You might already know that flash fiction is my guilty pleasure. The word limit forces me to be efficient, to make every word count. It’s an exercise in conciseness, in knowing what to say, and what to leave to the imagination…
Imagination is the theme of this bundle. I wrote these tiny stories over the past few weeks. Each explores an expression of imagination, the heart of creativity.
First: dreams, hopes, and aspirations that never quite die, even if time has made them impossible.
Second: the scars and quirks we pick up through life, the things we imagine, mental intrusions that may not even be there.
Third: the myths we invent to make sense of the world and teach about consequences, especially the ones that emerge when the season turns eerie.
It’s a little different from my usual stories, but let’s have fun with it.
Enjoy!
I’ve never played professional sports, but I did grow up chasing a ball. I miss the camaraderie, the shared love and pain of victory and defeat, that can only be experienced in competitive team sports.
It was a lesson in limitations, working as a unit, and in realizing there will always be a bigger fish. A healthy lesson for the young, impressionable man I once was.
That fleeting jolt of energy when the neighborhood cheers your name still gives me goosebumps. I wonder if some of you have felt something like that too.
Mind of the Match
The fresh scent of perfectly cut grass on a summer evening.
Heart pounding louder with every step.
Crowds cheering your name.
A pass perfectly in line with your run.
Glory or disappointment.
Hero or Donkey.
Cut left, step over the ball.
Last defender sliding helplessly behind.
Eye-to-eye with the goalkeeper ahead.
Clean strike on the laces.
The stadium holds its breath.
It’s a screamer. It’s a thunderbolt.
The stewards can’t stop you.
Jump into the stands. Celebrate with the fans.
Eternal glory awaits.
“Oi, you taking all day or what?” Your mate’s voice cuts through.
The cheers die. Your chest still heaves.
Dreams never fade on the community field.
Have you ever noticed how two people can share the same day, yet walk away feeling entirely different? It’s fascinating.
One calls it a lesson, the other a loss. It’s the classic difference between an optimist and a pessimist.
Optimists see life’s experiences as something we gain, moments that make us richer. Anything from the nervousness before a first kiss, to the disappointment of being overlooked at work, and the sting of being right and still losing an argument.
Pessimists see those same experiences as blows that chip away at your core until you’re finally worn down.
If you’ve ever had your mind spin on repeat for no good reason, you’ll recognize the next story. It tries to capture what it feels like when life wears you down, your filter erodes, and intrusive imagination takes the wheel on your morning commute.
Loops
Walking out the apartment door late.
Did I leave the water on?
Damn. Better go back and check!
Walking out the apartment door later.
The water is off.
Don’t step on the crack… What’d happen if I did?
Damn. Better go back and check!
Walking out the apartment door very late.
The water is off.
Didn’t step on the crack.
Passing by slow-walkers... Oh no - did I get too close, brush against that parked car, and scratch it?
Damn. Better go back and check!
Walking out the apartment door even later.
The water is off.
Didn’t step on the crack.
Didn’t scratch the car.
Did I phrase myself properly in that text? What if they misunderstood? Can they misinterpret that word? Am I going to get fired? Will I be homeless?
Damn. Better go back. Can I edit this, can I…
I might need a vacation.
Yes, it’s just a vacation I need.
I’ve lived and worked in quite a few places, from Europe to Africa, Asia, and now the Americas. NYC is probably my favorite home. It’s a city of opportunity and darkness, of hope and debauchery.
One thing is the same here as it is in every big city: it holds stories that teach us how to behave. Some are harmless, like the golf cart that ended up in the fountain, the ill-fated arm-wrestling match, or someone waking up with a marker-mustache. Others carry sharper lessons.
The next story is one I should probably send to a few people I know. Happy hour is still work time, after all… a place where self-control should never be optional.
A few weeks ago, I published a modern myth about The Beer Devil, a little morality tale about excess and the mistakes we make when overindulging. This next imagination takes us a few decades earlier, back to where that same story might have been born.
The Speakeasy
Blurry vision, laughter at their own brilliant punchlines, and the conviction they were the cleverest men in the room…it was that kind of night.
The trio believed they had earned the right to bathe in self-indulgence. The big deal was closed, bonuses were lined up, and the city bent to their will.
Michael, the Junior VP, had picked the next place. A speakeasy serving obscure beers, each one chosen for you by the barkeep. As it was off the island, that pick had earned him the nickname ‘Bridge and Tunnel’. Not the best, but definitely not the worst in the firm either.
Robert, dressed in his trademark pinstripes, stepped into the alley first and led the way to a narrow metal door.
Neon light glowed pink and blue across maroon velvet booths, and a haze of cigarette smoke hung low along the ceiling. Blue Monday rolled through the floorboards, its bass thrumming up through their Gucci horsebit loafers.
How does it feel…
Behind the bar, the bartender polished a tap. “Gentlemen. This one’s special. You drink it slowly. Respect the pour, or…”
Christopher barked a laugh, shoved past his colleagues, and yanked the spout. Foam blasted, drenching his cufflinks and signet ring. He tilted his head back, drank straight from the stream, and roared in triumph.
To treat me like you do…
The lights stuttered. Music warped, slowing to a crawl.
But if it wasn’t for your misfortune…
A low voice reverberated from the dark, half-French, accented in a way they’d heard before but couldn’t quite place. “Il y en a toujours un.”
The voice lingered, “The New World is far from the birthplace of this delightful elixir, but it would do you well to respect it next time.”
Christopher smirked, dropped the spout, and slow clapped, “What a show. Wonderful!” He grabbed inside his pocket, “Here’s your tip,” he sneered, flinging a stack of hundreds. “All Benjamins, baby. Now fill up my glass.”
He spun around, cursing as he brushed at froth clinging to his sleeves. It had soaked his socks, seeped into his pockets, and ruined the pack of cigarettes he slapped against his palm. The curses grew sharper, more frantic, as the foam climbed higher, swallowing his words. In another blink, he was gone. Only silence remained, broken by the faint tick of a golden Rolex on the counter.
The neon flared back to life, and the record lurched slowly back into motion.
I’d be a heavenly person today…
The bartender poured himself a glass, slow and steady.
“Respect the pour,” he said.
Until next time, dear reader.
Enjoy Spooky Season…
I love how you show imagination as something that can haunt us, help us, and humble us all at once. The soccer one hit my inner 12-year-old glory days, and “Loops” felt like you secretly bugged my apartment. And “respect the pour” might be the greatest life lesson hidden in fiction. Really fun bundle. Looking forward to more.