Flash fiction efforts from last weekend’s workshop (hosted by the incredibly talented Femi Martin). Not great, but not bad for 15 minutes apiece:
Silver space foil crackled as I leant against the tree. The paramedics had loud, cheerful voices, wore green uniforms. They took my temperature, my heart rate, checked my breathing, said ‘Dehydration I reckon, it’s hot today’. Runners with black numbers on their chest’s streamed past. My number lay on the ground, crumpled, torn, forgotten.
- Simplification of a paragraph from Oliver Twist – I ended up only really attacking the first sentence
You sleep, wake, sleep, eight o’clock, sleep again, drift. You see the pyramids rise, see Rome fall. You live, love, fight. You are born, you die. You wake. Eight o’five.
Dusted icing sugar clings to the felt base of the number. Candles flicker, balloons, anchored by coloured ribbons bob and wave. His feet kick the air with excitement and he stands on the chair, pulls his chin above the table edge. The room holds its breath. Then claps and smiles and sings. Thin cotton threads of smoke rise to the ceiling, and his mother takes up the knife, and cuts.
Exhausted from life she has retreated from the living and is now caught up inside herself. Her mind is a vast, empty egg-shaped blackness and at the centre, a head – hers, miniature – is suspended. It starts quietly, talking, reflecting on why and how it is here. As is speaks the awareness grows and as the awareness grows, strength grows. Stars begin to wink in the darkness and the night’s black is not as dark. The depression begins to lift.