Flash Fiction Time!

Occasionally I get the urge to write a bit of flash fiction. It's a quick and deceptive medium where a lot can be packed into a thousand words or less. The general premise behind it is that you take a photograph and write a story around it.

My favorite flash fiction writer is Sippican over at Sippican Cottage. He published a book with nothing but flash fiction last year called The Devil's in the Cows which is damn near perfect. It is a fascinating read if for nothing else than to marvel at his prose.

Any-hoo enough about him. Here is a bit of flash I wrote recently to limber up the old writing muscles as I attempt to finish my second novel. If you like it check out some of my traditional fiction at Amazon.com here and here.

Room 2A

How I got here, I don't rightly know. The steps taken in life's journey seem insubstantial at the time, but when you reflect…

I have a son, probably 15 or 16 by now. Can't remember his middle name. Ain't that something? I can't even remember my son's middle name. Something like Robert or Ray maybe. Not sure where he is now. His mother up and left 4 maybe 5 years ago. Thought about tracking her down, but what's the use? If someone don't want to be with you there ain't no changing their mind. 'Specially after so many years. I'd like to remember my son's middle name though, that'd be nice.

I got myself an appointment tomorrow down at the 5 and Dime on Main and Market. The manager's name is Carl. He'll let me treat him to lunch then brush me off like the last time. And the time before that come to think on it. I don't mind so much. Found if you don't take it personally it don't hurt so much. Still does though - sometimes.

I got a gal over Burlington way. She's not pretty, has a kid too but we don't talk much. Just there to scratch each other's itch, I reckon. Hardly ever spend the night. Just two souls with nothing better to do and no one better to do it with. Her name's Sal, short for Sally I think, not sure what her kid's name is.

Been on the road all my life. Selling brushes, detergent and other nonessentials out of the trunk of my old Buick, one town after another. There was a time when I thought all this had some meaning, a purpose, if you will, but the Road done beat that notion out of my head long ago.

I like selling stuff. Even stuff I don't particularly like. I'm good at it, or was when I cared, but that was a long time ago too.

I'm happy enough right now, though. I got a fresh pack of Luckies and heading out to that new bar I saw coming into town. It says 'new' on the sign but I know it's just like all the others. Filled with people just like me. Waiting - just waiting for something, but none of us knows for what. I'll sit with them, listen to their stories, offer a few of my own, none of us very interesting - but it helps - it helps to pass the time while we wait.

Maybe tomorrow I'll remember my kids name. That'd be nice, I think. Sometimes, I even hope he'll remember mine, but not often.

Exciting news! I will be in my backyard this weekend where I will be signing any Kindle reader I find with  my new book Death at the Downs on it. You can 't miss me. I'll be right next to my daughter's lemonade stand ($0.25 US. What a steal!). Anyway, if I'm not around when you get there, just wait a bit. I'll be right back after I shoveling snow off the driveway. So just sit back and enjoy a glass of store bought lemonade while you wait! If you can't make it to Louisville, or you don't want me defacing your Kindle, you can always go to Amazon and buy it there.

Shameless! Shameless! Shameless! BAD Derek BAD, BAD BAD. Anybody got a wet newspaper?

Fiction Time

(Editors note: Occasionally the blogger will feel it necessary to burden his readers with his muses)

The Easter Cake Caper

Late one winter evening I was called to the scene of one of the most baffling and heinous crimes of my career. It would seem that some person or persons of unknown origins had perpetrated what many believed to be the perfect crime.

I arrived at the home of Mrs. Mary Bakesalot at half past seven. It was already dark and the sky threatened snow. The officer in charge, Officer Idontknowalot, greeted me in the entrance hall and waved me into the kitchen.

At first glance I could find nothing amiss, that is until I came around the island in the center of the kitchen and to my horror found what remained of what was once a remarkable work of baking art. Gathering myself, I asked Officer Idontknowalot if forensics had finished dusting for prints and photographed the crime scene. He assured me that they had just left and told me I could proceed with my investigation.

The grizzly remains made my stomach turn, but I fought the wave of nausea and reluctantly stepped over the crime scene tape to take a better look.

 

It was clear that the perpetrator held little regard for ceremony. The cake was mauled almost beyond recognition. I could see that the decorative icing that adorned the edges had been painstakingly applied with care and love. However, the center of the delectable dessert showed where someone had literally dived in face first. The imprint of the perpetrator's face was unmistakable.

I stepped back to take in the crime scene and noticed a chair off to the side just outside the yellow police tape.

"Was that there when you arrived on the scene?" I asked Officer Idontknowalot.

"Yessir, nothing's been moved or touched," he assured me.


 

 
Taking a closer look I noticed frosted crumbs on the seat matching that of the departed cake. Hum, I thought, then out loud I said, "that is interesting".

"What's that sir?"

"Nothing officer," I said without looking at him, "where are the family members?"

"This way, sir," he said pointing to a doorway off the kitchen. I followed him looking back at the crime scene and wondered who could have committed such an atrocity.

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