When an American writer dies in France, his scandalously young lover inherits the house, the loot, and a handsome whistle he can use to attract… what, exactly?
Hooray! Our friends at NYC Midnight are back with another contest. The Flash Fiction Challenge gives writers 48 hours to whip out a story no longer than 1,000 words based on an assigned genre, location, and object. Everybody participates in the first two rounds, then winners go on to a third, and finalists compete in a fourth in December. A natural rambler, “short” is already a challenge for me, but I love writing short stuff, and since I was on airplanes for almost 24 of the alloted 48 hours, “short” was a key factor in my ability to participate at all.
My group’s assigned location was A Funeral Procession. Our assigned object was A Dog Whistle. Our assigned genre was Drama, which I was unsure exactly how to interpret. I thought about plays and Meryl Streep movies when I asked myself, What does Drama entail? There’s no yelling in my story and no manipulative family Thanksgiving, but there’s infidelity, grief, and France, so I’m hoping it qualifies. I’m posting what I managed here so I can share this post in the contest’s critique forum, and also cuz I kinda like it and this way I can share it with you!
There had been no tragic accident. No lurid murder trial. No heart-wrenching disease trending on social media. He weighed too much. He drank too much. He worked too hard. The only vegetable I ever saw him eat was eggplant parm; the only exercise he ever got he got in bed. Fifty-eight years old, he died from living. There are worse ways to go. Continue reading