So, I wrote a flash fiction yesterday and it’s either the greatest thing ever or complete shit. Or both–you can never be too sure with these things, you know. Here it is:
Listening to noir on the radio; the redstoplights hit him like arrows in the darkness. He had counted and, yes, they were arrows. 41 in a 42-light town, he said to himself, his voice resonating with a timid anguish. The odds were in his favour, he decided; or if not the odds, then at least the Universe. The Universal Laws of Universality (he once read in a book) dictated that everything balanced out in the end, and so it was only natural to assume that the last redstoplight be a greengolight, for his sake if not for nobody else’s. But when he came upon the light it was as red as the lasts, and he said, no, this can’t be the case, and he willed it American, but Communism falls too boldly these days. But yield it would not, nor go but stop and now it was too late to U-turn and he was feverishly ramming and romping into the side of a shitbrown Karmen Ghia. This was the last of our runny reggie.
So, what’d you all think? And remember, this is your chance to vent out all your pent-up frustration at me, third grade math teacher Susan Adams, so don’t hesitate to unabashedly criticise my work. Just remember: It’s not my fault if that damned dog of yours turns up in a southside swimming pool painted blue with crab blood.