Over the weekend, I asked people on Twitter and Facebook for random writing prompts. From those, I wrote seven micro and flash fiction stories. I’ll be posting them here over the next week.
The first is courtesy of Paul Michael Anderson, who suggested a story with an orphan and an old man, using the Christ story. All in a flash length piece of fiction. (No pressure, right?) That idea resulted in 1165 words — the top of what’s usually considered “flash” — posted below.
Visitation of Irba
“It’s hot,” the boy said, pulling at the sweat-damp fabric of his shirt with his slender fingers. “I don’t like it out here.” He sighed then, a long breath that seemed to pull his whole body down as he exhaled. “It’s been all day already,” Dominik said. “It’s my birthday,” he added hopefully.
“Of course it is, little bunny. That’s why we’re here.”
Dominik looked around. “The sun is setting.”
“I’m sorry,” the old man said. “I thought it would be sooner, but we need to wait for it to happen.” He opened a pocket on his faded grey jacket. “I have saved this for you,” he said as he handed over an orange lollipop, still in a wrapper. “It is the last one, so take your time.”
“The last one ever, Grandpa?”
“Maybe,” the man said. “I hope not. Orange is my favorite flavor.”
“Mine, too.” Dominik unwrapped it carefully, handing over the torn plastic. His grandfather tucked the wrapper into his pocket, hand trembling slightly.
“Tell me about that one,” Dominik said, pointing at his grandfather’s chest before plopping the candy into his mouth. A faint breeze kicked up dust at their feet.
“It’s when they made me a general.”
“And that one?” Dominik asked around a mouthful of lollipop, pointing at a different medal.
“That was for living.”
“You get a medal for living?”
“You do when you’re the only one,” his grandfather said quietly. After a moment of silence, he added, “It was for Volgograd. For the battles.”
“I remember that one. The smoke blacked out the sun.”
“Volgograd was lost before you were born. You’re thinking of when Leninsk fell.”
The air stilled, hot and dry.
After a while, Dominik took the lollipop stick from his mouth, slightly chewed. He rolled it between his fingers, back and forth. The old man took a worn handkerchief from his pants pocket and dabbed at his brow, watching the child, but saying nothing. Eventually, Dominik put his hand out, holding the stick above the hardened dirt. He looked at his grandfather.
“Why does it matter if we drop our trash?” Dominik asked, not for the first time. He hadn’t let go of the stick, though.
“You know why.” Dominik didn’t speak. “Fine,” the man said, “you will hear it again. We’ve destroyed enough of this world. The cities are gone. Even villages like what used to be here, are gone. Your parents – my daughter Marya – all gone.” The man coughed, a tiny sound, quickly muffled when he put the handkerchief to his mouth.
When he took it away, Dominik could see spots of red on it. “I’m sorry, Grandfather,” he said. He put the lollipop stick into the pocket of his shorts, and made a show of patting his pocket. “There. It won’t fall out.” He smiled, the first time in hours.
“I need you to be a good boy,” the man said, “because I was not.” He picked up the bottle at his feet, and shook it. Only a little water remained, sloshing around the bottom.
Dominik looked at the bottle thirstily, but didn’t reach for it. Instead, he asked, “Will you tell me a story? From when you were my age?”
The man placed the bottle into Dominik’s hands, gently pushing it toward him. As the boy gulped down the last of the water, a distant rumble grew closer. The ground trembled beneath their feet, and then stopped. Dominik looked all around in a panic, but his grandfather put a hand on his shoulder.
“When I was exactly your age,” he said, “I lived in the village this used to be. We called it Irba. The stone we sit on used to be the wall of the church where I was baptized.” He coughed again – Dominik grabbed his arm, but his grandfather gently waved him off. “I am fine, little bunny. Everything will be good again soon.” But he looked older than he had that morning, and in the places where he wasn’t red from the sun, his skin was gray.
“I was a happy child,” the man continued. “I loved being here with my mother. Her name was Marya, too.”
Dominik made a face. “I don’t remember her.”
“My mother died before you were born.”
“No,” Dominik said quietly. “I don’t remember my mother. Maybe, but I’m not sure.”
The old man took the child into his arms then, holding him stiffly, without saying anything for several minutes. When he spoke, his voice cracked.
“My father died before I was born, so all of my early happiness was due to my mother. She was a saint, and she loved me. But when she married my step-father, Josef, all of my days were joy. He loved us both, and made certain we knew it.”
Something black streaked overhead, falling impossibly fast at the earth before them, trailing smoke. It crashed, throwing up debris and noise and a hot wind that rushed through the scraggly trees and blew dust into their faces. Dominik cried out, and buried his face in his grandfather’s jacket.
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” the man said softly. “It’s far away. Now listen, quick, listen – the day is almost over, so it’s going to happen soon, the reason we’re here.” He coughed, hard, then continued. “When I was exactly your age, an angel came to me. An angel, Dominik! It was glorious.”
The boy looked up, tears making his dirty face. “Here?”
“Yes, right here. This exact spot. It came to me and offered me a path to heaven. A chance to be righteous and good, to heal the world.” The old man, older now, older than Dominik had ever seen him, his eyes wet, stared directly out in front of them. “I was foolish, though. I wanted to be a carpenter like my step-father. I didn’t want my mother to see me as anything but her little boy. I said no.
“I said no, and the world died.”
Dominik jumped up suddenly, pointing at a distant figure at the edge of the treeline, too far away to make out. “Who is that?”
His grandfather squinted. “I do not know. It doesn’t matter, the sun is setting, look!” Dominik could see the sky had become orange, the color of dusk, the color of candy. “It will be any moment now, Dominik, please!” The old man grabbed the child by the shoulders, turning him around.
In the distance, the one figure had become many.
“You can say yes. You can be better than I was.”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
“You won’t. You won’t! I will always be with you. But you can fix all of this. You can save us.”
The boy was crying hard now. Far away, the figures could be heard shouting, indistinguishable sounds growing closer.
“The angel will come. Don’t be scared. Any moment now, the angel will come.”
Dominik nodded. “Because it’s my birthday, right grandfather?”
The old man hugged him tight.
Want to write like this? Take my online flash fiction workshop, beginning September 2! Registration is now open — read more and sign up here.