This piece is really recent and reminded me a little of how much I like flash fiction as a form of writing. With this little piece of prose I wanted to address the sorts of topics that normally feel like cliche-traps without falling foul of them, and I think that the intent and the form combine to become something spare, and a bit sad.
The main objective I have is to abide by my golden rule of writing, to sustain a reader’s interest for the amount of time that I have asked for it, and okay I concede that a few dozen words doesn’t set the bar too high to achieve that, I still think it’s a worthwhile attribute of which to be mindful. Having now written about as many words about the piece than there are in the piece I should really let you get on with it. Thanks again for reading.
It is spring and although the sun peers between the clouds the blossom in the trees shivers in the cool breeze. It occurs to me that my hand is ungloved, and should be in my pocket but for unspoken reasons it hangs by my side, ready, waiting, and entirely unnecessary.
I would like to tell you about the news this morning, or maybe share this oversized coffee. It would be nice to feel your coat graze against my sleeve as we walk down towards the crossing.
These are the streets we do not walk together. These are people who do not realise that they only see one half of a pair that shall never be complete again. The footsteps mark a hollow rhythm on the paving slabs.
When it comes time to eat it would be better to sit closely and eat a sandwich, or a soup, the food isn’t really important. To sit and hear your voice, hear it splutter words out whilst you chew and laugh like I remember, hand covering your mouth, and smile gleaming like a sunrise between the fingertips. It would just be better than sitting alone, or rushing home.
There are posters for shows , for concerts and events, the sort we could have, maybe would have, attended. They aren’t the same, and maybe never were.
As I walk back towards the car the wind slaps the plastic bag and its contents against my leg. I look to the floor and I press onward. I sometimes think I hear your voice and find myself turning round to places where you aren’t. “Forever” just wasn’t long enough.
There is a bed at home that when tomorrow morning comes only one side shall have been slept in; spring is colder and far less lovely without you.