So, as I mentioned in my last Five Sentence Fiction, I’m going to try to branch out of this “graduate funk” that I’m in which has turned all of my flash fiction work into little tirades about my own life with flimsy characters thrown into narrative tracks. Well, I want to have yet another renaissance with Friday Fictioneers like I had towards the beginning of this year. But this time it’s about trying to remove myself from my own life and getting back to that imagination root. This does not necessarily imply that childlike wonder will be a prominent theme. It doesn’t discount it either, though!
So for now, we observe the weirdly bruised and off-colour fruits of that labour.
Word Count: 100
Genre: Realistic Fiction
Title: Being Broken
The pilot says something, but the wind is saying something much louder. It’s saying with cold breath around my face that I made a mistake coming up here with the birds and the children’s dreams sent up like balloons.
I can’t feel the metal below my boot but I feel like there’s soon to be pure nothing below.
There’s probably a metaphor here but I’m too scared to think of it now.
But I’m not going to let the wind push me out. I’m going to jump all on my own and shriek and sweat my worth into the sky.
Whatever the next picture is, I’m writing it on the revival of gladiatorial combat. Because, let’s face it, that would sell airspace like hotcakes. Think of it, teams of twenty-something seven-figured paycheck-ed men in modern material armour and weapons who beat the stuffing (non-lethal beatings naturally. What do we look like, Romans?) out of each other while the crowd roars. It’s really not that much different than American football. Just with more swords, excitement, and no half-time shows.
Really, it’s an improvement all around.
Oh and I may have just bought myself a one-way ticket to a brain fart. What if I had to write about a plastic lawn flamingo next week?
I’ll figure something out!
Good luck, you brave writer folk!