Tag: flash fiction

Creator

Wielding her weapon, Margaret felt immense power surge through her veins. Everything rested on her — she could make or break Larry. She could poke, tease, torture him even, and no one to intervene.

She could control him, discipline him, and boss him. Like a puppeteer she could play with his arms and legs, like a sore partner she could mess with his soul, like a disowning parent she could stare until he withered in shame.

She had created him, and she had every right to destroy him. After all, she wouldn’t be the first author to torment her characters.

Young copywriter

young copywriter

She had always been a nobody—getting coffee for managers, delivering posters from office to office, trotting after leaders, taking notes as they dictated and sipped the coffee she had brought.

Everything had paid off, she realised, caressing her desk. Copywriter — at last, a real job with real purpose.

She read volumes of how-to and best practices. But when she had to write on her own, she stumbled. It was one thing to read through inspirational ad copies and gawk at others’ eureka moments, but a tougher task to write herself.

“Why don’t you get some coffee?” A colleague suggested.

The one who cracked the shell

When their eyes locked for the first time, something sparked. David felt a bolt of lighting shoot through his veins, high energy gushing through his warm blood making it warmer, making him warmer.

Instinct said she sensed it, too.

Something changed within, and everything changed without. His face lost its hardness, his smile reached his eyes, his eyes brimmed with warmth, his stride became a pace. Long black beard became a slick black stubble, and though he wouldn’t shave the moustache, he oiled and softened it all the same. All for her.

Wife defined his love but daughter, his tenderness.

Seeking change

Brainwashed by high-paying jobs, early marriages, and supposed happiness lifelong, Jose’s parents wanted the same for him. They wanted their perfect son to become the perfect man.

Except he had other ideas. In a uniformed world, he craved individuality, an identity worthy of the rebel he was. He read awakening literature and revolutionary biographies. Furious at society’s evils, he rallied forces to fight for freedom. The ideal son became the ideal protester — a radical change the world never expected.

When they captured him at last, he saw all the 6×8-feet cells, and realised he’d spent a useless life fighting ubiquitousness.

A show

Bethany was small-made, yet boisterous. It was surprising because her parents were nothing like her. Hating those who belittled her, she blew her own trumpet — raising her voice in pointless arguments, bossing the boys to assert equality, strutting the school corridors cursing the canteen food. Despite her bony figure and tiny profile, Bethany’s brassiness baffled all those who interacted with her.

Only years later — after she had children and grandchildren — did they find her diary. She had revealed her true self: a puny child hiding behind a fake voice to fit in to a noisy world.