Three doors, three stories
I got a bit carried away in this week’s prompt to the Friday Fictioneers and wrote three stories of flash fiction. I knocked, and inspiration answered. Some weeks are like that, I guess. Thanks go to Rochelle for being the hostess with the mostest for opening the door to the rowdy group of writers bringing their dishes to the pot luck dinner. For more stories on this prompt, click here.
The front door slammed. Thuds echoed off the walls like an explosive gong. Gong. Gone. Lacy was gone. Only his thudding heartbeat in the room instead of a pair. A weight of finality this time. Maybe that was being melodramatic, maybe not. An echo of a friend-turned-therapist’s advice: When one door shuts, another opens. Bernard opened the same door, saw a hole where her car had been for years, and dreamed his yard flashed into a piazza, white sky against dark gray buildings, kids scurrying criss-cross, pigeons with bobbing heads, his unfinished manuscript clutched by his side. He started packing.
— Who is it?
— It’s us.
— Anyone else?
— No, just us.
— Are you sure?
— Of course we’re sure. We weren’t followed.
— You can’t be completely sure. The organization’s very sneaky. They’re shadows among shadows.
— How poetic. C’mon, let us in already.
— I’m sorry, I can’t. You guys are too hazardous right now. I’ve got myself to worry about.
— You’re kidding, right?
— Fine. Have it your way. But you’re gonna be sorry.
— Too late for that. I’ve been sorry for years for getting involved in this mess.
Opportunity Knocked, Confusion Answered
“I’ve gotta ask: What’s with the doors, man?” Sage, the drummer, asked.
Pax, the bassist, shrugged and said, “Something about Blake and perception, stuff like that. Go ask the director. He lost me most of the time he was describing the whole thing.”
“William Blake? Huh? It’s more like Mondrian and Magritte go picnicking in the countryside. I just don’t get it. Our song’s about picking up chicks in Georgia. What the hell are doors doing in the video?”
“Ah, just go with the flow, man.”
“It’s hard to when I don’t understand the river we’re floating in.”