Flash fiction Wednesdays | A Good Day for Driving

Introducing a new weekly feature

Flash Fiction Wednesdays

Every Wednesday, I’m going to post (erm, try to post) a 300 word story. Why 300 words? When I started writing flash fiction (aka, micro-fiction), 300 words was my editor’s limit. I came to appreciate the extreme limit for the discipline it required. I aim to never exceed 300 words and to avoid dipping beneath 290 words.

The other restriction—one true of all of Brokengirl.info is that I can’t use words that Jinxx wouldn’t approve of. So not only is the worst word ever! excluded, but anything remotely close to swearing. This, I should note, is not my normal flash fiction style. I tend towards dark when I write short. But Jinxx is Jinxx and she wouldn’t stand for naughty words, not one bit!

A Good Day for Driving

Janie’s father looks into the viewfinder and points to the monument stabbing up from the desert. “Lisa, why don’t you and Janie get up there so I can get a picture of you two cuties?”

Janie’s mother prances up to the monument, and turns to smile at Janie’s father. Janie walks slowly, disinterested, while looking at a bird searching for prey.

Janie’s brother is walking backward, behind her father, towards the road. The pebbles crunch under his feet. It sounds neat. He aligns his feet precisely, heel-toe, heel-toe.

Janie’s mother flirts with Janie’s father, flipping her skirt around and softly singing. “Oh, come on, honey, join me. It’ll be fun.”

Janie stands next to her mother, looking at the sky and the desert. Snap. Snap. Her father gives them directions. Janie ignores his prompting, standing passively. She looks at the sky, and then towards her brother, who is moving backwards past the car and toward the highway. A car speeds by.

“Yeah, smile.” Snap.

“Show me some leg.” Snap. Snap.

“Janie, blow a kiss at the camera.”

Her mother flips her skirt up, a la Marilyn Monroe.

Janie watches the bird dive, falling faster and faster. Just before it strikes a cactus, it fluffs its wings out. It has a critter. Janie looks at her brother. His shirt is stained with the soda he spit up laughing in the car. The car still stinks thanks to him. He’s playing his stupid backwards game.

The pebbles are pretty. Heel-toe, heel-toe.

“Come on Janie, just smile for me, please?”

A car goes by, followed by another. Her father circles the monument, closing in on her giggling mother. Snap. Snap. Snap. “Come on Janie, you’re so pretty. Just smile for mom and me.

Heel-toe, heel-toe.  A pretty yellow line.

A car speeds along.

These entries are unrelated to The Forty-seven Words of the Broken Girl. They are copywrite 2012 by London Crockett and may not be reproduced without permission.

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