A selection of short and flash fiction, curated by the team here at Ubiquitous Books.
We’re leaning against Mom’s forest green Toyota Corolla in the parking lot of my school waiting for the police to come.
And even though Brother Big Shot was the one behind the wheel when the back of our car knocked the side view mirror off a parked car, this is somehow my fault.
The owner of the parked car also happens to be my favorite 5th grade helper, Miss Henry. She is tapping her foot on the sidewalk. Her long legs must need to get somewhere fast. I feel bad that Josh has stopped her from leaving school on time.
Soliloquy of Swords
It was the Annual Festival of the Bard, a day made for merriment.
Under a muted grey sky, the young and old lounged on blankets and lawn chairs surrounding the stage, where star-crossed teenage thespians enacted a scene from Romeo and Juliet. Revelers cheered as they raised their goblets in a toast to life and love, seemingly oblivious to the approaching storm clouds that shifted in shape and texture like wafting smoke.
They came for me at midnight. Of course they did, not an original bone between them. I wish I could say I'd known they'd come, or that I was brave when it happened. I rewrite that night sometimes; picture them busting in to find me sitting Yoda-style on my bunk, staring them down cool as the proverbial. Not that they'd know what a cucumber is. Didn't go down like that though. Didn't go down like that at all.
Flower of the Sea
Today is the fifteenth day in November, year of our Lord fifteen hundred and eleven. It is the twenty-second day of our return to Portugal aboard the Flor de la Mar, riding low in the water with proof of our victory at Malacca. As ever, I, Luis Sarmento, keep this diary though I am nothing more than a cook. For one day I will be a Captain and when that day comes I will have had such practice as to keep the best logs of any who now sail the India run seeking wealth for our King Manuel I, The Fortunate, of the house of Aviz.
Riverside at night
The lady is sitting on her usual bench; the one beneath the streetlamp, where the path curves closest to the view over the river. Tonight she wears a red fedora the gentleman has always liked. Its brim is tipped up on one side and down on the other, casting half her face in shadow, but the lamplight finds her hair beneath it. The same rippled silver as the full moon swimming in the Hudson.