I’m six-years-old and have told a lie. “Mom said I could go home with Mitch.” I leave school early with my cousin and our grandfather. Mitch is Underdog to my Polly Purebread fears. He’s my hero. My pulse doesn’t flutter like a swallowed bird in my throat when we’re together. We pedal bikes through the apricot orchards, watch cartoons, roam horse barns, climb the haystacks. Our grandfather catches me in the lie when my mother panics, not finding me at school. “Always tell the truth,” he chastises us. My cousin does. He becomes a cop. Me; I write fiction.
Hey, Charli, this is great. Perfectly illustrates the power of flash fiction: the very best of my childhood evoked in a brilliant flash. Seems almost made more powerful by its brevity. I used to have lots of fun with my buddy Denny playing in his grandpa’s haystacks, making tunnels and “clubhouses” between the hay bails. Another time we filled a Pringles can up with his grandpa’s gunpowder and made a long fuse (somehow) and set it off in the yard. Wow…what a sight! What a flamethrower! Guess that was kind of like flash fiction.
A flash on many levels, Darrell — a flash of inspiration, a flash of trouble, a flash of things to come. Thanks for reading, and join us over at CarrotRanch.com any time!