. Jonathon had wanted to write his own dialogues — he always does, and directors often appreciate it. Mark, however, didn’t.

Mark was a good director but a terrible writer. Although he’d written an impeccable screenplay, he’d fluffed the dialogues. As Jonathon read his script, he felt repeating himself senseless. Mark was adamant.

By show day, Jonathon had decided he’d never work with Mark again. When curtains rose, he just did his job. He cut the fluff out, and performed what became the best play of Mark’s career.

The perfect balance

It wasn’t enough, it was never enough.

She moved the slider to the right. Nothing. She moved it further still.

Processing…

And when loading stopped, it still wasn’t enough. Tired after a long day out in the woods, Susan kept moving the slider to and fro, aiming for the sweet spot. Her roommate peered over her shoulder.

“Uff. Will you ever learn?” She sighed.

Susan turned to her, quizzical.

“Add a faint orange tint. It’ll make those leaves in your hands pop with autumness.”

Susan did without comment. She earned ninety-five likes—three more than yesterday’s photo. She was elated.