the fling

The Fling

Flash Fiction

For the most part, I wasn’t picky.

It’s only temporary, I decided. Where’s the harm?

The attraction was mutual, the bond unimportant. I flirted with commitment, but, really, what a joke. 

In the beginning, we played make believe, filled the roles we said we would. There were problems they said they’d fix, but, of course, what a concern: my eyes saw roses where thorns sliced skin.

We shared secrets, we shared lies. Yes, over time, we convinced each other we’d be fine. 

The days are running out now and I feel them letting go. I’ve dug in my heels, I’ve begged with sad eyes, but here now, what a child I am to miss the presence of such failed ties.

Their fingers fall through my grasp now, and, really, who’ve I to blame?

In desperation, I scream, “Stay!” but off in the distance, they just can’t miss me now that I’ve gone. 

Rounding the corner, they sneer, I’m just another promise you’ve made but won’t keep.

brick wall

Brick Wall

Flash Fiction

They build you, brick by brick. 

You’re a pattern to master, an un-objector, a work of art made by them. You’re not hard to assemble, you’re sturdy when needed, you’re protection for the frail. 

Shh, we must be quiet now: a simple sigh can cause a crash, a confused glance could crumble their creation. Each attempt from you to join in their construction is met with a slap of cement to seal you in. 

No, you are not important now: be still, don’t smile, coax the brick in place. It’s a pattern, a rhythm, a routine.

There, now you’ve done it: the last brick to seal your fate.

You take pride in their accomplishment, but they themselves don’t know: “Well, hey now, what about you?”

You do your best to curve your lips, to pick up a brick to lay it down. But the construction they’ve built, they’ve taken too far: your presence is made of bricks, your body an impenetrable wall.

the circus

The Circus

Flash Fiction

We’re standing facing one another, each equipped with various objects, ready to play our game. 

A whistle is blown and we’re off: we throw them in the air with ease, at first. The crowd is cheering proudly and we puff our chests in response.

He fumbles an object and the crowd groans accordingly, but his fumble causes me to miss and the crowd erupts in laughter: I’ve dropped all the objects now, but the clatter works to my advantage. Wild-eyed and distracted, he tries to keep the rhythm, but they’ve all gone wonky and he can’t keep the objects balanced. He’s losing them all now and I stare in horror as they all come tumbling down upon him. 

Him and they clatter to the ground, soiled and disgraced.

In the confusion, I offer a hand, but his stare suggests he can’t register a response.

Howling with laughter, the crowd cripples his once proud gait. He jolts to this feet and, with bowed shoulders, darts from the circus’ center.

Cheering and whooping and whistling, the crowd’s elation fills the air. I look around to them all, but cannot bring myself to bow. 

Dear Sirs and Ma’ams, have I won?