100-word flash fiction - Burst

Here it is, in 100 words, a sliver of flash fiction. I hope you enjoy:

I’m on the front porch of my boyhood home, lighting off bottle rockets.

It’s incredibly late. Or freakishly early. Anyway, whatever.

Dad’s inside. Dying. Of cancer. The aggressive kind.

I’m drinking whiskey.

I blaze the fuses with the tip of a cigar. Wait for the fuse to burn down just so.

Then toss the rocket skyward.

With each burst, I take a drink.

Then repeat the entire process. I’ve been doing this for hours.

Dad appears at the screen door. He’s mildly annoyed, I can tell.

“Get your ass in here. I’ve things to tell you. Before it’s too late.”

3WW No. 471: Darkness

Here's a little something I penned this morning for Three Word Wednesday:


With a furrowed brow, he clamped his hand across his eyes, tight. He waited to the count of 100, uncovered his gaze - and had changed daylight into night.

Not that the entire world noticed. No, those who were thrust into darkness were those who most closely orbited him.

Fear gripped them, initially. Then worry. Then a mild disgust, bordering on indignant.

There were protests. OK, some mild bitching amongst themselves. Vacant threats to appeal to he who had taken away the light. Thoughts of appeasements. Much judgment.

As the gloom continued, those who suffered ultimately did so in reserved silence. A brooding melancholy, forged in his suffering.

She awoke from a dream, fresh and new and silky, only to find herself in the dimness. She reached tentative fingers into the shadows, looking for him. He rustled, slide away from her touch.

Her reaction was abrupt, tactful in its mission. She tossed a leg around his, clamped down hard. She moved as he moved, matching his speed and determination.

When her hand found his chest, warm and soft, she pushed gently, just about his heart. And with this, his fidgeting stopped.

“Breathe,” she said. “Forgive.”

A tremendous gust was exhaled. And with that, a most brilliant sunrise followed.