The beginnings to short stories 6-10

Based on the “How to Write Flash Fiction That Doesn’t Suck” model I started on Wednesday, I’ve written the beginnings to 5 more short stories. Let me know which ones you’d be most interested to continue reading. The middles happen during week 2 and the ends happen during week 3! The beginnings to Story 1 through Story 5 are included in my review of the “How to Write Flash Fiction that Doesn’t Suck” post.

Story 6:
My wife loves tiny things. She loves kittens, puppies, guppies, and babies. When I proposed to her, I bought a1.5 carat diamond solitaire, and we had to take it back for a tiny sapphire heart set between two miniscule dolphins. When she said she wanted another baby, and another, and couldn’t we adopt the newborn twins she heard about at the hospital, I said yes and our family grew huge, one (or two) tiny babies at a time. I made plenty of money, and I never envisioned that I’d have trouble supporting 5 or 7 or 9 kids. I’d never make less… let alone none at all.

Story 7:
14 rows. 8 gates in each row. 1 dog in every cage is 112 dogs. This one has 2 dogs. 113 dogs. Empty. Empty. Empty. 3 dogs here. Empty. 111 dogs. Perfect number, 111. Loud. Loud. Silent. Loud. Don’t like black ones. Blue eyes belong on humans, not dogs. This one. He talks in dog talk. Not loud, just talking.
The gate is in the way. Ugh! Gate won’t move. This one. Dog talker.
“Would you like to see this one, Jack?”
The gate is open. “Aoouuuwwww. Aoouuwwwooww.” I talk in dog talk, too. We are dog talkers.
“What are you saying, Jack? Are you talking to the dog?”
“This is Bit. You are not a dog talker like Bit, like me.”
“Alright, Jack. Let’s go look at the other dogs. Maybe you will like another one.”
“No. I will talk with Bit. Not loud ones.”

Story 8:
Dodge. Right jab. Right jab. Left hook. Right jab.
My fists should be large and imposing walls of meat and bone at the end of arms thick with muscle and strength. Looking down, these pathetic appendages could nearly pass for the feet of a canary.
Just once, though, I’d like to feel the violence flow through my blood, the joy and the accomplishment of a well-executed hit. My adversary will reel backwards, before regaining his footing and returning the hit. My jaw will be like the rock that breaks ships, unexpected, unmoving, and unforgiving. They will call me The Hulk. The Rock. The Mountain. I will be strong and violent, unmoved.

Story 9:
The sun mocks me low on the horizon this night, just as it has every night since June 9. Blackout curtains. Sleep masks. Sleeping pills. One artificial night after another. Each a poor substitute for the true night, when the warming sun falls away to blackness dotted with billions of stars that give contrast to the dark. I should move to the equator, where even at the height of the solstice, there is still a true night.
A sandy beach, warmed by the sinking sun. A sun that will sink and sink and sink, turning the blue sky orange, purple, and finally black. I’ll find a warm spot, away from noise and traffic and buildings. No blackout curtains or sleeping masks. Just my thin soul and the sinking sun. I will lay down, wiggle my body until the sand cups me perfectly, and then I will sleep.

Story 10:
They held hands, stealing glances with one another as they ordered coffees in the late morning. That should be me. I should be with that handsome man. I bet his name is Timothy, but only I call him Timmy. But Tammy, that wretched beast, she stole him from me before he even knew what waited for him. Well, I’ll show her. That’s right, Tammy… Enjoy holding his hand because by the end of the day, I’ll have the life I always deserved. I don’t know how you stole it from me, maybe the government helped you or maybe you found a time machine, but I will stop at nothing. Timmy won’t even remember you by the time I’m through with you.

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