Another 11th hour effort for a flash fiction contest this week. This time, it was for Janet Reid's contest. We had to incorporate the words
stage
actor
crane
chorus
ghost
in our 100-word effort. I started writing it on the plane home. My first thoughts were having it be about an aging starlet who "didn't stand a ghost of a chance of starring again." I scrapped that idea, and came up with the first two lines. Then contemplating it in bed this morning, I finished "The Great Escape."
A crane swoops down to the lake and
finds his dinner. A chorus of crickets serenades the evening star.
"A penny for your thoughts,"
my wife says.
What should I say? That I'm sad to
think at this stage we've been reduced to ghosts in our children's
lives? That when you factor out the dependent-care years, our
lives are basically over?
"I was thinking I could die happy
here."
"I could, too," she says,
taking my hand, her grip already slightly weaker.
"Another glass of wine?" I
ask, grateful that the Cabernet's peppery flavor masks the bitterness
of the poison.
Let me know what you think.
