The following short-short is a piece of Flash Fiction I wrote some years ago. I’m re-cycling it. My pandemic boggled brain isn’t very productive at the moment and because my readership has also re-cycled itself over the years, the piece may be new to most of my current readers. Fingers crossed.
I’m currently in love with the short-short format: stories that come in at 500 words, or less. So, to make a change from my book themed ramblings, I thought I’d introduce a dash of fiction once a month. I hope you enjoy this first short-short story. It comes in at 438 words. I’m keen to know what you think of the idea. I hope you like it, because I’ve got more, tucked away in my hard-drive.
I should add that this story was prompted by my recent viewing of the movie The Bourne Supremacy. Even if you haven’t seen the movie the plot is not that hard to follow. Enjoy!
JASON BOURNE DRIVES A WHEELIE BIN
Vroom- vroom- eee – skreeee – ka-dooom – vroom – graunch – skreeee: he’s wrenching the wheel left, the crappy old Lada taxi shudders with the strain, ricochets off a silver Volvo, slides on an icy patch, lumbers into an intersection, misses a garbage truck by a whisker, gathers speed on the downhill gradient – his foot flattens the accelerator pedal – sweat stings his eyes, his hands cramp on the wheel, he’s welded to the wheel. His eyes flick up to the rear-view mirror. He’s lost the black Jeep, by some miracle he’s lost the Jeep! Moscow’s snowy streets careen past. He needs to get off this motorway, hide, lose himself, ditch this bright yellow Lada, fade in amongst the muffled walkers on the pavements, bury his hands in his pocket, tuck his chin down into his scarf, become another Tovarich. He’s Jason Bourne. He’s on the run. He’s in Moscow. Someone – he doesn’t know who – is chasing him – could be CIA, could be Russian police, could be Russian Mafia doing the dirty work for his own side, could be … could be … possibilities swirl round his head. His knees ache from colliding with the dashboard, his leg burns after the badly judged jump onto the garbage scow, a molten glass needle stabs his right shoulder every time he turns the wheel, but he’s okay, he’s done it – he’s Jason Bourne and ….
“Jason! Dammit – are you deaf? JASON !!” roars his mother. “How many times do I have to – oh never mind – Jason! Focus! its Wednesday night: the wheelie bin – you haven’t taken out the wheelie bin ! It’s the only thing I ask you to do, and every week it’s the same, nag-nag-nag, why do I have to nag you all the time? “
Jason Brown’s eyes slowly focus on the flushed face, take in the angry arms-on-hips-pose, vaguely register the pitched tone, the raspy breathing.
“Okay, okay – I’m doing it” he mutters, sliding off his bed with all the speed and grace of an exhausted sloth. I bet Jason Bourne never had to push stupid wheelie bins around, I bet he never had a mother who yelled at him all the time, I bet ….
A red-hot pain at the back of his knees registers. He jerks round. His Mother is advancing on him, raised arm drawing back, ready to lash the sjambok against his calves again. There’s a look of cold fury that’s drawn her lips against her bared teeth, whitened her face, made the veins on her neck stand out like cables: Jason Brown runs like hell, runs for his life.
SHORT-SHORT #2 : Prize Winning Entry!
Here is another short-short i.e. flash fiction of only 500 words. I’m thrilled to tell you that it won First Prize in a UK competition run by FLASH 500 http://www.flash500.com/, My entry into the Flash 500 comp was part of the prize I won with this story from my local writing group, the *West Coast Writer’s Circle, at the end of 2011. I wrote the story in an experimental format, which seems to have worked. I hope you enjoy it. *http://westcoastwriterssa.weebly.com/
EVERYBODY’S TUPPENCE WORTH by A M SMITH
He said: C’mon Cynthia – I’ve gotta condom.
She said: Darren … you promise ?
We said: If only Cynthia would find herself a decent boyfriend!
They said: Did you hear Cynthia Jenkins is going out with that Darren Baroda?
He said: But we used a condom!
She said: Well it didn’t work, did it?
We said: Cynthia – you don’t have to get married, we’ll stand by you.
They said: The Jenkins are heartbroken : Cynthia has to get married, and to that no-good Darren Baroda!
He said: Doesn’t that kid ever stop screaming? I’m not up for this!
She said: It’s not my fault – he’s a colicky baby
We said: Aww … who’s Nanna and Gramps’ precious ?
They said: Darren Baroda must have shares in the pub by now …
He said: Sorry Cynthia, this isn’t working; I’m off to London – I’ll phone you
She said: Get out you useless lowlife-drunk – who needs you?
We said: What a relief! We’ve sorted out your old bedroom Cynthia, plenty of room for you and little Wesley.
They said: Such a shame : Darren Baroda left Cynthia in the lurch, and with such a difficult baby, too.
He said: Thought I’d give you a quick buzz; I’m off to Australia next week, gotta job with a mate of mine. Wish Wesley happy birthday for me, will ya?
She said: I hope a kangaroo kicks you to death!
We said: Cynthia, this can’t go on; Wesley’s a big boy now and he should know he mustn’t hurt poor old Kitty like that
They said: Wesley Baroda’s a nasty piece of work – and only 7 years old .
He said: Thought I’d just check in – I’m back in London. Wesley’s birthday today – 13 isn’t he? Oh – sorry – I meant 12
She said: Drop dead
We said: Cynthia : unless you do something about Wesleys’ temper tantrums, take him to the psychologist, you know it isn’t natural; if you don’t, we’re really sorry, but you’ll have to leave.
They said: Wesley Baroda’s seriously bad news; been spoilt by his grandparents of course.
He said: No, nothing to do with me – no I don’t know Wesley Baroda; yes, it is an unusual surname, just a coincidence – I told you I don’t know him from a bar of soap; now bugger off and stop pestering me!
She said: I can’t – he couldn’t have – not Wesley – he loved his Nanna & Gramps – no-no-no-I can’t believe it – all that blood – surely he couldn’t have… aaahhhhhhhh
We said: ……………………
They said: Absolutely shocking! that boy’s a monster – pity they dropped the death penalty
He said: Time for me to change my name and do my disappearing trick.
She said: I’m not eating that. I want to die.
We said ……..
They said: We blame the education system and all those single mothers. Suppose two life sentences gets some justice for the Jenkins. By the way, did you hear about the axe murder in Lambeth?
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Tagged as absent fathers, colicky baby, deviant children, drinkers, experimental format, family murders, flash fiction, spoiling by grand-parents, uk competition, writing group