Succulent chunks of fresh fiction, cooked at your table and served sizzling hot, with our special spicy sauce
Over the last few months I’ve posted bits of flash fiction on the blog. They’re usually about 500-1,500 words, and are a challenge to write; as there is little space for context, it must be presented by implication. Flash fiction has a long history, but has become more popular in recent years, driven in part by the Internet – to which it is well suited. It’s a form that I’ve got into since joining a writing group, as when we meet each member presents a piece on a theme set at the previous meeting.
I’ve been through my notebook from the meetings and deciphered my handwriting (no easy task, I tell you), and hereby present these seven succulent, bite-sized fiction chunks. I have not edited them; they’re as I wrote them, served fresh and, I hope, piquant.
Don't Look Now
"Don't look now," he said. "It's not nearly ready for you to see."
"But I'm interested in how you work," she said.
"I prefer to keep that private. It's like wanting to watch a burlesque performer make up, otherwise. You miss the effect."
She laughed. "Well, let's get on with it." She took her time returning to the chair, letting him see the way she moved. She resumed her pose perfectly, her hand draped over the arm of the chair. The grey, flat light seeped in through the studio skylight. He took up his palette, delighted with the diffuse daylight.
"It is so grey today," she said. "I shall look like Whistler's Mother."
"On the contrary. The flat light will model your features evenly." He peered over the top of his canvas. A smile was spreading from the corners of her mouth.
"My husband knows you've slept with me, by the way," she said.
His hand jerked and a swathe of blue paint ran down the image.
"It was a sudden inspiration," he said later, when the picture had won the BP Portrait Award. "I saw blue within her and knew she could not hide it. From the public, maybe. But not from a true artist."
The interviewer nodded sagely.
The Night
of my Downfall
At about
1AM, I saw Mr Smithers waddle between the tables in my direction. His chain of
office glittered in the harsh fluorescent strip lights. The other four were in
train behind him. Why are provincial aldermen so fat and pompous, I thought.
“I think we should declare shortly," he said. "Perhaps you might mount the platform.”
I followed
the others. A hush descended on the hall, the tellers exhausted, the
scrutineers too. I had watched the piles of votes as they mounted up through the night
and I knew.
I knew.
Smithers sidled up to the mic and tapped it twice.
“Being the
returning officer for the constituency of Much Cursing and Little Gibbon, I
declare the votes cast as follows.”
I listened,
numb; 20 years as an MP were at an end.
I would
have to find a job.
Can We
Skip Winter?
“Can we
skip winter?” she said.
I had been
about to load the dishwasher. To do this I had had to lift the cat from the
back of the machine. She sneaks in there when I’m not looking; her other
favourite is the washer-dryer.
“I want to
skip winter,” she repeated. “Let’s go to Greece. Or Italy. Or we could go and
see Uncle Sidney in Sydney.”
She was
always like that. She never thought of the money.
“We have to
have those roof tiles done,” I said. “And I must get Thing over to clean the
patio, and there’s the boiler, we’ll have to replace it in the spring. Where is
the money coming from?”
She looked
up at the skylight over the kitchen; a steady rain was falling.
I looked
away to grab the cat, which was trying to get back into the dishwasher.
“I want to
skip winter,” she said again, and I remember now – I didn’t notice it then –
that she had a faraway look in her eyes. She looked away from the
rain-spattered roof and went back to scrubbing the frying-pan. I thought no
more of what she had said.
“Let’s
watch telly,” she said. “It’s nearly time for the news.”
And yet I
know, now, that that was the moment my marriage started to end.
The
Elephant in the Room
We didn’t
discuss it at the Board meeting in January. Or February. By March my patience
was exhausted, not least because I arrived late.
“Ah, Sir
John,” said the Chairman. “How nice of you to put in an appearance.”
“My
apologies,” I snapped. “I was delayed by an elephant.”
“A what?”
“Perhaps he
was on a trunk route,” said Peters. Everyone tittered.
“An
elephant,” I said, “that has been in the room at every meeting of the Board for
the last year.”
I reached
into my briefcase and brought forth copies of Autocar, Motor and Motoring
Which. I had marked the pages. I began to read.
Peters
interrupted me. “As Chief Engineer I am well aware that there is a minor matter
concerning our gearbox…”
“Minor!” I
spluttered. “I am a Director of Forsyte Motors. I do not expect to call the AA
on my way to Board meetings.”
“Peters had
assured us that this is under investigation,” said the Chairman. “I propose
that we proceed to Item 1 on the agenda, which is Directors’ Emoluments.”
I slumped back in my seat. “Gentlemen,” I said, “our gearbox is the elephant in the room. And we are discussing our emoluments!”
“Of course,
Smithson,” said the Chairman smoothly. “Everything is under control. We are a
great British car company.”
What Was
Here Before?
During the
morning session, my wife called.
I was quite
glad. I offered the facilitator an apologetic shrug and slipped out.
“Darling,
thank you so much,” I said. “You’ve rescued me from Advanced Diversity Training
Module Seven.”
She
chuckled. “What’s the Wilford Conference Centre like?”
“The usual.
No smoking, digital keys, a gym and overcooked breakfasts.”
She hung
up, and I decided I needed a cigarette. It had been raining, but the clouds
were clearing and patches of pale blue spring sky appeared.
“Wilford,”
I said out loud.
“I beg your
pardon?”
I looked
behind me. A pleasant middle-aged lady in an overall held mountains of washing.
“Wilford,”
I said. “I am sure I heard the name when I was younger. The conference centre
is quite new though. What was here before?”
 |
| Roger Cornfoot/Wikimedia Commons |
It clicked.
The areas of broken concrete at the back, the remains of an old Quonsett hut.
“Of course.
This is the aerodrome the secret agents flew from.”
“Yes,
that’s right.” She nodded. “That’s what was here then. What are you doing
here?”
“Diversity
training,” I said.
She smiled,
and bustled on her way.
Stuck
We got
stuck. I knew we would. Woldejesus was good, but the Chief Driver had given me
Salim for the day. Salim was OK provided A) he was sober and B) it was the dry
season. Today there was a faint whiff of araki on his breath. As for B),
it was in the middle of the rains, and the road to Atbara was like the Somme.
The Land
Cruiser made a satisfying splat as the right side bogged down in a rut the size
of the Marianas Trench. Salim tried to power out of it. This just made the car
dig itself in like a terrified vole that has seen a sparrowhawk.
I left
Salim to it and squelched away through the black cottonsoil. I lit a cigarette.
All around me the baked-earth plain, so arid and brown, had burst into life
with the rain. Green shoots were everywhere. The sky, usually an empty pale
blue or white, had taken on a richer blue and the white clouds billowed across
the landscape. I almost felt I was in Norfolk.
“Do you
know,” I said to no-one in particular, “I’m glad we got stuck.”
Fun
I had my
usual meeting with P.J. at 10 on Tuesday. As always, I reported the receipts
and outgoings for the previous week, gave the running totals for the month and
summarised the liabilities.
Meetings
with P.J. were at least safe. I could walk in there in a micro-skirt and
leather boots if I wanted, and he wouldn’t notice. Other men were different and
I had learned not to go into the office kitchen with more than one of them.
Today was
as normal. He sat there in his dark suit and subdued tie. I was answering a
question on our ground rent for the next financial year when the devil took me,
and I said:
“P.J., have
you ever had any fun?”
“I beg your
pardon?”
 |
| Mick Garratt/Wikimedia Commons |
“Why on
earth would I do that?” he asked.
“Sorry,” I
said. “I’m sorry. The ground rent…”
“No, I
haven’t really,” he said. “Had fun, I mean.”
He had
turned away and was staring out of the window. It had been raining, but the sun
had come out and the leaves, bright green, glistened against the blue sky.
“No,” he
said. “No, I never really have.”
Heartstopping
“Well now, what
happens when you call the IT helpdesk?” she asked.
“I guess
they usually say, have you tried switching it off and switching it on again?” I
replied.
“OK. Well,
that’s pretty much what we’re gonna do to your heart,” she said.
I gulped.
“Er, what
if it won’t reboot?” I blinked.
“It’ll
reboot,” she said. “Like, your heart, it ain’t still running on Windows 7, is
it?”
“I think
it’s an Apple Mac,” I said.
“Then it’s
been downloading patches for the last 60 years.” She grinned. “Relax, OK?
You’re gonna be just fine.”
I recounted
this conversation to my wife over dinner.
“Knowing
you, your heart’s probably full of viruses from porn sites,” she said. She
giggled.
“Hey, give
me some support here,” I said. I’m frightened.”
She stopped
smiling.
“Don’t be afraid,”
she said. “I’ll be there. I love you.”
More flash fiction:
Cold
Everything is cold here
Homecoming
A sort of love story
Rhodri Hactonby's Maps
A matter of human geography
Hiraeth
A yearning
Strange Places
A spirit in the sky
A Sideways Journey
Things might have been different
Displaced
Encounter on E94th Street
Belonging
Do you? Where?
Leaving Home
A house has memories
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