Flash Fiction

These were written about a year and a month ago--October 19, 2007--as an exercise in fiction class.

1.
The baby crawled through the kitchen door. In twenty years, he would be learning how to drink fire whiskey without cringing, but right now he's drooling on the tile, luckily.

His mom tries to cook a dinner for six in the tiny kitchen without spilling or tripping. In twenty years, she would be learning how to pay for sixteen years of college and cook only for two, but now she is rushing between the oven and sink, trying not to burn the turkey,

The man is flying his plane over the country. In twenty years he would be receiving a metal akin to a purple heart, but right now he is pressing the button to let loose all hell.

2.
For five years I kept all of my writing safe. All of it was in the bottom drawer. I knew no one would look through it there.

Last night I came home to you reading my journal. Nothing recent (that is still under my pillows) but still mine, from two year ago, when I first moved here.

The neighbors called the cops because of the noise. They thought that you were beating me.

I turned off the smoke detectors this morning.

I didn't want you to read them.