Flash Fiction

A New Life

He took one step at a time. Carefully placing one foot above the other, he hoisted himself up the steps. They were uneven and covered in grass, but he did not seem to notice. His thoughts were elsewhere; the steps a lifetime away.

He kept seeing the shocked face, inches from his. First the happiness, then the shock, then the twisted expression of hatred and pain. He hadn’t wanted to end it this way. He had wanted to take her with him. Lock her up and keep her close. But the order to remove her had come and he had to obey.

Without realising, he had reached the top of the steps. He stopped walking and shook his head, trying to remove the veil of images that covered his view.

He looked down at the village and took a deep breath. He would start his new life here, he thought. They would never find him.

He started down the steps when all of a sudden, he was wrenched backward and thrown to the ground.

The man above him sneered at him, his gun inches from his face. He felt a sense of déjà vu, then the fatal gunshot sounded.

© 2017

FFfAW, Week of July 18, 2017

Photo prompt provided by J.S. Brand

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Miscellaneous

Have you ever tried to write a thriller organically?

I’ve been mulling over mine for quite a bit now and I can never figure out how to keep the plot moving and fresh.

Reading this article by Steven James has been an eye-opener. He uses only these four questions, when he feels he gets stuck on the plot:

  1. “What would this character naturally do?”
  2. “How can I make things worse?”
  3. “How can I include a twist?”
  4. “What promises have I made as a writer that I have not yet kept?”

And somehow they lead to new plot points, new ideas that can be developed further as the novel progresses.

If you want to read more about writing organically, follow the link to the article, where Steven James explains how he used his questions to write his own novel, Every Deadly Kiss.

https://www.criminalelement.com/blogs/2017/07/a-lesson-in-organic-writing

Link
Flash Fiction

Remember

He stared at the photograph. The colours were already starting to fade and the corners had been folded by accident when it had slipped behind the desk.

He remembered the spot exactly. It had been his favourite place as a child. Sitting on the rocks, listening to the wind rustle through the leaves of the trees and the water flowing somewhere in the distance down the slope. It had been a tranquil place, where he had always been at peace.

After a while he had stopped going to the place. He had started socializing more, had a girlfriend. He had almost forgotten all about the place, until their one-year anniversary as a couple.

She wanted to go somewhere romantic, so in the spur of the moment, he had packed a picnic basket and taken her to his special place.

Looking back, he couldn’t quite piece together what had happened. It had all been wrong.

Trying to reconnect his new self with his past had ended in a disaster. Somehow, in a rage of sudden aggression, he channelled his anger towards her. Then she stumbled backwards.

As though in slow motion, he could still see her tumble backwards over the stones, hitting her head hard and her body bouncing down the slope of the hill until it came to a rest.

Snapping out of his dream, he ripped the photograph into tiny pieces. He couldn’t let the memories rip apart his carefully constructed perfect life.

© 2017

FFfAW, Week of June 6, 2017

Photo prompt provided by Pamela S. Canepa

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Flash Fiction

Grey Skies

He stared up at the grey building. Some of the windows were lit, but they did nothing to cheer him up. Craning his neck, he could see the sky above, an even darker shade of grey than the building. His fingers gripped the umbrella tighter. He hoped he wouldn’t be needing it later. He didn’t want his new suit to be ruined.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the building. The receptionist took his name with a blank nod, then gave him directions to the room.

It was only on the first floor, but he preferred to take the elevator.

Minutes later, he knocked on the door, then took a step back. He heard a faint “come in” and carefully pushed down the door handle.

Without looking at the man at the desk, he swiftly closed the door again, grabbed one of the chairs and pushed it under the handle.

The man at the desk stared at him as he wordlessly pulled out his gun.

“It wasn’t us,” he said, his eyes locked on the muzzle. “None of us snitched.”

The man took a step closer to him, keeping the gun firmly trained on the other man’s head.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said in a cold voice. “We have the videotapes.”

Sweat broke out on the other man’s forehead, but he did not reply.

The man with the gun nodded slowly. “I thought so.”

Then he pulled the trigger.

When he left the building, it was pouring down with rain, but he kept the umbrella uselessly by his side.

© 2017

Image from free photo stock pixabay.com

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