Flash Fiction

Do you guys know what flash fiction, or micro fiction, is? It’s stories that don’t span longer than approximately 300 words. It may sound easy, but to convey a whole story in such a small space is so much harder than you think. It has to be a tiny glimpse into a world, encapsulated in a single moment. I’ve had this post sitting in my drafts for a while now. I’ve been scared to do it. Daily Post definitely gave me a challenge. I have another idea floating around, courtesy of the Daily Post guys, but that one’s going to take some planning. I have to walk a very thin line to do it right. Not sure how to do that yet.

Anyway, I wrote this flash fiction a little while ago. It won’t take long to read, so I hope you guys enjoy it!!

His hands cupped her face as he kissed her. She sank into the kiss like she was sinking into quicksand. Her arms wrapped around his neck and he lifted her off her feet; a lifeline. He twirled her around, creating a chiffon and cotton cyclone out of her skirts and her jacket.  His lips moved from hers to the air above her cheek as he laughed, a deep, unabashed laugh that was somehow even sexier than kissing him. The puffs of breath that brushed her face smelt warm and earthy, like the wine they’d been drinking. She started to laugh too, giggling and spinning until she was out of breath. She clasped her hands behind his head, wondering at the way that the light refracting from the new diamond on her left hand sparked his blonde curls to copper, bronze, and gold. Their laughter faded to grins as he placed her back down on solid ground and kissed her once more; a quick peck on the nose.

The moment was shattered by the discordant ringing of the phone. I turned off the TV and hauled myself off the couch, tripping on my ratty ugg boots and even rattier blanket as I went.

So, guys, what do you think?



About Bec Graham

Bec Graham, 24, was born on the wrong continent. Everything from her burns-like-paper skin tone to her inability to cope with the slightest hint of a hot day suggests she should have been born under the gloomy skies and mild sun of the UK. She hopes writing will get her to her rightful home one day. Failing that, she scans the skies for a spinning blue police box, hoping to catch a lift back to the motherland.
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