Ah, irony: I’ve spent like half the morning thinking of a long-winded and eternally sunshiny way of saying that two things I’m trying to work on when it comes to my writing are concision and conflict. Not everything that ever happens needs to be rambled on about in a novel, and a happy ending at the end of a long, happy story about happy people can lack a certain punch. My favorite little format, the 100-worder, keeps it simple, but still gives you room to mention his hot body, so everybody wins. I reckon the term Flash Fiction refers to the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it nature of these quick snippets, but fiction can flash the way floods do, too: a few words, a handy journal, and watch out! Next thing you know you got a story comin’ at ya from out of nowhere. So roll up your jeans: here’s this dude in 100 words. I hope you’re having a better Sunday than he is.
He always was lucky. Good grades, never studied; great body, never worked out. One of those guys, you’d say, “I hate you.” Meaning, “I want what you got.” Really meaning, “I want you.” Always been lucky in Vegas, even, which is of course how he got here: falling off a stool in a shitty casino at the state line, dizzy, drunk, and desperate, knowing he’s gonna win it back. If not this hand, the next. Catch up on the rent, Jace would have to come back. Twenty-one, all is forgiven. Twenty-two, he’s fucked. He orders another cocktail. Burps, “Hit me.”