Category: Flash Fiction

• January 13, 2016

  Lucky Numbers

  

  The man and the woman sit on their futon, watching the lottery results. A ticket rests on the cardboard box that serves as their coffee table for now. They both know the odds of winning are low, but they secretly think they’re special. Everyone casts themselves as the hero of their own story.

  The man will buy a flashy sports car if they win. A Ferrari or a Lamborghini or something equally outrageous. He’ll buy a real coffee table and a penthouse in South Beach. He’ll blow a hundred million on smooth-as-hell tequila and finely tailored suits and still have millions to spare. He will be disgustingly, grotesquely rich. Most importantly, she will quit nagging him to get off his ass and get a new job. He’ll walk up to his old boss, tell him off and then buy the whole chain of lumberyards. And the sawmills that feed them. And the forests. He won’t let anyone log it anymore, not because he’s an environmentalist, but because it will make his ex-boss furious.

  He smiles and watches the numbered balls tumble in their cages. Somewhere in there, he thinks, are his lucky numbers.

  She smiles at him, but she feels like she’s tumbling in that cage. If they win, she’ll call her mother and brother and probably get her nails done. Then, they’ll fight over the money. He’ll want to spend it on luxuries; on parties and clothes. She’ll want to be sensible.

  “Let’s invest,” she imagines herself saying. “Let’s give some to charity. Or go back to school. Let’s think about the future.”

  And she imagines him buying her a diamond necklace just to redirect the conversation while he guzzles Dom Perignon because he can. She imagines their winnings in cash piled into a high, impenetrable wall between them.

  She imagines herself leaving before the debt collectors start hounding him for the reckless spending of his youth. She imagines herself watching from afar as relatives and old friends devour him. She imagines herself in roughly the same place a year from now, on her futon, eating dinner and watching TV alone in front of a cardboard box that serves as a coffee table for now. Until something better comes along. Until fate intervenes.

  That’s what the lottery is, she decides. It’s a desperate hope that fate will intervene and save you from having to save yourself. Maybe if they don’t win, he’ll revise his resume. Maybe she’ll go back to school. Maybe they’ll stay on the futon, watching the lottery drawings.

  She rests her head on his shoulder as the numbers are read. They come slowly. The first number matches. Then the second. His shoulders tense. Her jaw clenches. The rest of the numbered balls line up in a neat little row on the screen. None of the rest match.

  “Damn,” he says.

  She reaches for the remote control to change the channel, saying nothing.

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer in Tacoma, WA. He did not win the largest lottery jackpot in history, but his written work has appeared in Creative Colloquy, which is also pretty cool. You can find him on Twitter.

  You should sign up for his shiny, new mailing list for updates and special content straight to your inbox.
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• March 9, 2015

  Wrong Neighborhood

  He pedaled down the alley. Alone. In the dark of night. A bag of groceries hung from one handlebar. Mostly crackers, jerky, eggs, a bottle of cheap bourbon. Music pumped through his headphones like water to a boiler. The sky above was a wash of pink-tinged clouds laden with snow. A few icy flakes drifted down into the streetlight beams. He pedaled on, undaunted by the cold. Every few revolutions he would sit up and shadow box, punching and jabbing the air as he coasted.

  He was a cycling Muhammad Ali, going seven rounds with Sonny Liston. One left jab, two right jabs. One, one two. One, one two. He crossed a street where earlier he’d seen another black man rummaging through a house’s garbage can. Poor brother was probably looking for some half eaten food or some newspaper to line his coat with to ward off the bitter cold. It was a damn shame. He punched the air some more.

  He didn’t usually ride through this neighborhood, but now that he was staying with his sister and brother-in-law, he supposed that he would get used to it. It was clean. Gentrified. A generation ago, his parents grew up near here. Now, there was a Starbucks where once there had been a laundromat. A sushi bar where once there had been a sports bar. A yoga studio where a butcher shop once stood.

  He punched the air again. One, one two, but it didn’t feel as good this time. Cycling through this unfamiliar neighborhood made him wish he was back home, downtown with his girl, watching movies and playing video games until the grey twilight of dawn. He pedaled harder through the thickening snow.

  He sat up as he sped through a deserted intersection and made a pistol with the fingers of his left hand. He lined up the mailboxes and pretended to pop each one like it was his own personal first-person shooter game. Music thumped in his ears to the rhythm of a semiautomatic. Bang bang.

  The bullet came without warning. It caught him square in the heart from behind, knocking him over the handle bars. He and the bike skidding for several feet before his body came to a stop under the honeycomb shadow of a chain link fence. He never heard them shout at him. He didn’t have time to register the red and blue flickering light in the corner of his eye.

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer in Tacoma, WA. Feel free to leave a comment with your thoughts below. You can find him on Twitter here.
• April 11, 2014

  City of Destiny

  

  They call it the City of Destiny or the Gritty City. It is a city of contradictions, loved and despised, where 19th century steeples share the skyline with 20th century smokestacks. A blue collar city choked in paper mill chemicals and cleansed by saltwater breezes. A city of potholes and community gardens.

  The second city, overlooked by glistening Seattle to the north, Tacoma is the dark horse. The people drawn here, the people like me, prefer it that way — we fight for the underdog. And yet, in spite of its reputation, I see it throwing off the shackles of its industrial past. I see it reclaiming the abandoned waterfront warehouses; nurturing a fledgling arts community like a flickering flame. I see container ships on the bay waiting their turn to unload the cargo from foreign lands.

  Years ago, it lost the railroad and with it a chance to stand on the stage of the world. For a hundred years, it shed its sweat in obscurity, but now, it calls those of us downtrodden and searching for a second chance. Now, it rises and claims its identity, not as the lesser of two great metropolises but as the place that destiny remembered.

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer, photographer and underdog supporter living in Tacoma, WA. You can follow his gritty Twitter feed @jonnyeberle or leave a comment below. Thanks for reading!
• March 13, 2014

  The River and the Office Building

  

  Here, at the bend in the Green River, the picnic tables sit inches above the rising waterline. The river is gorged with rain, hungrily bursting its banks. Trees that once clung to the fresh earth now seem planted in the swift current. Swallows flit in and out of a thicket of blackberry bushes, building a nest for the heirs to their island realm. It is theirs to claim as it seems humanity has all but deserted this stretch of the riverside. No one has come to collect the garbage; the can only holds a pair of tan jeans anyway.

  Above the river, paying no mind to the river, office buildings stand high and immovable, blocking the view. The river rises slowly day by day. It may swallow the buildings when they’re not looking. No one will think to look for them in the churning water under the thorns of the blackberry bush.

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer in Tacoma, WA who ponders the motivations of rivers. He also tweets a fair bit.
• October 19, 2013

  Misty Mornings on the Puget Sound

  

  Time is frozen in the hills above the Puget Sound. Small particles of water are suspended in the air. A cloud has descended on the city and holds it in its clammy grip. Sounds are close and sharp, but far away sights blend into the wash. You are stalked by people unseen.

  The world is smaller. An entire planet seems squeezed into the space of a city block. The end of the street feels like the end of the universe. It’s beautiful; it’s claustrophobic. You breathe fog into your lungs. Water vapor goes in cold and comes out as hot steam.

  A horn blows on Commencement Bay, which feels so far away it might as well not even exist. You shuffle into the white abyss. You could be the last person on Earth, but you let yourself be swallowed by the hungry fog.

  

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer in Tacoma, WA. A recent immigrant from Arizona, he’s still fascinated by ordinary things like fog and rain and water. You can follow him on Twitter at @jonnyeberle.

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• July 5, 2013

  Flash Fiction: Bootleg

  

  It was late and the waning moon was high in the clouds as the Hearse rolled into town. The truck’s headlights sliced through the fog. Thomas wiped his brow with the red pocket square plucked from his suit jacket. He was close.

  It was just then that a man strode down the center of the road; a swagger wrapped in a sensible trench coat and derby hat. Thomas hit the brakes; the hearse ground to a halt with a rattle of glass. He wondered if he should’ve hit the man.

  Agent O’Hara tapped on the driver’s window. Thomas cracked the door open.

  “A little late for a funeral,” O’Hara said around a lit cigarette that dangled under a wide brown mustache.

  “The Grim Reaper don’t wait ’til sunrise, sir,” Thomas replied. He adjusted the brim of his herringbone newsboy cap. O’Hara scowled.

  “Who’s the stiff?”

  “Mr. Ambrose’s great aunt,” the boy said. “On the level.”

  O’Hara’s eyes searched the carved wooden sides of the truck, as if he could see right through the black velvet curtains and through the pine coffin to the poor, cold corpses of whiskey bottles hidden within.

  For a moment, Thomas thought to reach for the wad of bills inside his jacket pocket, but he’d heard about O’Hara’s work in the surrounding hills — he’d shot up stills and smashed bottles of moonshine with a wild look in his eyes. Perhaps the snub-nose under the seat instead, Thomas thought. Sweat dripped in his eyes.

  “I think the old lady can wait a minute while I have a look around,” O’Hara said.

  O’Hara bent down to inspect the chassis, leaving a ghostly hole in the midnight fog where he’d been standing. Finding nothing, he popped the hood to search for bottles. Then, crossing the path of the headlights and throwing a glare at Thomas, the Prohibition agent went to the back of the hearse and opened the rear door.

  Thomas leaped from the driver’s seat and ran to the back of the truck and stood in the doorway.

  “What’s the big idea?” he demanded, his cowardice masquerading as courage.

  The back was empty, except for the coffin. O’Hara stood over it, his hands suspended above it, as if frozen on the way to throw open the lid.

  “You tell me there’s a dead old broad in here?” O’Hara asked quietly.

  “As old and as dead as they come,” Thomas said with a nod. His breath came quickly.

  “And if I open this casket, I won’t find any booze?”

  “You open that, that’s discrimination!” the boy hissed.

  “Desecration,” O’Hara corrected him.

  “You wouldn’t.” Thomas crossed his arms.

  “I would,” O’Hara said sternly. “And I’d arrest anyone transporting liquor. Even my own nephew.”

  The two men were silent. The law had split many families. Some saw duty, others saw opportunity. Theirs was no different than hundreds of others who disagreed on the Volstead Act.

  “No need for that, I hope,” O’Hara said. He raised his eyebrows, asking the question. Thomas fumed for a moment. He wanted to throw a punch, wished he’d grabbed the snub-nose and then was glad he’d left it behind. Finally, he shook his head.

  O’Hara climbed out of the Hearse. Handcuffs flashed on his belt in the moonlight. He placed his hand on Thomas’ shoulder.

  “Don’t keep Mr. Ambrose waiting,” he said to the boy in a voice so low it growled. He watched Thomas climb back into the cab. He shook his head as the Hearse growled its way down the street.

  Thomas tried to calm his racing pulse as he drove off into the nighttime fog. In the back, the bottles clinked every time the Hearse hit a bump.

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer and history buff living in Flagstaff, AZ. Please feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments and follow him on Twitter: @jonnyeberle.

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• April 12, 2013

  Flash Fiction Friday: Running Away

  

  Rick didn’t start panicking until he was 40 miles away from Flagstaff. He was now 20 minutes late for work and driving 80 miles per hour in the opposite direction. He intended to go to into the office as usual, but the moment he got behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition; felt the horsepower at his command, he felt the overwhelming need to run away.

  Without thinking, without calling, he got on the interstate east. He never left the fast lane. His ailing Jeep Cherokee coughed and struggled to maintain speed. In the rear view mirror, the San Francisco Peaks rose out of the flat desert to be shrouded by boiling monsoon storm clouds.

  “Take It Easy” came on the radio as the first fat drops pelted the windshield. 15 miles to Winslow. Still, he kept running. He ran from the phone calls, the emails, the calendar reminders, the meetings, the endless work hours that dogged him from the office to his apartment and back.

  The engine warning light blinked on and the oil temperature gauge spiked. Rick turned the A/C off to vent the excess heat, but he was losing power. Hot air swirled around his head.

  He pulled into the slow lane and semis began to overtake him. Finally, he turned off onto the narrow, dusty shoulder, but only when steam began to rise off the hood with every raindrop. The Jeep ground to a stop.

  Rick got out of the car and stood on the edge of the highway. Cold summer rain pelted his sweat-stained dress shirt and trucks kicked up long plumes of water, but he was unfazed. No one could reach him here, 10 miles from Winslow. The black clouds over the Peaks looked like a rising apocalypse to him. But to the east, beyond Holbrook and the Petrified Forest, blue skis beckoned.

  He popped the hood and let the rain calm the engine’s fire while he sat on a rock, listening to the static hiss of the radio and watching the clouds drift.

  — 30 —

  I’m a writer and photographer in Flagstaff, AZ. You can follow my exploits on the Twitter machine at @jonnyeberle. Please feel free to leave a comment. Have you ever wanted to run away?

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• February 12, 2013

  Flash Fiction: Year of the Snake

  

  Cameron wipes down the stove top. The sponge returns with a layer of grease and spaghetti sauce. It’s Chinese New Year, but he’s not Chinese. The Huffington Post told him that it was traditional to cleanse the household to remove remaining bad luck from the previous year and make way for new good luck to occupy the home and it seemed like a good idea.

  Snow falls outside. Silent. Obscures the dark of the new moon. Stir fry soy sauce coagulates on the plate in the sink. He washes that, too, hoping for a fresh start that’s more than metaphorical.

  Wikipedia says that this is the Year of the Snake. He doesn’t know what that means, but he was born in the Year of the Snake three cycles ago, so he thinks it’s significant. Maybe this is his year. That would be a first.

  His father is a Horse, stamping out snakes in the grass. Cameron spends his life slithering into dark corners, unnoticed, dodging hooves. The two don’t talk anymore; it’s better that way. He notices that the grout between the white counter tiles needs cleaning; hopes he won’t attract too much bad luck by ignoring it.

  The dishes are clean and he’s sweeping the floor. The broom bristles probe under the lips of the cabinets, the stove, the refrigerator, until there’s a neat pile of crumbs on the linoleum. He doesn’t know if it will truly bring good luck, but he feels better already. In control for once. Small accomplishments add up.

  He is not Chinese, but he likes the way they think. Or, at least, he likes the way the culture is presented on the screen of his iPad. Valuing family above all else is good in theory, but how could Horses and Snakes live together? Wikipedia can’t tell him, but refers him to an article on Confucius. Huffington Post just wants him to see a cat teleport across a room.

  He scoops the crumbs into the trash, ties off the bag and carries out into the snow. The sharp edges of the world are softened. Small icicle saplings grow in the lid of the garbage can.

  Cameron taps his feet against the door frame to knock off the snow as he steps back inside the house. His cell phone, resting on the kitchen counter, rings.

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer and snow shoveler in Flagstaff, AZ. He blogs here and tweets here and would love it if you followed him. If you do, he’ll try to resist the urge to tweet pictures of his lunch (but he isn’t promising anything).

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• December 11, 2012

  View from the Bottom of a Glass

  

  The room is crowded with conversation. Laughter expands; presses on the walls and windows that strain to hold it in. Whispered secrets form the fog that floats on the tile floor. Everyone steals a glance at new figures in the door. Each face scanned slyly in search of a missing lover.

  There are no people on the barstools, their thirsty wolf eyes stalking bartenders. Not tonight. No one sits still long enough to be observed. The whole is motion. Glasses are drained by trailing wisps of light. The bodies are carried forward by the momentum of the dark, the music, the alcohol. They press together, fly apart, repeat. Relationships drift in under shared gravity and crumble into stardust only to form again with a familiar stranger.

  You and I watch.

  — 30 —

  I’m a writer, photographer and filmmaker in Flagstaff and I love people watching. If you liked this, please like, comment, share or follow me on Twitter: @jonnyeberle.

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• October 27, 2012

  Flash Fiction: Roasting Chiles

  

  Heat ripples through the air. Ash is carried on the breeze, where it tumbles off like fall leaves. The barrel rolls over hot coals and inside the cage, bright green New Mexican hatch chiles char slowly. Their flesh blackens, toughens. Spice stings my nostrils and lingers around my head. Steamy Ziploc bags. Five dollars a piece for the last smoky taste of summer.

  A woman buys two bags. She unzips them in her car and breathes chile to remind her of what she left behind on a dirt road so long ago.

  — 30 —

  Please let me know what you think in the comments and follow me on the Twitter machine: @jonnyeberle.