Tag Archives: Flash Fiction

Nowhere Highway

Howard walked in and sat down. The belt moved. They knew he was there, the chip in his neck told them so. Seventeen bolts, eighteen washers, two cotter pins, grease, a torque body assembly, a digital signature, and six minutes. The line moved again and he repeated the steps. He called the belt the highway to nowhere. He had never been to the other end of it, just as he had never been to the beginning of it. Sometimes what he worked on changed, or the instructions were new or different, it didn’t matter. The crimson red clock counted down and he kept working. In nine years the line had never stopped, in nine years he had never interacted with another co-worker. It was all insulated and it had been made so very carefully. Continue reading Nowhere Highway

It Burns Just the Same

Fire races through thick beige carpet still streaked from vacuuming. It dances up the sides of a white couch leaping from cushion to cushion. The coffee table burns with its lone candle center piece. The wax boils and spits splattering the carpet with red shortly before it is consumed and blackened. Chairs on either side of the coffee table had been turned ever so slightly to create an inviting atmosphere. They matched the couch when it was still white, now they match it in black. Continue reading It Burns Just the Same

Mothers and Their Rules

Any good mother has a set of rules that her children are to follow and my mother was no different. Some of these rules are almost universal: don’t touch the oven, don’t play in the street, be home before dark, be in bed by nine, always eat your vegetables, don’t talk to strangers, and always listen to your parents. That last one was always the worst. Continue reading Mothers and Their Rules