by Henry McLaughlin @RiverBendSagas
Have you ever written flash fiction? It’s a form of short story—a really short story. No more than 1500 words. A complete story in 1500 words or less! Can it be done? There are websites and ezines and contests for them all over the internet. One of the shortest pieces of flash fiction is six words long and attributed to Ernest Hemingway:
“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”
Powerfully emotional, right?
I’ve written some pieces of flash fiction. I find Flash Fiction to be a good exercise for exploring my characters. A short piece helps me see some aspect of them I hadn’t noticed before—some part of their personality or backstory that helps me know them better and make them stronger throughout the story. In a short piece, the character may reveal aspects of themselves I hadn’t seen or grasped before.
What follows is a piece of flash fiction about the main character in my Riverbend series: Michael Archer.
The Only Way Out
“Keep yer nose clean, Archer. I don’t wanna see you in my jail again.” Sheriff Gideon Parsons’ voice graveled behind him.
I don’t want to see the inside of your jail again, either. Michael’s fists clenched in his leather gloves. But I probably will.
The deserted street stretched away, spilling into the plains beyond the town of Tramlaw. A pure white sheet of undisturbed snow encased the buildings, boardwalks, and hitching posts. Ice glazed the water troughs.
All shimmered in the early rays of sunrise peeking under the swollen gray clouds.
It reminded him of the first snowfall of winter back home, and the hope it brought of a different world upon waking. A hope soon dashed when his father stirred from drunken slumber.
Back then the snow only covered a world of pain. It didn’t change anything.
It was the same now.
Michael’s boot crunched the crusted top layer.
He strode down the middle of the street, the town to himself. Where to get a drink? Lulu’s would be the only place open this early, but he couldn’t afford her prices and didn’t want her girls pawing at him. That’s what got him in trouble to begin with. This time.
He angled for the livery. There should be half a bottle in his saddlebags. If Old Gabe hadn’t taken it to pay his fodder bill.
Michael winced as the door squealed on rusted hinges. His excuse for a horse dozed in a stall halfway down the row. His tack sat in dirty straw on the bare ground outside it, his saddlebags draped over the seat.
He opened the dry, cracked flap and found the familiar, comfortable shape of the bottle. It fit his palm as easily as his gun. The cork came out with a reassuring pop. Saliva stirred in anticipation of the first taste, the first swallow of his best friend and support.
The hard rim touched his bottom lip, and he tilted the bottle.
“That’s no escape.”
The glass clanked against his teeth and liquor spilled down his chin onto his shirt.
That blasted preacher again. Ought to be a law preachers must wear cowbells so they can’t sneak up a man tryin’ to clear his head.
Michael kept his back to the man and sucked a long draft. “Isn’t there some place your supposed to be? Like a church? Or a funeral? Or on your knees praying to somebody who doesn’t listen? Why bother people who never did you any harm and aren’t interested in what you’re peddlin’?”
Zechariah Taylor’s hand landed on his shoulder like a boulder. His other hand reached for the liquor. Michael turned away, stoppered the cork with a slap and slid his comforting friend into the inside pocket of his thick wool coat.
“It’s the curse of a preacher,” Taylor said, his voice resonating in the recesses of the barn, even though he spoke softly. “God won’t let me just preach to the saved. He wants me to reach the lost as well.”
Michael entered the stall and tossed the saddle blanket on the swayed back of his dull brown mare. “I’m not lost. Just need to get out of this town and away from people like you and that sanctimonious sheriff.”
“I can help you find a better escape from what ails you inside. Better than the booze and the whores. Better than the gambling. Better than fighting everyone.”
“I’m doing just fine.”
“Really? You’ve spent five of the last seven nights in Gideon’s jail. Doesn’t sound fine to me.”
Michael rocked the saddle into place and secured the cinch. He lashed the saddlebags and his blanket behind the cantle. Outside the stall, he mounted and looked into the gray eyes of the man who had visited him every day he was in jail. “Don’t need your help, Preacher.” He patted his pistol and the pocket where his whiskey lay. “I’ve got all the help I need. Only thing I need is to get away from this town and people like you.”
He spurred his horse onto the street and turned toward the plains.
It started to snow a half-mile out of town. Thick, silent flakes drifting down, smothering all sounds.
Two miles out of town only the trees marked the road.
Three miles later, the horse waded through snow up to its chest. The animal huffed clouds of steam as it struggled to breathe and walk. Michael let it set its own pace. He was in no condition to guide it or spur to greater speed. He drained the last of his whiskey and let the bottle fall to the snow.
A few miles later, Michael said, “Maybe we should find some shelter, you old nag.” The trees on each side blurred into one long wall of snow-covered evergreens.
The horse lurched and sank to its front knees. Michael slid from the saddle and landed on his back. Snow slipped inside his collar as he stood. He tugged on the reins.
The horse slumped to its side. No steam drifted from its nostrils.
Michael plopped to the ground and cussed.
This story revealed the depths of Michael’s despair before he came to Jesus. It helped me write a stronger more three-dimensional character which made the whole series better.
Have you ever written flash fiction?
What was your toughest struggle with it?
What was your biggest takeaway?
TWEETABLE
Great piece and advice, as always. Thanks, Henry. Gotta try this.
ReplyDeleteLoved the story. Something like what you wrote would make a great bonus for newsletter readers! I started out writing short stories for "Woman's World" and probably accounts for my lean writing. :-)
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