Fiction: Detour Ahead by Aaron Sommers

From the MUTCD. These are the two signs under ...

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There was frost on the sidewalk and so I was glad she stopped to pick me up. I know you might think it was crazy of me to hitch-hike in this crazy day in age, but this was one of those desperate times. As soon as the door opened I heard Robert Palmer blasting “I Didn’t Mean to Turn You On.” She told me she had a weakness for music from the 80s, and shimmied a bit as she drove. Inside it smelled like watermelon bubblegum.
 
The night was so black I was afraid we’d be swallowed up at any second. Every minute or two I caught a glimpse of her profile. She had brown hair to her shoulders and very red lips. I had to compose myself because I’d never seen a woman as beautiful as her. She asked me where I came from, what I did for a living and how I ended up back there. It was refreshing to hear her voice because I felt a nameless dread build up in my chest. A large billboard advertising sunglasses illuminated the interior of her Toyota long enough for me to see her slender ankles. Before I could look twice I noticed she was driving barefoot. 
 
Halfway to my destination she passed a pickup truck and laughed as I told her that some people take yellow lines seriously. When we arrived at my destination she held her slender hands out, palms up and said, “That’ll be ten bucks,” smiling with perfect teeth. She was a picture of symmetry.

By then she knew I was flat broke, so I promised to write a story about her. She grinned and said, “Yeah, right,” squealing away, kicking dirt and dust into the still night air.

*****

Aaron Sommers lives in New Hampshire. When not shoveling snow, he’s fending off invisible fans of his fiction.

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How Deep Is Your Flash Fiction?

We all know flash fiction stories are short; but deep?

Hello hello hello, my Flash Fiction Fanatics.  It’s the start of a new work week and the Old Soldier has just treated himself to a cup of Edy’s Slow Churned Rich & Creamy Caramel Delight Ice Cream and the blogging day is well underway at 8:30 AM.

I like the way this blog is beginning to look.  I hope you like how it looks, too.  I want it to not only entertain you but also to inform you.

So, what’s this business of flash fiction stories being deep?  Flash fiction is so short that whenever possible it must resonate with meaning beyond the action of the story itself.  The concrete specifics of the story must reach for some sort of universal abstract.

No, the Old Soldier is not talking gibberish.  Sometimes if a writer is talented and lucky, his or her story will speak a universal truth about the human condition even though the story is only a few hundred words long.

This universal truth is not always possible; but it is something to keep in mind as you keep reading and keep writing.  You will find plenty of flash fiction examples on this blog.

Archives: Flash Fiction by Elina Zismanova

Sakhalin

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When your story is accepted for publication by the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette, it doesn’t have just a few days on the Home page and then gather dust in the archives for the rest of its days.

Your story is constantly rotated to the Home page to get the long-term exposure that it deserves.  How many other online publications do that?  I don’t know of any.

So, when I encourage you to read the Submissions guidelines at the top of the page and to send me something, I mean it.  And this story from the archives proves it.

*****

The Old Soldier is off to a good day of blogging and spreading the gospel of the flash fiction story.  Explore the site and tell all your blogging, reading and writing friends about the excitement that is the flash fiction short story.

Now for our feature presentation.

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Failure

“It has never happened to me before in my life!” He turned on a lamp, sat on his side of the bed and dropped his hands in his lap.

“I know, honey, I know. It’s not your fault.” She slipped from under the covers, moved closer to him and enveloped him in a tight embrace.

“I’ve been doing it for the last 40 years, and never before did I fail…” His voice trailed off.

She leaned her head against his shoulder and held him close. “Darling, you are not a failure, you’re simply tired. You need rest.”

“I could do it when I was tired before. Remember the time when I worked two jobs? But every night when I got home…” He began to sob.

“Yes, of course, I remember. You always amazed me. But, you’re under so much stress now.” She rocked him gently stroking his hair.

“Oh, I don’t know. I never thought it could happen to me! Me of all people!”

“But, honey, you’re not a young boy anymore, things happen.”

“You think I am old?” His sobbing continued.

“No, no, I didn’t mean that, but, you know, you are going through lots of changes.” She found a tissue and handed it to him.

“I feel so ashamed.” He blew his nose and rose from the bed.

“Darling, don’t be ashamed. I am sure it happens more often than you think.” She put on a robe and stood near him as if consoling a child. “With a change of scenery and a little rest you’ll be your old self.”

Grasping at straws, he asked, “Do you think therapy will help?” and looked to her for answers like an insecure child who required adult reassurance.

“You don’t need therapy! You need a break!” Her voice full of compassion, she massaged his shoulders and back. “Please, don’t get so wound up. It happened to Rob.”

“How do you know? He never mentioned it to me.” Surprised he stopped sobbing and searched her face.

“Yes, it did happen to Rob. I was in their kitchen when Helen brought it up and they joked about it.” She faced him and began unbuttoning his shirt. “Even Mike didn’t escape it. I heard it from both of his ex-wives.”

“Don’t tell me Sydney had it. I won’t believe you.” Astounded he didn’t resist when she removed the shirt from both of his arms.

“But of course! Remember when she went abroad for a year? She was cured within a month. And it never came back.”

“Unbelievable! This is the first I’ve heard this! How come you never told me?”

“It never came up until now.” She undid his belt, helped his pants off and dropped her robe to the floor. “You don’t talk to a writer about writer’s block until you absolutely have to.” Her nightgown followed her robe. “Now, let’s find some new material, shall we?”

The End

Bio: Born on Sakhalin Island in the Far East of the USSR, Elina Zismanova, grew up in northern Russia beyond the Arctic Circle. She moved to the US in 1980 and now lives in Highland Park, NJ with her husband and four daughters.

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