Father and Daughter

Well, I was poking around in my writing the other day, and I found a little project that I wrote this spring. So here it is, a bit of flash fiction using a writing prompt. Now, a common format for the writing prompt is in the form of a first or last sentence. Here's a little bit of fiction I wrote using a prompt like this, the given sentence being the last one.


“Look Daddy, over here!”
“I’m coming, I’m coming!”
I marveled at her speed and determination as my 4-year-old daughter pulled me along the dirt trail by the hand.
“It was over here, Daddy!”
I had been reaching back into the car for my phone when she snatched my hand and began tugging with an urgency like I’d never seen before.
“Hurry, Daddy, Hurry or we’ll miss it!” So, guided by those chubby little hands with ever-lengthening fingers I trailed along behind, feeling like a dog pulled with a hurry down the sidewalk.
Branches jumped and rolled as her feet brushed them. They snapped under my feet. The air gathered close as we moved into a glade, the trail sweeping left and cutting right, only to wind to the left again. Suddenly she stopped. I tried not to trip over her.
“What is it sweetie?” But she didn’t answer. Quietly, almost reverently, she walked slowly to off one side of the path, looking into the woods. I was panting, my breath coming in little bursts. Without a word, my daughter spun around and ran back towards the park.
“Where are you going?” she stopped and turned to look at me.
“It’s OK Daddy, I don’t think he’ll mind.” Then she sprinted away. It occurred to me to ask who ‘he’ is and why he would mind... mind what? With a look to my feet, I shook my head and laughed a little to myself. Whenever I look at my feet I’m reminded that they’re where they should be, so something’s going right. Laura’s were at the car, so our daughter would be fine. As I turned to head back down the path I looked up. And that’s when I saw the fox.

Flash Fiction - Lonely Man

Lonely Man


                “Well I guess I’ll join the party” said the lonely man in the crowded room. The walls listened at his back and side. The room stank of some cheap Hawaiian-scented air freshener. It clearly had been applied with a heavy hand and a guilty conscience.
                “Squeezing through” should not be a literal term. But there were clearly some who loved the atmosphere. At the moment his arms were free to move about him without apology, so he had no cares for either side.
                His tipping point was usually a reminder to a friend that some waitresses worked for less than minimum wage. To sit a dance out was one thing. To linger in a dark corner for a half hour would soon bring the label of ‘stalker’. So the lonely man in the crowded room decided to join the party.

The Boy and the Train Station

                I sat on the subway bench, waiting for my train to come. The air was dense; the darkness in the tunnels lent itself to the thickness of the air. I had a paper with me, but I didn’t bother reading it. Anything important I wanted to know I’d seen already on the news station.

                I sighed, shifting in my seat. As I glanced to my left a smile played on my lips. There was a little boy, no older than 6 years old, sitting on the bench about six feet from me. A floppy, stuffed dog was beside him. From its looks it must have belonged to a parent before being passed to him. But the boy’s hand now held my interest, as well as his.
                I couldn’t tell what the boy was doing. He was frozen, looking down at his hand with droopy eyelids. His hand was in a very loose fist, raised just to shoulder level. His index finger was raised, and his thumb curled neatly beneath to meet his other three fingers.
                If the boy was trying to point to something, I didn’t know what, as his finger was curled. He turned and looked at me. I made eye contact and gave a little smile. The boy’s expression didn’t change much, but his eyes glanced over me. His solemn little face then turned its attention back to the finger.

                A subway roared past on the opposite track. The boy paid no mind. Slowly he arched his neck forward a little, bringing his head a bit closer to his hand. I still couldn’t tell what the boy was doing. Suddenly the boy’s little red tongue darted out. It hit his finger just as his mother turned around. I instantly turned, unfolding my paper, but I kept an eye loose as I listened to the mother loudly scold the little boy. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, gathered his stuffed dog and took his mother’s hand.