Purple Prose
There's no room for purple prose in lean and mean flash fiction. The prose below is far from purple, but the inspiration for it? Very colorful. Each year, to much anticipation and fanfare, the color gurus at Pantone declare a color of the year. The color for 2014 shall be (drum roll...)
Radiant Orchid. I asked any of my Facebook friends who were inspired by this grand announcement to share some flash fic with all of us. Enjoy!
Cushion Conundrum
A Double Drabble by Sara Ball
"…if we move the telly into that corner, we can get a longer sofa along this wall," Artie said.
"Mmm?" Callum answered, distractedly.
"And these cushions are lovely. All big and fluffy. What do you think?"
Callum thought he'd have to look up the footy scores on the internet later. He sighed and turned his head away from the tv to see what Artie was looking at.
Cushions. Some plain, some patterned. Grey, turquoise, green or—
"Pink," he blurted out.
Artie looked at him with pity. "No, hun, it's a blend of purple and pink, called radiant orchid. It's the 'in' colour for 2014. Isn't it gorgeous?"
Callum knew the correct answer was yes, but couldn't bring himself to say it. He chewed his bottom lip while Artie waited.
"Pink cushions?" he said at last, shaking his head. "No. Not happening."
"Honeyyyyyy—"
"And why do we need another sofa?" Callum asked. "This one's plenty long enough."
"Not for laying down on."
"Really?" Callum eyed the sofa they were both sitting on and pounced on his man. Artie squealed and wriggled underneath him.
"You're right about the sofa," Callum conceded, running his hands down Artie's body. "Now…. about the cushions."
Help!
A Flash Fic by Glenn Riley
Hello you’ve reached the Pantone customer help line. Please hold while you call is transferred.
What the hell?
Hello, this is Dot how can I help you?
Wait, isn’t this the rescue line?
Oh no honey you want 800-suicide but you dialed 800-suecide. It happens all the time.
Oh, I’m sorry Ma’am.
Don’t worry about it darling I can transfer you. Hang on now. Have a good day.
Let the Chips Fall Where they May
A PsyCop Flash Fic by Jordan Castillo Price
In the cannery, there’s a certain division of labor. I shovel the snow and Jacob mows the lawn. He cooks the meals and I do the dishes. I pick up the laundry from all the recesses into which he’s strewn it, and he takes it down to the basement and washes it. We’re a well-oiled machine, at least until a task emerges that’s got both of us stumped.
We stood in the home center a healthy distance from the wall of paint chips where every color known to man was arrayed, square by square, to form an undulating, gradiating rainbow.
“The countertop is butcher block,” Jacob ventured, “so it should go with anything.”
“Stupid backsplash. I wish that tile hadn’t broken against the faucet. I could’ve just glued it back on.”
“It probably would’ve popped back off…look, I’ll paint the thing. I just don’t want you complaining about the color.”
“Complain? Me?” I eased up to the paint chips, crafty and slow, so they didn’t swarm me and leave me bleeding out on the concrete floor from ten thousand shallow paper cuts. “You’ve obviously confused me with someone who gives a damn about backsplashes.” I grabbed a strip of beiges and glanced at the colors. “Blanched Almond. Summer Muslin.” I snorted back a laugh. “Alpaca.”
“No. And I don’t even care what it looks like. Just no.”
“Aren’t you good at this stuff?” I asked. “Your old place looked pretty spiffy.”
“I hired a decorator.”
“Oh.” Nowadays we only let a short list of people into our abode, since you never know when a stranger will come bearing a surveillance device. “Here’s something,” I said. “The color of the year. Radiant Orchid.”
“Shoot me now,” Jacob muttered. “You seriously want a big purple backsplash?”
Not really. “I just figured the ‘experts’ must know something I don’t.”
We continued rifling through the varicolored strips, but Jacob glazed over quickly. Once he’d considered and rejected some greens and blues and grays, I said, “Weird that neither of us can pick out a paint. Are you positive we’re gay?”
He cracked a rueful smile. “We’ll have to give it a test run when we get home. Just to make sure.”
Now, there was a idea I could get behind. I trailed my fingertip down the side of his hand, and he shivered. “Just pick something.” His voice sounded a little husky.
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
I grabbed a can from the shelf and did my damnedest to squelch a victory dance. It’d be unseemly to gloat.
“Don’t you need to have it tinted?” Jacob asked.
“Nope.” I gave his ass a surreptitious pat with my free hand as I angled him toward checkout, gazing fondly at the can. My favorite color: Antique White.
If you'd like to share these stories, please link to this newsletter in its entirety.
