THREE

Why I write flash fiction

I discovered flash fiction two years ago, my kind of stories to the point no shitting around. Some writers like to paint a picture; you only do that when it applies directly to the story, so why assemble words, not to the point. That's how I feel, at least, I like that I don't have to read through 200 pages to get to the point and the ending. Some stories need all of the meat because that's the story, but I like the story to keep moving. I have found myself reading a novel, and I'm like, get the point already. I want to know what happened, but the story seems to stall. I found myself cheating and looking ahead a couple of chapters or the end of the book or story. There are stories or novels where I've read every page because it flowed together to the end. When I was younger and had more time on my hands, I was an avid reader, making me want to write. I don't know if I'm any good; I've had mixed reviews and comments.

Whether I suck or not, I will keep writing. I enjoy reading and writing flash fiction. This is my calling.

Hunter

She pulled her hoodie over her head as if she felt a chill. So dark, but she liked the night; it had been such a hot, bright day. She loved her midnight strolls; the night air felt so good on her skin. She knows it's dangerous to walk these quiet, dark streets alone, and she carried no protection. Suddenly she feels eyes on her, he thinks he's unseen, but she feels him. She feels her heart skip a beat then race as if excited as she ducked into the dark alley, but he sees her. She walks faster; he speeds up. She stops and turns; he didn't know what hit him.

She looks at the man on the ground, legs spasming, and stops. She always thought that it was better this way. She smiles as the little figure that has just finished draining the man dry of precious blood was standing beside her mother. She teaches her daughter to catch prey and rid the streets of pedophiles, rapists, and murderers. They would never be prey again; they are hunters.

Go peaceful

Leslie enjoyed the life she was 93 years old vibrant for her age; at least she was before her last bout with pneumonia. She was confident that she would bounce back, but her body seemed to have had enough; it was time. Leslie was tired but not ready to let go. "I'm not ready yet," her voice week and cracking. She was talking to the dark shadow in her hospital doorway. You hear me? she mustered the strength to say a little louder I'm not ready yet. The shadow was death; she knew that. "You can't take me yet; I'm not ready to go." At this moment, the shadow that has been in her doorway moved a little closer and held out a hand. Go peacefully; a calming, beautiful female voice came from the shadow. "Never," Leslie wheezed. "I want to live."

The shadow moved closer, "go peacefully," the voice said again. The shadow was at Leslie's bedside now. She could see the face under the dark robe; it was a beautiful face that seemed to be covered in silver glitter; her eyes sparkled a color she couldn't quite comprehend. Is this death? Leslie thought because it was quite beautiful.

She started to feel as if she was in a loving embrace, warm, pain gone; she smiled and took her last breath.