Here’s a piece of flash fiction I cooked up about going to rehab at the worst possible time. Enjoy!
It was all too much for Grayson.
On the TV screen, images of car bombs exploding in the nation’s capital and other various cities triggered his anxiety. Nothing was happening in his city – Philadelphia – just yet, but it was only a matter of time.
“Do we have any left?” Grayson asked his girlfriend, Thea.
“No,” she said. “I’m putting my foot down this time. Now is not the time to be doing Anvil. Look, I know you’re freaked out, but let’s just chill.”
Flash fiction may be the hardest type of story to write. It can also be incredibly fun. I’ve shared a few here on my site – some are good, others just okay, and some probably suck to be honest! Often, I search the internet for prompts to get me going. So, I decided to devise a list of my own flash fiction prompts for myself and to share with others.
Everyone wore masks this particular day, some sparkled, and some were dull and gray. But there was one man who went maskless – this man I saw on the street corner. His face was normal as could be: a thin nose, bushy eyebrows, full lips, and ruddy, plump cheeks.
He stood there, beckoning me to come forward amid the masked people walking to and fro. “Did you know,” he started, “that I wear a mask, as well?”
Most times, my dreams aren’t profound, nor do they make much sense. Dream-logic, I’m told, never does. But this dream felt different. My father appeared on the football field of my youth. In life, he was a short man. But in this dream, he towered over me.
He wore denim dream-jeans, faded blue, and ripped at the knees. He smoked a giant dream-cigarette, and the smoke billowed like it was from a power plant. His dream-muscles were large and imposing, like Zeus’.
The old man speaks of phantoms. He lay on his death-bed, and his face is ashen and sickly.
“Our home,” he says, “it’s haunted. Haunted by my sins. Haunted by my father’s sins, and his father’s sins.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
The old man cried as the yellow half-moon murmured to the birds. The birds squeaked and squawked a beautiful song, but it didn’t stop the wise man from weeping.
“Why do you cry?” I asked him.
The gods often come in disguise. I know this, I know it all too well. But I forget sometimes. The slick salesman didn’t look like a god – far from it. He was a wheeler-and-dealer, a card shark. He told me so.
Jet-black hair slicked back, greasy with gel. White dress shirt, dark red tie that screamed “power!” and “too much testosterone!” What a bore this guy was. He tried to sell me a used car, something that wouldn’t get me very far, one that would creak, moan, die by the side of the road.
It was a full moon that night, a bright and powerful moon
that beamed blinding light onto the blankets of snow that covered the hills.
Here’s a piece of flash fiction I wrote a couple of years ago that, I suppose, is semi-autobiographical. It’s about loneliness and the yearning for human connection.
How can you know what perfect harmony is if you’ve never suffered?
It was like that for Adam and Eve, as they strolled through the Garden, bathing in sunlight and fresh air, at peace with all creatures.