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Flash Fiction by Dan Patmore

Flash fiction writing is a story of 150 words or less. I wrote a bit of it after discovering it on the creative community redbubble.

She looked in the mirror. Her face was dark and swollen, like the life was fading from her more rapidily than ever. She looked down at her arms. Wirey, they shook uncontrollably as she snatched at the sticky blade on the window sill. She winced as the flesh broke. But at last she was back in control.

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As he walked through the cemetery, he noticed a rose that sat in the dirt, beautiful and oblivious to its surroundings. It had been sat there some time, as the mould and moss grew around it undisturbed. As he stopped to pick it up, he noticed how brightly it glowed, in an unnatural, almost insincere fashion.

He stood and observed it for a while. It was fabric, with a velvety warm that was comforting in an unusual day. He walked on, holding it gently, caressing each of the petals. He thought his thoughts and walked his casual walk. It was a day for taking your time, a day to admire the golden tones of the late winter sunshine. A day to breathe deep and feel alive. To be warmed by the simplicity of life, and small moments like a rose in the dirt.

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As the movie played out its violent climax his eyes drooped heavily. It had been a short and lazy day. It was the day that came before that had caused this exhaustion.

After a week of observing careful moderation and each day watching the ounces ebb away, he celebrated the arrival of the weekend in a truly dieters style. Pizzas and more booze than you could wish for. Binge drinking, he thought, has its merits.

The words of the previous night (or early morning) kept pattering around his head. Life, love, politics, plans for the near future, plans for the distant future and sex. Typical topics for any drunken night he thought to himself. He looked over at his partner, she, it would seem was fading rapidly too. Nevermind, he thought, we’re still young, its nights like that, that however hazy will we remember forever.

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He had never photographed someone who was nude before, but then, he’d never been photographed nude himself - until a few moments ago. The room was lit only by a small lamp and the flicker of the camera’s settings. The wind hurled itself against the hidden window pane, bringing with it rain and hail and the scratching of debris on the concrete outside.

As he took another greedy swig of his warm flat drink he watched her. She was so sensual and natural, however insecure and unaware of her beauty she was. As she wrapped the plain white sheet around her and lay down, he moved back behind the eye-piece. Humming the song playing on the stereo, he continued to guide and encourage her and click away, to capture these soft, tender moments

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“I’m sorry”

“You said that”

That’ll stump her he thought. The argument had been going on for about an hour now. There’d be been shouting, crying and the throwing of random objects. They were stuck in a stale mate. All that was left was to bitterly reject the apologies for a while, before dramatically falling into each others arms and kissing fiercely.

He found the formulaic nature of their feuds comforting. Not that they fought all the time, and not that they normally fought like this. He had always known where he stood with her. Right up until now.

“I can’t do this anymore. I’m leaving”. He sat, frozen. In shock words or not really understanding what she had said. He didn’t react at all. Not when the door slammed. Not when she didn’t come home that night. He just sat, frozen.

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Almost as quickly as the flame sparked, it died out. Rolling away sighing, his wife switched off the light.

It had been like this for months. Ever since the day he saw them together. And now, due to his most simple of failures, she would be in his arms again tomorrow.

He’d like to confront her about it. He’s thought about it so many times these last few months, but he just can't bring himself to admit that his marriage is over.

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Walking to work I struggle, stumble and stutter through the motions. It’s a constant effort that is rarely worth much. Its winter and so it’s dark, sometimes bitter and always, always dark. These winter morning seem so late, confusing and somehow ironic.

Lunchtime and I stagger into the fresh air, leaving the stale air and yellow light. I’m clinging to the edge of a building, deep in a proverbial segment of my spirit. But for now, I see the sun, feel the breeze and feed my soul with food and literature.

Evening . It’s only 5pm but somehow it’s the end of the day. It’s certainly seemed long enough. I struggle, stumble and stutter, weary from work and tired of being patient. Now it’s the rush to nourish my soul, with entertainment, creativity and love, after a slow and repetitive day. A life repetitive in nature.

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