50 Word Fiction

After reading David Rochester’s blog and being totally bowled over by some of his 50 word fiction pieces, I’ve decided to give them a go again. They’re damn good practice for only writing what needs to be written. Very simple concept: try and contain a story (character, setting, plot) within 50 words (as opposed to just busting out a snippet of a scene).

I’m going to be doing these pretty regularly. Any feedback you have is massively appreciated. Just to allay any confusion, these are completely unrelated.

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They say there are complications. They look at him like he’s dirty and touch him with gloved hands. He didn’t ask for this. He hates them. Nobody answers his questions. Is he an animal to them?
They need to learn to respect. He knows a guy who knows a guy.

Closing time. Kate lifts the dirty saucer and there it is. Cold plastic. The raised lettering feels alien under her fingers. Hologram twinkles in the café lights. Mastercard.
She glances around as she palms it, slips it into her apron pocket. Heart tight as a drum. Nobody sees. She hopes.

“Will you kill him?”
“Yeah,” I say. It’s a bluff. I don’t even know how to load the thing.
Weber wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You should make him beg.”
“Yeah.” The gun shakes in my grip. This is stupid. It was only a grand. “Yeah.”

She sees the spark jump from socket to finger and has time enough to feel fear. The stepladder tips over. Her head slaps the floor with a hollow sound.
People crowd around. They’re blocking the light. Her lungs hitch and burn. I’m drowning in air, she realises. That’s not fair.

Linda watches him replace the book on the shelf. His knuckles are hairy. He smiles a perfect smile and looks into her eyes like he knows her.
It’s just like the movies.
That night she lays her glasses on the bedside table and reaches down under the covers and imagines.

Old bones. Old eyes. It’s hard to watch the road. Things blur by so fast. The headlights catch cat’s eyes. At night, the road is a landing strip.
Seventy years of dying slowly. He can’t walk up stairs, but he can slam the accelerator. His hands come off the wheel.

She imagines she can feel the cold through her suit, but she can’t. All in the head. The sun breaks over distant mountains. It looks different in this atmosphere. Crisper.
She takes the first step. Red dust drifts slowly around her boots. The prints will remain after she is dead.

The customer in the blue suit thrusts a knife at John’s face. He squeals and twists away. The man’s eyes are calm. Light catches the blade. “All the money. Now.”
He opens the register and hands the cash over. As the man runs out John realises he has an erection.

Sirens. He looks out the window. The street below is smothered in shadow. He looks up. His pants fill with hot urine.
The sky is blocked by rippling metal. Lights. Hatches and vents and portholes. The floor is humming through his shoes. “Too soon,” he says, and everything goes white.

It has been so long, sitting in the darkness. Months. The manacles chafe. She can’t remember her name anymore.
Something squeals in the basement. Echoes hurt. There is no light. The door is locked and sealed. Nothing gets out. The concrete is so cold.
When will he just kill her?