What you have here is a bit of flash fiction that I submitted to Grain Magazine a while back. I had hoped to win their Short Grain Contest. Unfortunately, according to the contest website, the winners were to be notified sometime in late April or early May.
There is no reasonable definition of the words “early May” to which I can cling. Ergo, I assume it is safe to publish the story here and now.
Flash fiction is very much the province of the minimalist. Definitions vary but the accepted word limit is usually 1000 or fewer. A writer has to tell a whole story—introduce a protagonist and a conflict, insert obstacles and reach a resolution—in the space of a few moments.
As such, every word has to be chosen carefully. Every sentence must be structured perfectly. Brevity is the aim and not a word can be wasted. This means that some of the elements of the story can only be implied and must remain unwritten—and the writer must decide what can be left unsaid.
What appeals—at least to me—about this form is the precision required. The ad for this particular contest spoke to me. Picture it: a razor blade emblazoned with the words: “A line or two and you’ll live forever.”
The Short Grain Contest set it’s flash fiction limit at 500 words excluding titles. The following 390 words were written over a few sleepless nights at the end of February.
VIESALGIA
J. D. Buston
As he comes to: the boozy smell of vomit; the curt, white light of a winter morning's sun; the cold pain portent of frostbite. He tries rolling over. No good. The hangover kicking neurons around inside his skull—so like the long ago mornings when he would awake to the repeated sound of his son's soccer ball against the wall of the house.
No more.
His eyes fix on the barn across the yard, a ramshackle assemblage of wood and steel. The red paint peeling, dark rot showing through the lesions. He wonders how many of the calluses on his hands are leftover from the time he built it. He wonders if his partner still has calluses from that time.
Hands: he wonders if his partner still has them.
They'd been so proud of themselves and each other. There's a photo in his office, father and son, the two of them still wearing their tool belts. Side by side they stand, arms draped over each other's shoulder. The newly finished barn behind them. Before the decay set in.
This barn and everything in it was their shared ambition. Their retreat from wage slavery, multitasking, office droning. Their re alignment toward a meaningful life. A destiny of their own choosing.
No more.
The barn door hangs open; one of the upper hinges torn out of the decaying frame. The hard-packed dirt floor inside decorated with stones and straw. The roof beams—some of them decomposing, needing replacing—a confusing tangle. He hears no noise inside. He hears nothing but the steady throb of blood through his desiccated brain.
It occurs to him to wonder who has been feeding, milking and caring for the cows these last weeks. Certainly not himself; drunk and lost in his own grief. Not his partner either; halfway around the world fighting dust storms and terrified terrorists…
…no more.
He turns his head a little; looks up. The faded sign above the door—green and white painted plywood: Brodsky and Son Dairy Farms.
No more.
He focuses his attention on one crossbeam inside the barn. It looks weaker than the rest. Termite ridden, perhaps; dry rot, maybe.
Tomorrow, he thinks to himself, I'll test the strength of that beam with my weight and a rope.
He'll have to sober up.
He'll have to learn to tie a noose.
There is no reasonable definition of the words “early May” to which I can cling. Ergo, I assume it is safe to publish the story here and now.
Flash fiction is very much the province of the minimalist. Definitions vary but the accepted word limit is usually 1000 or fewer. A writer has to tell a whole story—introduce a protagonist and a conflict, insert obstacles and reach a resolution—in the space of a few moments.
As such, every word has to be chosen carefully. Every sentence must be structured perfectly. Brevity is the aim and not a word can be wasted. This means that some of the elements of the story can only be implied and must remain unwritten—and the writer must decide what can be left unsaid.
What appeals—at least to me—about this form is the precision required. The ad for this particular contest spoke to me. Picture it: a razor blade emblazoned with the words: “A line or two and you’ll live forever.”
The Short Grain Contest set it’s flash fiction limit at 500 words excluding titles. The following 390 words were written over a few sleepless nights at the end of February.
VIESALGIA
J. D. Buston
As he comes to: the boozy smell of vomit; the curt, white light of a winter morning's sun; the cold pain portent of frostbite. He tries rolling over. No good. The hangover kicking neurons around inside his skull—so like the long ago mornings when he would awake to the repeated sound of his son's soccer ball against the wall of the house.
No more.
His eyes fix on the barn across the yard, a ramshackle assemblage of wood and steel. The red paint peeling, dark rot showing through the lesions. He wonders how many of the calluses on his hands are leftover from the time he built it. He wonders if his partner still has calluses from that time.
Hands: he wonders if his partner still has them.
They'd been so proud of themselves and each other. There's a photo in his office, father and son, the two of them still wearing their tool belts. Side by side they stand, arms draped over each other's shoulder. The newly finished barn behind them. Before the decay set in.
This barn and everything in it was their shared ambition. Their retreat from wage slavery, multitasking, office droning. Their re alignment toward a meaningful life. A destiny of their own choosing.
No more.
The barn door hangs open; one of the upper hinges torn out of the decaying frame. The hard-packed dirt floor inside decorated with stones and straw. The roof beams—some of them decomposing, needing replacing—a confusing tangle. He hears no noise inside. He hears nothing but the steady throb of blood through his desiccated brain.
It occurs to him to wonder who has been feeding, milking and caring for the cows these last weeks. Certainly not himself; drunk and lost in his own grief. Not his partner either; halfway around the world fighting dust storms and terrified terrorists…
…no more.
He turns his head a little; looks up. The faded sign above the door—green and white painted plywood: Brodsky and Son Dairy Farms.
No more.
He focuses his attention on one crossbeam inside the barn. It looks weaker than the rest. Termite ridden, perhaps; dry rot, maybe.
Tomorrow, he thinks to himself, I'll test the strength of that beam with my weight and a rope.
He'll have to sober up.
He'll have to learn to tie a noose.
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