I am more into poetry, but I’ve been enjoying a bit of flash fiction. I have a few that I wrote in response to a group’s prompts. Writing flash fiction is much easier than writing a novel, – only about 1000 words or less. Below are mine, enjoy!

1. Buried Alive: Three Deaths
2. Dead Lucky: The Insistent Tourist
3. Life After Death
4. The Two Authors

1. Buried Alive: Three Deaths

Seeing two deaths, with my very own eyes is a horrible experience, and almost a hot streak for the soul-taker, death now leads the game against life, 2-0 in two meetings in just over an hour.

The first death I saw happened this morning, 9 o’clock, Friday, when I was at the metro station, waiting for the next train. A commuter, an old woman, fell; somebody accidentally pushed her off the tracks and was hit by the incoming train. One of the by-standers, next to me, said: “Whew, what a bloody hell!

I felt uncomfortable of what I saw; I decided to go back to my apartment. I need to refresh myself from the gruesome images, lingering in my head.

At home, from the kitchen table I took my coffee, now cold, I left it this morning, untouched. And, I went to my terrace. Then an hour later, time 10:15, while I was sipping my coffee I saw thru his window, across the street, a man, early forties, hanging himself; suicide. I run inside my apartment and dialed 100 (Greek 911), but the man— he’s already dead when the emergency police came.

I learned from his neighbors that he took his own life because his wife cheated on him, for a bottle of Smirnoff vodka offered by their friend. I felt guilty for I was not able to save the man. I should have run to his place, rather than calling the 100, if I did run, maybe I was able to save him.

“Damn, worse things happen everywhere, any time!” I said to myself.

In the afternoon, I decided to do the things I wanted to do in the morning and found myself digging a hole in a vacant lot, near the dumpsite. The hole is now quite deep.

“Oh, it is not for burial, not for anyone, neither for myself!” I said to the earthworm, creeping out of the mud, on my shovel.

I’m almost done, I can feel it, it’s in there, but I must dig more. Though my body ached, I did not bother to rest awhile. “I can rest after this, but not now”, I uttered.

The map says 6 feet under, in a vacant lot, near the dump site, lays the treasures—the Greek gold coins and other valuable artifacts stolen during the Junta, by a Greek Trapo (Traditional Politician) —a mafia member, long dead, assassinated by his own friends.

By luck, I found it, the map, hidden in the ceiling, while I was doing a little restoration of my apartment. I have no idea, how it got there.

It’s almost dark and it’s just quarter past five. “Ah, Winter!’ I shrugged. After few more minutes of digging I unearthed the hidden treasures, but suddenly, something poked at my back and when I turned around I saw a dump truck, unloading mud.

“Oh no, no…wait, this is not the place for dumping!” I yelled, out loud.

The driver has mistaken the vacant lot, as part of the dumpsite because of the mounted mud from my own digging.

“Hey, stop… stop it!” I screamed, but the truck driver could not hear me and before he could even realized I’m already dead, buried alive with the Greek treasures.

2. Dead Lucky: The Insistent Tourist

On the afternoon of November 30, 2007, a man with brown eyes stepped up to the control booth. His tags identified him as Thor, who had come unexpectedly. The inspector looked up and said,

“Your name’s not listed here, Mr. Thor.”

The tourist shrugged childishly, begging, “Lemme enter, I wanna see the city!”

“No,” said the inspector.

“Visa needed to get in?” Thor asked.

“Wait, I’ll ask Peter, he’s in-charge,” replied the Inspector.

Then, Peter came from nature’s call and yelled, “You’re dead lucky, you need one!”

“Go back to Earth now, time’s ticking!” he warned.

3. Life After Death

Peter slammed the door, not ‘cos he was out of control. He did it on purpose, ‘cos he was pissed off. I’m not that crazy old man not to see his mirthful smile when he said, “Good luck to you, son!”

It was my fault, but I apologized for what I did. Disturbing him answering nature’s call was not a crime, I thought, punishable by rejection, nor was a great thing to deal with. Was it a big deal? Not for me though.

The impact of the slammed door, that strong, made me cautious of time’s ticking. “Oh my God, I’ve to go, lest I’ll be wandering in limbo. If I can’t make it, damn sure, to the city I won’t be granted access; neither have I wanted to hang in the lake of fire. What I’m gonna do?” I uttered.

There was no much time left for me, so without wasting every second of it, slaving myself thinking of priorities, I hurriedly zoomed back to Mother Earth.

As I flew my way home I couldn’t help but think, I should be thankful to the Unseen Master that he has given me a chance to live and spend it, with my caring and loving family, Nitz, my fiancée and busybody Bobo, her puppy.

Well, the Unseen Master and not Peter, the Saint in Charge of the link to Eternity, the paradise, which people dreaming to see and dwell there one day, decided I should have another one, just like he had bestowed, the second life, onto others. Fair game, isn’t it?

The primary reason for my rejection to the Kingdom that has been promised by the Savior wasn’t ‘cos I lacked proper documents. My name tags and code number being laced on my left wrist was enough identification, so I believed, to enter the city, but Peter simply said: “Your time has not yet come!”

My spirit, I assumed, landed out of control into my body, making it moved slightly upward, shocking the onlookers that made them run.

Alive, again, I now fill the current page of my life of good deeds. I let not myself succumb to the wrong notion “drink, eat, and be happy for tomorrow, you die!”

I’d have more troubles if this unexplainable sensation not happened, I felt it when I was snatching out from Peter’s robe pocket the golden key, but I was caught and he chided me, saying, “Son, your time’s on your side, use it wisely!”

I wasn’t in denial of stealing his key. “I’ll return it later,” I said, feeling guilty, to Peter.

Reflecting the cost of life and reshape it, I ought myself. I need to change for the better, which Nitz’s craving—no more broken promises, before she marries me.

Yet for the meantime, I’ve a lot of explaining to do to the Authorities why I was buried alive, with Greek treasures.

4. The Two Authors

Finally, we wrote a book and amazed ourselves at the ending. Although, we were not professional writers, yet, we did it. Writing is not in our everyday lives, I, for one, am just a plain car mechanic, working hard to meet my everyday needs and Nitz, she’s my fiancée (only in my mind and she knows nothing about it) and is hoping, someday, to become a fashion model, her biggest dream in life.

None of us even liked reading for an hour, neither we’ve the time to write a sentence or two, this proved at first to be boring, for us, but with the success of our first book, we are now hooked into buying more books and reading them, to hone our skills. And of course, we are truly delighted about our first book ever. Though, we pulled hard our muscles and brains to work out a bit, yet the result is, indeed, rewarding.

That’s the fact, none of us really was a writer before this, neither we’re a literary enthusiast, but just for fun we wrote a book. How we made it? Oh, actually there’s no secret in our success, we just let ourselves, sweating, more or less 45 minutes.

Honestly, the idea came to our minds, when Nitz and I met, by chance, at the bluebell park. She was with her puppy, for a stroll, while I was there waiting for my date, of which she didn’t show up. We chatted, for almost an hour, and then she decided to go home.

She lives two blocks away from my place. On our way home, we chanced upon, at the bookstore window, the photos of two successful co-authors, with their book displayed next to them. I insisted her that we enter the bookstore and have a look at it; minutes later we left the bookstore, with a copy of their new book. I paid it myself, for her, not sure though if ever she’ll read it.

Then I said, looking at her, “We are going to become famous writers too, someday!” I thought, she’ll tease me when I told her that. Instead, she asked me, if we could really write a story and find a publisher to publish it.

Can we write a story? A book, you mean? She asked.

“We can try. You know, some if not all, famous authors started from scratch”, I assured her.

“Oh, really?” she asked, with full of excitement in her eyes.

“Yes, if you want, we’ll think of a story that the public will enjoy reading it” I said to her, without doubting my words. Convincing her was not easy, but we came to a deal. She invited me to her house.

It was a suspense-thriller story, fiction, I wanted to write, but she thought it would be best to try our hands in a non-fiction genre. Her suggested title, for me, proved to be, too difficult to remember, “When the joy…of seeing you taunts my heart, will you ever be mine? To me, this is too much cliché for a title, of a love-romance story; and beside, romantic story is not my genre. I’m more interested in writing a story, filled with action, suspense and comedy.

“The Eater of the Brain,” is my preferred title and I plan to write about death, deception and hatred, something like the movie I saw “Lecter, the Hannibal”, but packed with funny/humor scenes.

“What are we? Killers?” she asked.

“Are you having fun of seeing dead bodies? No, enough for the police to solve the latest crime of this city”, she shrugged.

At her house, we went to the sofa, near the fireplace, and she un-wrapped the book. Then, she started examining it, while asking me, if I would like to have a hot coffee.

“Coffee? No, just bring me the star-wars. Still remember how to mix it?” I asked her.

“Of course, I do” she answered. And, she left me, for a while, to prepare the drinks; then, she came back with a smile on her face.

“What!?” I asked her while I let Bobo, the puppy, runs for the tennis ball I rolled towards her.

“Nothing interesting”, she said, handling me the star wars.

Whatever in her mind, I know it must be something worth listening and I am dying to know about it, making me more excited the way she made the smile. We grew up in this quiet city and attended the Christian High School, together.

“The smile, what for?” I continued.

“Oh that, forget it! Just set the fire and I’ll see what this book can give us” she replied, without even glancing at me.

“Ok!” I said, but before lighting the dry woods, in a fire place, I took a sip of my star wars—vodka with coke, while she gazed at the front cover, of the book we bought at Ruslan, the bookstore, “The 1O Easy Way of Making Yourself Proud”, a 70 pages book, with images well illustrated. It’s about an introduction to a happy life.

“Is it interesting?” I asked her.

“What?” she said, in a hushed voice, her blue eyes glued at the front cover, not wanting to depart from it, without satisfying her sensuality. She turns onto the first page.

“Come on, the table is ready; let’s start thinking what we’re going to write”, I interrupted her.

I know, it is not easy writing a story or a book of any kind by those who has never written any, nor by those, who have no interest putting words in a sentence, but I have this great feeling that everybody can do it, as long as the willingness is there.

All of a sudden, she made a resounding ““Wooh, this is cool!” That’s how she always reacted when she likes a thing, or if something bizarre caught her attention. Now, I’m more convinced that she’s not letting the book go, but I didn’t mind her and pulled a chair, head slightly bent on her central table, then I started writing a plot.

At first, her mission was to make an eye-catching introduction, for our front cover and do some plotting and I’ll handle the finishing touch. That’s what we agreed upon.

But then, she screamed again, making me more interested to read the book, than slaving myself, alone, in thinking of a story.

“Come, look at this!” she said, while gesturing her hand, for me, to come closer.

“This is what I wanted, ‘cause I never tried this one!” she joked, pointing her finger to the image, inside the book.

Her grin becomes more visible to me. And I notice that our homework to write a book is now in jeopardy. So, I put the pen down and went to her side, finding myself a seat next to her, on a sofa, not far from the fire-place.

At this moment of time, we both hear the silent whisper of our hearts. And one thing more, the fire is dancing wild, teasing our consciousness, warming the frozen blood.

Oh yes! She heard well my soul, in silent panting. And, she let me notice her breath in frequent gasping.

That’s how we begun writing our story, until we left the 15$ book, lying on the floor, on page 69. We did not finish reading it, for we both knew the rest of the story that we are going to write, better than any one else. And in the end, our bodies were too exhausted, yet satisfied. Delighted we were that we promised ourselves to do a sequel to Kama Sutra.

And next time, the setting, it will be two blocks away from her, at my house.

–All flash fictions are copyrighted by the author–

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