How about a Little Flash Fiction?
Here is the story I entered in the 2013 Literacy Center of West Michigan Flash Fiction Contest. It won second place. (The story that won first was very good, and an entirely different type. No worries!)
I wrote this in one of the Creative Writing classes I have taught over the years, but was never quite happy with it. Then, this summer, I added one sentence. . .and the judge's comments told me that it was the right sentence to add.
I also have a longer version of the story, but that's for another day. I'm not sure I can say, "I hope you enjoy it," seeing as the first sentence may make you cringe. . .but I hope it makes sense. . .
Over Coffee
“You wouldn’t believe how much hair grows in my ears,” the old man says.
I look up from the forty essays I’ve taken out to read. He’s sitting twenty feet away, across the coffee shop. But he’s so loud that it’s like he’s sitting at my table.
Walking past with my coffee a minute before, I had noticed the group. Beside him is another old man, who nods and smiles. They both chuckle. Across the table from them are a young man and woman, both smiling at the man with the ear problem. I look back down at the essays. I had hoped the coffee shop wouldn’t be busy. It isn’t. But it isn’t quiet, either.
“I even had to get one of those trimmers!” His voice booms, and I can’t help but look at him. Grinning at the woman, he pantomimes shaving hair out of his ear. Then he turns his head so the other old man can see the show.
The woman gives a sideways glance at the young man, who leans forward. “Dad, we’ve got to go. We’ll stop by the house in a couple of days, okay?” His words are quiet, and must be listened to in order to be heard, as if he is attempting to compensate for his father’s volume.
“Okay,” the father says, and tilts his head up to the young woman as she and his son stand. “It was a pleasure to meet you.” He extends his hand and the woman shakes it. “I’m sure you’ll make my Sam a good wife.”
“I hope so,” she says. Sam walks to his father’s side and places a hand on his shoulder. “A couple of days,” he repeats. The old man nods. The young people walk to the door. In a moment, they are gone.
The father watches the door close behind them. His friend follows his eyes, and, for a moment, they both stare at the door’s backwards lettering. I do, too, reading it right to left.
I look back down at the essays. There’s work to do.
The three of us sit quietly.
“And my arthritis!” booms the old man’s voice. His friend smiles, nodding again. I haven’t heard him say a word. Sam’s father continues, “A little worse every day!” They pick up their coffee mugs. The entire shop is quiet. And empty.
My own coffee sits untouched in its sleeved paper cup. I gather my papers. The work can wait. I snap the briefcase shut, take my coffee in the other hand, and walk to the door. My hands full, I use my back to open it. I look at the two old men one last time. Sam’s father has returned to the ear-shaving pantomime, and his friend smiles along.
I step onto the sidewalk. Walking around the corner past the coffee shop, I hitch the briefcase under my arm to free my hand, and rub my finger along my ear.
Not yet. Not yet.
Copyright 2013, Shane Marshall
I wrote this in one of the Creative Writing classes I have taught over the years, but was never quite happy with it. Then, this summer, I added one sentence. . .and the judge's comments told me that it was the right sentence to add.
I also have a longer version of the story, but that's for another day. I'm not sure I can say, "I hope you enjoy it," seeing as the first sentence may make you cringe. . .but I hope it makes sense. . .
Over Coffee
“You wouldn’t believe how much hair grows in my ears,” the old man says.
I look up from the forty essays I’ve taken out to read. He’s sitting twenty feet away, across the coffee shop. But he’s so loud that it’s like he’s sitting at my table.
Walking past with my coffee a minute before, I had noticed the group. Beside him is another old man, who nods and smiles. They both chuckle. Across the table from them are a young man and woman, both smiling at the man with the ear problem. I look back down at the essays. I had hoped the coffee shop wouldn’t be busy. It isn’t. But it isn’t quiet, either.
“I even had to get one of those trimmers!” His voice booms, and I can’t help but look at him. Grinning at the woman, he pantomimes shaving hair out of his ear. Then he turns his head so the other old man can see the show.
The woman gives a sideways glance at the young man, who leans forward. “Dad, we’ve got to go. We’ll stop by the house in a couple of days, okay?” His words are quiet, and must be listened to in order to be heard, as if he is attempting to compensate for his father’s volume.
“Okay,” the father says, and tilts his head up to the young woman as she and his son stand. “It was a pleasure to meet you.” He extends his hand and the woman shakes it. “I’m sure you’ll make my Sam a good wife.”
“I hope so,” she says. Sam walks to his father’s side and places a hand on his shoulder. “A couple of days,” he repeats. The old man nods. The young people walk to the door. In a moment, they are gone.
The father watches the door close behind them. His friend follows his eyes, and, for a moment, they both stare at the door’s backwards lettering. I do, too, reading it right to left.
I look back down at the essays. There’s work to do.
The three of us sit quietly.
“And my arthritis!” booms the old man’s voice. His friend smiles, nodding again. I haven’t heard him say a word. Sam’s father continues, “A little worse every day!” They pick up their coffee mugs. The entire shop is quiet. And empty.
My own coffee sits untouched in its sleeved paper cup. I gather my papers. The work can wait. I snap the briefcase shut, take my coffee in the other hand, and walk to the door. My hands full, I use my back to open it. I look at the two old men one last time. Sam’s father has returned to the ear-shaving pantomime, and his friend smiles along.
I step onto the sidewalk. Walking around the corner past the coffee shop, I hitch the briefcase under my arm to free my hand, and rub my finger along my ear.
Not yet. Not yet.
Copyright 2013, Shane Marshall