I was recently directed to Wordsmith… a flash fiction monthly project for writer types.
Hey, I thought, I am a writer type! What’s flash fiction?
It is, I found out, short short short fiction.
Like the kind one could read here or here.
It is sort of like a vignette, sort of like a short story… and sort of fun to write.
“For sale, baby shoes, never worn” (How many of you know that quote without looking it up?)
So here is my first attempt at flash fiction….
(Now that the characters have been created, I sort of want to write an actual short story about them)
Call it a tease, a beginning,
Here was the inspiration point:
“There’s too much green” she said and laid the canvas down.
“Not really,” he was only slightly defensive and he picked it back up and lay it gently with the others.
She shrugged and walked to the window pulling aside the gingham red curtains and regarding the street below with an apathetic eye.
“My mother made those curtains,” he said to her back because he felt like something ought to be said.
She turned toward him and shrugged again, “We don’t have to talk.”
He nodded and pulled his glasses on gesturing to the stool.
With the ease of practice she shed her clothes, half heartily folding them in a pile. It wasn’t sexual, this removal of clothing, and it wasn’t enticing. She disrobed as she would at home in front of the chair, in front of an empty wall. That’s probably how she sees me, he thought, if she thinks of me at all.
Just a blank wall.
He rolled the charcoal between his fingertips and looked at her on the stool.
“It’s a magical forest, its clean and fresh.”
She blinked at him but said nothing.
He began to rub the charcoal on the paper taking a delight, as always, in the sound it made. Her form emerged.
“It has to be green. Otherwise what would be the point?”
She closed her eyes, shutting him out, and stretched out her arms catching the pose as if pulled from thin air and holding it as if frozen.
He didn’t bother to talk again, just caught her in the shadows and kept her half hidden.