Here are some sample flash fiction pieces!
Danny Jocko sat in boxers, a white stained shirt, and the miasma of a hangover. He was watching TV with his ring off when he saw the bottle of Jack Daniels on the table.
“What are you doing here?” Jocko asked. The bottle waited for a commercial to end before he spoke. They were watching ‘Wife Swap’ after all.
“The same as you,” the bottle said.
Jocko grabbed the bottle by its neck, then put it down.
“But you weren’t invited.”
‘Wife Swap’ came back on, but the bottle talked anyway.
“Jocko, you invited me.”
Jack Daniels had a cool air to him, a confidence Jocko often tried to emulate. Jocko grabbed Jack by the throat and took a swig, spilling onto his shirt.
Another commercial. Jocko felt the spot on his finger where the ring played the skin raw.
“You didn’t have to come, though.” Then he coughed and dribbled.
He remembered when he scraped his knee at six.
He remembered when he sprained his ankle while skiing at twelve.
He remembered the look his mother gave him, standing behind her husband, while his father screamed in his face at thirteen.
He remembered meeting Melegea at seventeen.
He remembered kissing Melegea at seventeen.
He remembered touching and making love to Melegea at eighteen.
He remembered his father’s grave at nineteen, and the look his mother gave him then.
He remembered Melegea at college.
He remembered Melegea in their first apartment.
He remembered getting thrown out of Melegea’s house for coming drunk, and the look her mother gave him behind her father’s screaming face.
He remembered shaking hands with Melegea’s father at twenty-two.
He remembered his marriage to Melegea at twenty-five.
He remembered buying toothpaste at two in the morning with Melegea driving, because he couldn’t keep his eyes open, because he couldn’t concentrate with the memories.
He remembered the first birth, and the baby’s symbolic grave, and the look Melegea gave when she faced its father’s weeping eyes.
He remembered his mother’s grave at thirty.
He remembered the blue house with the green fence because white wasn’t good enough for Melegea, even at thirty-three.
He remembered the second birth, the life his wife gave, and the look he gave himself in the mirror that day in the hospital, how he wondered about the memories.
He remembered the day Melegea was diagnosed at forty-two, and the look Audrey gave at seven behind her mother’s stoic face.
He remembered chemo at forty-five, how the needles bit sores into her skin, how she cried.
He remembered buying yogurt at two in the morning, smiling when she enjoyed it.
He remembered Melegea’s grave at forty-six, and the look her parents gave to their son-in-law, without the forgiveness of giving Audrey.
He remembered Audrey at college.
He remembered Audrey in her first apartment.
He remembered throwing Audrey out of the house for coming drunk, for calling her mother the biggest lie she’d ever heard.
He remembered meeting Audrey’s new boyfriend at twenty-one, how they celebrated her birthday and shook hands.
He remembered Melegea, when the days shouldn’t have led to the memories.
He remembered Melegea when Audrey gave birth at twenty-six, and the look on her boyfriend’s face when he asked for her father’s grace.
He remembered those good years, how his penchant for scrapes and sprains was clear.
He remembered seeing his coffin at seventy-seven, before he even signed the will to the blue house with the green fence, imagining Audrey’s tearful face alongside teenage Josephina.
He remembered it all, still alive, still so very alive, because he could never forget.
