Tag: Flash Fiction

“Shall we walk up that way?” Roger said. Cynthia looked up and saw the winding path he was pointing to. They were standing at the foot of a green hill, about 200 yards from where Roger had parked their car. “Don’t you think it’s a bit steep?” she said.

Our grandmother was the first dead person we knew, although we hadn’t known her very well. She was old, and she often spoke in another language. The oldest cousin claimed that she understood her when she spoke in Slovak, but the rest of us didn’t believe her, except for her sister because they always stuck…

The words once meant magic. But middle-age reality overwhelms 1993’s exuberance. Parking costs too much, and the walk to the amphitheatre is too long. My knees already throb, and the opening act hasn’t even started.

Mid-summer: If the clothes drying on the nylon ropes under their window have any veracity to convey, and they do, the man whose apartment window is directly opposite mine wears a lot of corduroys. It appears he owns a lot of solid, full-sleeve shirts to go with them. His wife, on the other hand, favours…

Don’t let me be lonely she says, her arms cuddling her yellow blanket, her legs splayed underneath, painted toes peeking out, because it’s too hot to have a blanket, but she refuses to be without it, give me a hug she begs, her nails scratching the holey patches she’s made over the years, a comforting…

Lately, I’ve been scrolling through their pictures more and more. Pics of occasional trips to the beach. Instagram-ready shots of food or wine glasses.

They opened the Life Center a day early. Silver-haired women emerged from the rear of the building in plain grey tracksuits. They jogged over to the stand of jacaranda trees and stood in a line, eyes to the dawn sky.

Bird paints flowers on the walls of what would have been his daughter’s bedroom. Red roses with buttercream centers. Blue tulips with silver leaves. Hundreds, a whole field.

“I’ve been here ten years and love the place. Prague is a great city; sound economy, a unique culture, affordable housing and a decent selection of lager. Still there’s one thing living among the Czechs that captivates us expats more than anything else: there’s little or no crime here.

Her lithe body sprawled across the sand, caking her in dirt, grit, and purity. Her face turned skywards, suntanning, soaking in warmth and light. She walked to the ocean’s edge, dipped her pink-painted toes into the cool, rough waters. Running in wet sand, her footprints erased by the sea.