**'Flash fiction; your story in 1000 words or less!'
It read like an advert for used cars. Perky and preppy. Everything to hide.**
Picturing: A fifties housewife. Vera or Sandy. Margot, maybe. Hair in a sleek up-do, ‘practicality more than anything; kids to feed, you know how it is.’ A red apron draped neatly across a perfect hourglass, with foot tapping one, two, three in place of the sand that no longer fell. Freshly baked muffins piled high on china, both arms to the side; a proud display. A veritable cupboard of household utensils, Vera (or Sandy? Not Margot). That Libran pose. Those once-ticking hips. A housewife’s work is never done. Or so she’s told.
**Pen to paper. 'I can do this.' **
“Vera sat neatly on the window ledge. She brought her knees up to her chest and tucked them beneath her chin, inhaling deep lung-fulls of fresh cut grass and mildly fermented apples.”
**Your story in 1000 words. History. Herstory.**
“Sighing a little, she released her legs and placed two perfectly pedicured feet on the polished wood floor. She stepped delicately towards the refrigerator, ostentatious and phallic because girth is positively correlated with salary - the mathematics they don’t examine. Crimson nails wrapped around scarlet glass and the rim was raised to her lips quicker than her husband came. Empty. Fill. Raise. Repeat. No guidelines on speed, mere coincidence that liquor rhymed with quicker.”
**Flashbulb memories. Notable scenes. All we are is 6 x 4. **
“The bathroom now. She felt hot. Too hot. With the dexterity of a pianist she flicked open the first three buttons of her blouse. ‘Better,’ she breathed. She breathed. She breathed. Leaned her head on the cool mirror and closed her eyes. She breathed.”
**Postcard fiction: wish you were here?**
“Her head was heavy with the weight of the day. ‘Must pick kids up at 3. Must have dinner ready by 5. Must finish ironing by 9. Must have 8 minutes of regulation sex followed by 2 minutes of faked orgasm at 10.30.’ Ruled by time. Except there was no more sand.
**A block at 259. Spoiled by choice. 'I like you Vera, but we’re 3 cups of coffee in and you haven’t accomplished much.' **
“A pit in her stomach where her heart used to be; it sank nine years prior. Unquantifiable pain in every organ and muscle and ‘maybe just a couple to ease my load.’ Deep swallows now; white lifesavers on a crimson tide. Eleven? Twelve? She lost count past ten, her digits a poor abacus.”
**A sudden realisation and the scratching back and forth of black ink all over Vera's black day. Postage stamp fiction. Bottle-top fiction. Why waste 313 when her story could be told in a hundredth of that? A smirk. A slurp. Scratch scratch scratch.**
“Vera got married.”
Created: Jun 03, 2010Document Media