Hello readers and fellow bloggers!!
I love challenge of writing short stories. Generally, short stories range from around 1,500 words to 30,000 (with your average novel being around 60,000 to 120,000). I used to think I could only write longer works – that is, until I fell for short fiction.
But is it possible to tell a story in less than 1,500 words? Heck yes. Flash fiction is usually a complete story less than 1,500 words. So I thought to challenge myself even further and write the flashiest of flash fiction – 700 words or less! Let’s see how this goes.
Tbh, this is definitely inspired by a conversation I had the immense pleasure of overhearing.
Happy Friday & enjoy Xx
Three young men order their drinks at the bar: two manhattans and a whisky over ice.
Their conversation slips in and out of the low music like the snippets of an old record player. The young man on the end nudges the other in the middle with his shoulder and chuckles. “We never know how many you’ve got on the rocks.”
The young man in the middle smiles slyly, lifting up his whisky and says, “I’ve got enough room in my glass for one more.”
The bar is empty and for a Thursday night, meaning their pickings would be slim but the air is thick with smoke, booze, and desperation. The barstool shifts unevenly under his weight as he scans the room. The third young man points across the bar with his chin. “What about that one?”
The woman is so beautiful that, for a moment, the young man in the middle curses himself for missing her in the first place. Light hair, smooth skin, dark lashes – this woman had starred in his best dreams. As if she could feel them staring, she looks up and smiles politely. With a look at his friends, he downs the rest of his drink in one swallow. He scrapes his stool across the floor as he stands, confidently sauntering the few steps around the bar. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his friends lean forward.
“One more drink for the lovely lady.”
The woman looks up and blushes prettily as the bartender passes him the drink without looking. The young man puts on his best smile, the crooked one he knows girls like her can’t resist. He slides it over with one hand, pushing his hair back with the other, the ice clinking cooly against the glass.
“Sorry,” she says, standing and paying for the drink she had just finished, “but I like my whisky neat.” She shoulders her purse and leaves.
The young man pays for the untouched whisky on the rocks and leaves without tipping. He thinks about asking the management to turn up the music next time.