Flash Fiction Challenge!

Short stories have never been my forte. I barely eeked out a novella for a contest that had a 20,000 word limit. I used every, available word. It’s no surprise that the idea of “flash fiction” has always intimidated me. I say ‘always’ but I’ve only heard about this phenomenon the past year or two. Since the term may be new to some of you, let me explain. Flash fiction is a short story. Very. Short. It needs to be under 1500 words to qualify which sounds impossibly impossible for someone that writes full length novels. 

Recently a writing friend over at Blonde RJ asked for an idea for a piece of flash fiction. I tossed one out and she took it and ran! She produced a fun piece of fiction at under 1,000 words and then challenged me to write one as well! I had to look up what word count qualified as flash fiction because I knew 1,000 words would be difficult. Especially when the rough draft was nearly 2,000 words :-/ It was tough but I got it down to (exactly) 1500 words. Waste not want not, right? 

RJ gave me the idea for this piece (which needs a title but I couldn’t think of one that didn’t give it away). I’m not going to state what she wanted from me until AFTER the story because that will also give it away. Hope you enjoy it! Let me know if YOU have tried your hand at this, and whether or not it’s your “thing.”

The slate-grey sky made for a monochromatic backdrop against the bare branches of the trees, and the solemn, granite headstones of the cemetery. Even the manicured grass had faded into a watery brown. It blended with all the deadness that spread out before Saylor Smith’s muddied, grey boots.

The only thing that broke the neutral scene was the fresh mound of dirt that covered the body of her mother, dead like everything else this winter. Dead and gone.

Saylor stood as still as the graveyard monuments. Staring. Processing. Grieving.

“Are you ready?”

The voice of Jake, Saylor’s boss, nudged her out of her numb cocoon. She turned red-rimmed eyes to the man in the tailored, charcoal suit, and nodded. “Looks like everyone left. Thanks for waiting.”

“Of course.” Jake took her arm and guided her towards the car, her heeled boots sinking into the swollen, wet ground. At least the sky held back its tears long enough to let Saylor shed a few of her own, without drenching the graveside service.

Jake’s chauffeur pulled the door open when they approached the Lincoln. Saylor stomped, to force the mud to release its grip.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jake said, and helped her into the car.

She exhaled against the leather interior, drained and—she realized—chilled to the core.

Jake slid into the seat beside her. “I know you didn’t want to have any sort of reception, but surely you’re hungry.”

Until the mention of food, she hadn’t given it any thought. Her stomach felt hollow. “Yeah, I could use a bite. Thanks.”

“Markus, take me back to the funeral home so I can get my car. You can follow me to Chantilly. No sense backtracking to pick it up later when my house is so close to the restaurant.”

“Yes, sir.” Markus eased the car onto the freeway just as raindrops spatted the windshield.

“I want you to take off the remainder of the week.” Jake snatched his briefcase and shuffled through some papers. “You need to rest and regroup. And if you need more time, no problem.”

“No. I need to go back to work,” Saylor said. “It’s all I have left. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

Jake rubbed his five o’clock shadow. He shook his his head. “I won’t hear of it. You show up tomorrow and you’re fired.”

She laughed, knowing that would never happen. Her instincts with social media and graphic design helped to bring Jake’s visions into reality over the past four years that she worked for him. Luxe for Less, his chauffeur service for the frequent-flyer set, now gave taxi companies a run for their money at most major airports. He owed his success to her advertising savvy.

“Sorry, Mr. Workaholic, you’ll have to lead by example.” Saylor gave Jake a wry look. Though the man was one of the most eligible bachelors in Chicago, everyone knew that work was his wife, and golf was his mistress. The threesome made a convenient love-triangle that no real woman could compete with.

Though Saylor was but five years his junior, and admired Jake from afar, he had always treated her in a fatherly sort of way, looking out for her. Protective. Since caring for her ailing mother had been a second full-time job, she didn’t have time to pine away over the man.

Jake leveled his gaze at her. “I mean it. Don’t show your pretty face this week. You need to catch your breath from everything that’s happened.”

She knew he was right, but work was her lifeline. It kept her from thinking too much about her mom. Kept her company too . . . a social life had never been an option. Now the loneliness would be ferocious.

“Do you agree?” Jake persisted.

“I’ll take a couple of days off. But it’s only Tuesday, and work keeps me sane. I’ll go crazy if I wait around a whole week. Besides, I have some great ideas for Twitter to run by you.”

Saylor watched Jake, and tried to read the strange look that passed over his face. “About that. I was going to wait to tell you this but,” he swallowed and looked straight ahead, “maybe I should be straightforward.”

“Tell me what?”

He sighed. “I’m promoting you. I think change will do you good. I want to make you the assistant manager at O’Hare.”

Saylor shook her head, not believing what she heard. “What?” She stiffened and blinked back tears. “Tell me this is a joke.”

“I know you may need to warm up to the idea, but it’s a good career opportunity.”

“My career involves social media. The ‘social’ part takes place behind a computer screen, Jake. I don’t have people skills. I don’t want any. I’m good at what I do. Are you too chicken to fire me or something? You want me to get myself fired by putting me in management, is that it? Then you won’t be the bad guy. Perfect.”

“No, Saylor. No! I’m sorry. Just . . . hear me out over dinner. Please. You’re taking this all wrong. Horrible timing on my part.”

The Lincoln turned into the deserted parking lot of the funeral home and pulled next to Jake’s Jaguar.

Saylor glared at her boss.

He reached a hand to hers and squeezed. “I know you’re upset. We can discuss the pros and cons, okay.” He winked and slid out, then bent over and said, “Hard to think on an empty stomach. See you in a few.”

She crossed her arms. “It’s raining on your leather seat.”

Jake swiped at the water drops and shut the door. In a moment, the Lincoln followed the Jag onto the main road. Saylor seethed from the backseat, cursing the day as the worse one of her life for a solid ten minutes. From a red light, their destination loomed through the raindrops. The thought of food became a comfort.

The light turned green and Jake drove ahead. Tires screeched. The car on the cross street skidded passed the corner, hydroplaning right into Jake’s door. Markus slammed on the brakes and just missed the backside of the Jaguar.

Saylor screamed as she watched Jake’s car get T-boned. She scrambled out of the backseat and splashed through the puddles to the passenger side of his car, jerking the door open, diving inside.

“Jake! Jake! Are you okay? Oh no, Jake!” She shook his shoulders as he slumped against the seatbelt. The airbag hissed from the center of the steering wheel that now pinned down his legs. “C’mon, Jake. Wake up!”

Through the cracked driver’s side window, she could see Markus on the phone. He opened the backdoor of the other vehicle. Saylor could make out what looked like a child in a carseat. Oh no.

Jake gasped, and startled her. “Jake! Open your eyes.” She patted his cheek. “I’m here. Wake up.”

He gave a weak grin and reached for her hand. “Always knew you were my guardian angel.”

“Don’t move. An ambulance is coming. You’re going to be okay.”

“Not sure about that. Stay with me, okay?”

“Guardian angels don’t leave.” Saylor stroked Jake’s hair with her other hand, trying to comfort him and hide her fear.

“About that job . . .”

“Shh. We can talk about it later.”

“No. We can’t.” He lifted his head a bit and tried to look at her. “I wasn’t thinking of your best interest. I was afraid of my weakness.”

She smiled. “I didn’t think Jake Whittaker had one.”

“It’s you. You are my weakness.” He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “It scared me to death. I told myself that you didn’t need the distraction of a relationship when you had your mom to take care of. When she . . . died . . . I was out of excuses.”

Saylor shook her head. “Why are you telling me this now? You’re not thinking straight.”

“No. I-I just had some sense knocked into me. Finally.” His voice was weak and Saylor had to lean in to hear. Sirens whined in the distance. “I’m sorry to tell you in this way, but it would be a sin to take this secret to the grave.”

“Stop talking like that!” She cried and pressed her head close to his.

“I selfishly wanted to get you out of corporate before I swept you off of your feet and declared my love to you. I’m sorry for being so fearful and controlling. It doesn’t matter, now. Looks like I’m paying for my—“

Saylor silenced him with a whisper of a kiss, afraid to hurt him. Afraid to lose him.

“Mmm.” Jake grinned. “Does that mean you love me back?”

Saylor ran her fingers along Jake’s jaw, feeling his scruff . . . something she had only dared to imagine in moments of weakness since they’d met.

To answer his question, she leaned in and kissed him again, then pulled away and looked into his eyes. Though his eyes were open, he didn’t look back.

---

Thanks again, RJ, for the idea!

What, specifically did she challenge me to do? Knowing that I write fantasy, she threw out a different genre (cruel friend. As if such a short story wasn’t hard enough! LOL). RJ asked for me to write “a dramatically sad death romance scene. Where someone is dying and there is also confessing love in there somewhere.” Ack! It was hard but I really enjoyed trying to rise to the occasion! 

I think a Flash Fiction Blog Hop has unintentionally been started, here! I’m going to tag Stephanie over at The Gathering Fire as the next stop on this new hop! I’ll message you with my challenge, Stephanie (insert evil laughter here . . .).