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  SHORT BUT SWEET

  a collection of hint, nano, micro and flash fiction

  By

  Jay Faulkner

  Copyright © Jay Faulkner, 2011

  The right of Jay Faulkner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  This work may be freely distributed in its original form provided it is not altered in any way. No part of this work may be reproduced without the prior consent of the author.

  This work may not be sold or exploited for commercial gain under any circumstances.

  For my parents, who made me what I am, taught me what I know and showed me how to love.

  PREFACE

  In the past – and, being honest, not too long ago – I got accused of being verbose. I won’t deny it as I do love words and language and, sometimes, don’t really know when to stop. In fact, during a short story writing contest in the past, I wrote 23,000 words as my entry – there’s nothing in the rules that says a novella isn’t also a short story, you know!

  In order to try to train myself to write less, while writing ‘more’, I have been focusing on shorter fiction: flash fiction (1000 words or less), micro fiction (500 words or less) and even a foray into fiction specifically designed for Twitter and text messages (so sub 140 characters) aptly entitled 'nano' fiction.

  Somewhere along the line I came across Ernest Hemingway’s alleged piece:

  For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn

  It’s evocative and powerful – a complete story in six words.

  Six. Words.

  Obviously that is under 1000 words so, technically, could be flash fiction, micro fiction or even nano fiction. However I prefer the definition of ‘hint fiction’ (n) : a story of 25 words or fewer that suggests a larger, more complex story … and if you want to find out more about that, or read some great stuff, I would suggest visiting https://www.robertswartwood.com/ … and, for me, Hemingway’s piece definitely tells a complex story.

  At least it does in my head. As soon as I read it I thought of a poor couple who had lost a very young baby – I thought that it was very obvious that that is what he was saying but a friend of mine read it and thought of a couple who couldn’t have children at all.

  Six words but, for two people, two stories.

  I love the idea that, at its most basic level, hint fiction gives you a full story but it is up to you just what that story actually is.

  From that burgeoning love of the shorter form of storytelling came the pieces that you are reading right now. If I had to cut things short, and sum up my hopes and expectations for you, the reader, at the end of this it would be one, simple word:

  Enjoy.

  Jay

  July 2011

  CONTENTS

  Dreams

  This Time

  Knowing

  Both

  Vengeful hands

  Today, tomorrow and yesterday

  Days

  Eisoptrophobia

  To Delight in Mahler

  The Moment

  Green

  The Good Boy

  Rainbow

  The Way Not to Wish

  Dreams

  He had dreamt of dancing, once.

  This Time

  Her sponsor didn’t have to know.

  One last drink.

  Definitely, this time.

  Knowing

  “If I didn’t know better,” he said, “I’d think you were enjoying this!”

  “If you knew better,” she replied, pushing harder, “you’d know I was.”

  Both

  Our lives were mapped out by the tracks of your tears that followed the tracks on my arms.

  Both always trying to stop; both always failing.

  Vengeful hands

  My eyes snap open and you’re there; beautiful as the day I buried you.

  Vengeful hands - so cold - caress me.

  My sight fades.

  Today, tomorrow and yesterday

  So busy telling ourselves that there would always be plenty more tomorrows that we forgot that there might be no more todays.

  Now all I have left is yesterdays.

  Days

  There were days when she awoke and could barely remember the night before; counting the crumpled condoms the only way to guess at how many men had paid to fuck her.

  A serviceable vein and a quick hit changed the memories from barely to forgotten with a stupor filled smile.

  Eisoptrophobia

  She stood in the dimly lit room and tried to look into the mirror. It shouldn’t be hard, she knew; a conscious choice, electrical impulses sent from the brain, a muscle contraction and then – just like that – her head would lift up.

  In the last fifteen minutes, however, it hadn’t worked. She still couldn’t bring herself to look at her reflection.

  Then, finally, it wasn’t a conscious choice at all that made the decision but, rather, an autonomic reflex: a sneeze.

  As her head jerked backwards she caught the merest glimpse of her herself.

  It was enough.

  More than enough.

  To Delight in Mahler

  Grasping the handkerchief in my hand I smiled, ruefully, through my tears as I dabbed at my cheeks until I was left with nothing but damp tracks. The strains of Mahler’s fifth symphony filled the small office, the needle on the phonograph brought to life by the music that so moved me. It didn’t matter how I steeled myself, or even how many times I listened to it, each and every time I heard that wondrous melody it happened; I was moved to tears.

  The knock at the door went unanswered as I allowed the final notes to fade away; even though the room was now silent the music played on. Deep in my heart. Deep in my soul.

  Getting to my feet I arranged my uniform, ensuring that the cuffs were equal and that the tie, just visible underneath my double-breasted jacket, was straight. Placing my peaked cap under one arm I opened the door, briskly returning the sharp salute given by the junior lieutenant.

  “It is time, Mein Commandant.”

  We walked out into the yard, the noonday Sun shining down brightly onto the gallows, and barely pausing to acknowledge the executioner standing beside his charges I signalled that he should go ahead.

  The sounds - the trapdoors opening, the ropes straining taut, the bodies dropping, and the cries choking of in a sudden juxtaposition of cracking bones - went unheard by me.

  I was still delighting in Mahler.

  The Moment

  The moment they had been building to came in a silent explosion of gasping breaths and, breathless, they stared at each other; into each other. His bright jade eyes, unblinking, hers – deep brown – filled with wonder.

  The sheen of moisture that coated their skin was the only thing that separated them now – a translucent barrier; their two bodies, literally, become one. He sighed and she felt him deep within; she tightened and, enveloped, his eyes widened.

  Conjoined – her hardened nipple brushing, softly, against him, his chest hair caressing her skin like a thousand hungry lovers’ fingers – their perfect moment lasted eternity in an eye blink.

  As the tension left their bodies, limbs still entwined in a crushing embrace, she bit her lip, brow furrowed. Barely moving, not wanting the sensations to end too soon, he leant forwards and brushed a small kiss against her forehead.

  “Are you ok?” He whispered, mouth dry.

  “Yes, but …” she released her grip from his back, caressing the skin on his ribs as she brought her hand sliding down between them.

  “What?”

  “It hurt.” She winced as she reached the point where the gap between
them became nothing; where he ended and she began. Holding up her hand she stared at the crimson fingertips. “I’m bleeding.”

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered through another kiss. “Trust me, that’s normal …”

  “Hang on; how do you know that?” She stared at him, pulling away, eyes suddenly narrowed. “You said it was your first time too!”

  Green

  As she surveyed her sister’s new house, Anne’s green eyes – eyes as clear as jade one moment then turbulent as a stormy ocean the next – glittered darkly with barely suppressed emotion. Her perfect forehead hardly moved at all as neatly trimmed eyebrows arched steeply over them; her regular visits to an exclusive clinician for her ‘pampering’, as she liked to call the Botox treatment, made sure that her skin didn’t betray any of her forty one years of life. Getting old she could deal with, after all there was no other choice, but looking old – that would never, ever, do.

  Tugging at her long, red hair – as she always did when anxious about something –Anne’s manicured fingers twirled a lock of hair in ever tightening circles. The nail of each finger mirrored the same shade of red as her lips, each one exactly the same length, as always. Catching herself, realising that she was making a mess of the neatly coiffured hairstyle that had take nearly two hours to get just ‘so’,