Flash Fiction

“I’m sitting at my desk, wondering what to write when there’s a knock at the front door. As I go down and answer it, I’m still not sure what is going to happen. I open the door. There’s an old man there with a parcel. He’s wearing a courier’s uniform, but I don’t see if there is a van nearby. He hands me the parcel and I have to sign it. We thank each other and he turns away as I shut the door. The dog wants to sniff the parcel, and she sticks her nose in the way while I’m trying to cut the tape. Inside the parcel is a book. I open the book. I begin to read. It says:

“I’m sitting at my desk, wondering what to write when there’s a knock at the front door. As I go down and answer it, I’m still not sure what is going to happen. I open the door. There’s an old man there with a parcel. He’s wearing a courier’s uniform, but I don’t see if there is a van nearby. He hands me the parcel and I have to sign it. We thank each other and he turns away as I shut the door. The dog wants to sniff the parcel, and she sticks her nose in the way while I’m trying to cut the tape. Inside the parcel is a book. I open the book. I begin to read. It says:

“I’m sitting at my desk, wondering what to write when there’s a knock at the front door. As I go down and answer it, I’m still not sure what is going to happen…

Stephen Prime, originally from Yorkshire, England, now lives in Tokyo, Japan. He teaches English literature at a Japanese University and has been published in Aesthetica and New Fiction. He likes whiskey and walking his dog and hates society and pollution.

Copyright © 2012 Stephen Prime