This is the first time I wrote flash fiction this short. This particular batch I wrote is for the recently held Fiction Writing Masterclass at Ayala Museum. I found it very challenging because the limit was 100 words, but also fun because it forces you to rethink your words a thousand times over to cut down the length but still stay sensible. I submitted three entries, but only the first one was chosen to be discussed at the masterclass. At the end, though, I wasn’t able to attend. But it was interesting that the judges chose the saddest story among the three. I wonder if that says something about me as a writer? What do you think?
The Morning After
The truth is, I had known long before I found out. Unsurprisingly this morning, everything seemed amiss. I do love this place, though.
The rickety bridge past 14th street where we used to drink morning coffees. The hump along Portobello Road that you always forget to watch out for. The beautiful unbalance between high-rise buildings and centuries-old establishments. I will miss them all.
And I will miss you, I think rather bitterly, as I drive along the city we called ours, leaving the all-too familiar ache, ignoring the humps, going straight for the bridge and onto the welcoming end.
Under My Umbrella
God must really love me, I considered silently, while you stood beside me under my umbrella in the pouring rain. The pavement seemed to glitter as the yellow street lights shone on tiny puddles. It felt like the scene in Singing in the Rain right after Debbie Reynolds kissed Gene Kelly. But even without the kiss, it was a glorious feeling.
“Thanks for the umbrella,” you said, smiling at me before getting in the bus. “See you at work tomorrow!”
Meanwhile, I just stood there, unable to speak. Tomorrow, I thought with utter resolve, I will absolutely ask you out.
He adjusted himself in the corner of the coffee shop where he sat, almost willing himself to nothingness. Never has a simple introduction been this mortifying.
He tried his hardest to look her in the eye, but couldn’t, lest he blushes uncontrollably; attempted to stand up and just approach her, but she kept popping up out of nowhere, not giving him time to prepare. Someday, he thought.
She watched him closely, hoping he would notice her. She smiled at him, passed by his seat more than she needed, even deliberately dropped her pen near his table. Nothing. Someday, she sighed.