I discovered flash fiction just a few years ago and have become obsessed with telling complete stories, or giving insight into a character or situation, in ridiculously few words. Here are a few examples of my favorites to date.
Red Earth
Fish Publishing, 2016
“C’mon Mike, kick it here!” Dad hopped from foot to foot, primed to receive and bend it back.
Mike kicked at a colossal clump of packed dirt instead. It pulverized into a copper cloud on impact. Cool.
Earth was his Native American name; Mahkah, the name his mother gave him. The name his father never used. His mother was one-quarter Lakota. That made Mahkah one-eighth.
Mahkah. Earth.
“Mike, get the damn ball! Are we playing or not?”
“Not!” shouted Mahkah, turning away. Red dust billowed as he dropped onto the dirt of the vacant lot.
“How’re you ever going to improve if you don’t practice? Let’s go, Mike!”
I’m not like you, thought Mahkah, scratching patterns into the baked soil with his finger. It sucks to be me and you have no clue.
Mahkah’s bony legs cracked as he crossed them Indian-style. He snuck a peek at his father, standing tall and blonde by the chain link fence, fists on hips, bulging quads shining in the Arizona sun.
“Mike, act your age … get up and get the freaking ball.”
Mahkah offered his father his darkest warrior glare, silently wishing that twelve were old enough for a real tomahawk.
Dad jogged over to the ball, slammed it with his brand new Adidas, sending it hurtling in Mike’s direction. It smashed into the back of his dark head, driving his face into the brick-colored dirt. The ball bounced off into the main road.
Mahkah sneezed up a clump of dusty rust-colored snot and wiped it on his wrist. As he rose, he imagined what it would be like to scalp a man, to hold up his blonde and silver prize, to admire the colors flooded with the blood-red sunset.
“Oh, Mike … I … I’m …” started Dad, standing over him, blocking out the setting sun, throwing Mike into his huge shadow.
Mahkah broke away, escaping the shadow, sprinting towards the ball, kicking up crimson clouds, clutching the invisible scalp in his fist, staring directly into the sunset like a true Lakota, mistaking the black Subaru for a free roaming bison.
The Follow Through
Flash Flood Journal, 2016
Your grin is there still, never deserting you, even at a time like this. Your hands, skin paper thin, quiver as you fold and re-fold your trademark white Hanes t-shirts. I miss a breath.
We abducted those shirts to wear as nightgowns, back in the days when they reached down past our knees. Your laugh echoed as we twirled, whipping endless cartwheels, splashes of soft, white cotton circling the living room on hot summer nights. You’d caress our backs or tickle our feet while listening to the Dodger game on the old Zenith. Better pictures than TV, you said.
There was never anything you couldn’t do. You gave us Louisville Sluggers, taught us to grip them like Steve Garvey, to lean back and wait for the pitch; and the importance of follow through. A good swing is nothing without follow through.
You volunteered for every Girl Scout activity and pinned each badge onto our uniforms. You waited on the sidewalk as we sold Peppermint Pinwheels and Marshmallow Meltaways door-to-door, ever patient, always watching.
Your strong hands are now gnarled, covered with veins that protrude like fat blue worms. Your fingers cannot quite pull the suitcase zipper closed. For a moment it seems like a good thing.
You bid farewell to the house, folding your cane and yourself into the passenger seat. The corners of your eyes glisten. You don’t look back.
“Dad, remember? You can still change your mind about Shady Acres. Our guest room is yours, if you want it.”
Your blue eyes crinkle as your hands, as warm as they always have been, seek out mine.
The crowd goes wild as Steve Garvey slams another one out of the park. It’s still all about the follow through.
Sand Snake
Cafe Aphra, 2014
“Hola, Señorita. You wanna look?”
The dark man sat on the shimmering sand with his legs coiled beneath him. In his hand, a red velvet tray of silver-plated jewelry sparkled in the afternoon sun.
The girl shaded her eyes and took one step closer, clutching the hummingbird-shaped coin purse that her parents had filled with pesos for the week.
She pointed at a butterfly ring. “How much is that one?”
He smiled wide enough for her to see his two gold eyeteeth.
“Is 500 pesos. For you 250. Come, Guapa, I put on your finger.”
His mud brown eyes weren’t looking into her hazel ones. He eyed her ruffled Bugs Bunny bikini. The girl crossed her arms over her flat chest and took one step back.
“Ohhh, you no like? OK, Bonita, look at dis big one.”
The girl glanced down, but he wasn’t holding a ring, he was pointing at something that hung out of his shorts, lying on the sand like a fat brown snake.
“You ever see one of dees, Princesita?”
She couldn’t answer or look away. She caught the shine of his gold fangs out of the corner of her eye and heard his hiss of a laugh. Her heart flitter-fluttered. Was it? Could it be? She’d seen some boys’ things in the bathroom at kindergarten last year… but this was different.
The girl blurted out some words, but later couldn’t remember what they were.
This time, the man laughed out loud. The horrible snake jumped in time with his laugh.The girl leapt forward, trying to stomp on the serpent, but missed, kicking the velvet-lined tray out of his hands. As she flew away, hundreds of silver rings took flight, as well, sparkling anew against the blue Mazatlán sky.
Laurie Theurer 