Archive for the ‘Flash fiction’ Category

November 23, 2011

Flash fiction, because people don’t accept it as a concept.

When my Father died he left me his helmet. It sits on the top shelf in my wardrobe, snug in between a box of newspaper clippings and some shoes that I only wear on special occasions, over the slightly diagonal pole that my clothes hung from, sliding slightly to the left. To be honest, I’d forgotten about it for a good few years until today. It was only because my friend – boyfriend – had asked me about it today.

“I wouldn’t have you put down as a motorcycle kind of girl,” he said curiously. I’m not a motorcycle kind of girl. Mostly, I ignored his comment. We were in a rush anyway, and I couldn’t find my new fur coat, I got it half price.

We left once the taxi arrived, tonight he was taking me to see Phantom of the Opera; he’d surprised me with the theatre tickets about a month ago, though I’d been dropping hints for a while. Still, it was a nice gesture, comparably. On our way he continued to question me of the apparently strange contents of my wardrobe.

“What were all those bits of newspaper for?” He asked in a more interrogatory manner. I lied and said that they were food articles, fancy deserts, decorations ideas for cupcakes, strangest ice cream flavours from around the world. I knew this would start him off on another speech about how good food is like ‘great sex’ and the way it can really ‘change the world’, how great cooking can make you a ‘better person’. He was too zealous to realise that I was interesting in the blurred lights of the traffic.

Once we arrived I lit up a cigarette, he sighed,

“We’ll miss the beginning.” His voice had gone stern now. I took a long drag. He knew we weren’t going to miss anything. It was just one of those things that he said. Like when I order rump steak at a restaurant instead of the chicken salad, he’ll always say something along the lines of,

“You won’t regret it if you order the healthier option.” Though we both knew that the piles of crisp cut vegetables was not going to make me ‘feel as good inside’ (as he would put it) as the medium rare slab of meat would.

As we stood in the cold air outside the theatre entrance, I watch the road. A few black cabs rolled up that dropped off more attractive couples than us. The men with more expensive, fitted suits and carefully groomed stubble. The women more curvaceous, doing a marvellous balancing act on glamorous stilettos. Though, just before we went inside, to take our seats, a roaring motorcycle parked up front. A slightly larger, middle aged man unmounted the bike, and pulled off a helmet that was identical to the one in my wardrobe. As he walked past I said to him,

“I like your helmet.” He smiled and nodded in acknowledgement before disappearing through misted glasses doors.

Ever since then, that helmet has been in all of my thoughts, and I can’t put my finger onto why.


Did someone mention impressionistic characterisation?
November 19, 2011

You’re not really a part of my life though, are you really? I see you, nuzzling your way in, trying to become something, mean more than you will ever mean. I’ll smile at you in the street, if I saw you, though I doubt I’d see you. Look right through. I don’t have the strength to say goodbye, though the words will linger in my teeth, in my saliva, as if I once had the intent, to walk away. You tied me down here, tight. Though my mind will wander, far away. It smells like blood in here, and you have that look upon your face as if you have another bright idea, that I won’t like. Time passes. I didn’t like it. I try to kid myself. Oh god.

I let you win, again. Your words left my head spinning. The struggle against you – the ease in your arms. With your warmth wrapped around me the world flows easily, down my throat in impressive cocktails, in expensive champagnes, I can’t help but be swept off of my feet. Every single fucking time. Your words spin my thoughts into mini whirlwinds. But as soon as you leave, there will be destruction to honour your memory. I don’t want to beg for you to come back, any more. I’d rather live, missing you, but I am the rag doll you throw around. Don’t call me ‘sweety’. I hate that.