Flash Fiction of the Week. 9th to 13th, May 2016.
This is the flash fiction of the week.

This week I had friends pick words and do word association. They got a bit trolly at points, but what can you do?



Monday, 9th May.

Blood. Red. Wine. Vine. Green.

Leaves. Autumn. Rain. Storm. Thunder.

The blood rushed to her face, she was turning bright red as the wine crept through her like feathered vines only sangria and not green. The leaves spreading out through her veins until her entire body was hot and just moving her light arms was disorienting.

“I’m sure this would be lovely in autumn when the rains first come - those brief moments before the storm where thunder seems to roll hours ahead of the lightning strike.”

She sat in the chair across from her friend, their face aged by shadows. Summer was at its peak.

“We could stay a little longer.”

It would give her more time to drink.


Tuesday, 10th May.

Debate. Speech. Cards. Poker. Chips.

Gravy. Chicken. Bones. Bleached. Sand.

In suit and tie sitting in a chicken shop on an aluminium chair at a plastic table, sucking on a cigarette and playing poker on his phone. The smell of rotisserie chooks fills tiny little store that opens up to the night air in down-town Sydney. Chips and gravy adorned the table in front of him, though he didn’t even think to order anything. The radio was spewing up some kind of debate, but speaking up was against freedom of speech if it weren’t for the sake of money.

The girl behind the counter came around to clean around him, her bones poking through her skin and her hair bleached blonde with sand in her roots. She smiled warmly as she went wondering if she could play her cards right.


Wednesday, 11th May.

Doe. Stag. Horns. Trophy. Shield.

Spear. Thrust. Penetrate. Grasp. Power.

The Hunter stood, his spear extended and his shield raised. The Stag lowered its horns and scraped its hoof against the stony forest floor. It’s doe stands behind it cowering at the encounter, trembling as the spear is thrust against the Stag’s flank. The Hunter easily penetrates its thick hide, the power of the blow bringing the Stag to its knees - horns sagging as it collapsed under its own weight. The doe turns to flee but too slow it moves, the Hunter’s grasp wrapping around their slender neck. A pretty stipend could be fetched for returning escaped doe to their masters. Though she would also make a fine trophy.


Thursday, 12th May.

Hate. Enemy. Conflict. Interest. Concern.

Firm. Vigorous. Fit. Tight. Fast.

The Firm was concerned with the way the world burned.

But it was a conflict of interest to try and extinguish.

The two minutes hate wages against the enemies of the state,

dedicated to the hated the blame for the immolated.

It seemed a poor fit to bury the pit of hell they had opened, instead they charged all concerned for the right to be burned.

Well the firm had faired, for they owned all the shares, in charcoal and urns.

Those who survived were not so vigorous, forced to tighten their wallets and fasten their belts. But as long as the profits were made.


Friday, 13th May.

North. Facing. Fear. Gathering. Communion.

Mass. Weight. Gravity. Sober. Drunk.

I have a healthy set of fears, of gravity and gatherings. Both strip the mass off my bones and leave me weightless amongst the void of many. Communion is hard with these fears, the idea of facing anyone in any manner not distant and oblique is a sobering thought that snaps me out of my bubble. I’m not saying I don’t want it, but I can only manage it entirely drunk.

The doctors call it anxiety, but that would mean it is irrational. They want me to find true north, to go out and mingle. It never interested me, even if I wouldn’t mind company - but I know exactly what humans are capable of, and what gravity does to people who take leaps of faith.