Author: David Borrowdale

Flash Fiction: Other Fires Burned

We built our alibis and watched them shrink to nothing in the rear-view mirror.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“A secret place,” you said. “A place of our own.”

You made camp by a pristine stream. I slipped a bottle of wine in the water to chill.

When it got dark, we looked at the stars and you pretended you knew their names and we both pretended we had a future together.

I gathered tinder. You’d forgotten the matches.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “There was too much for me to remember.”

We were hungry that night but not cold.

Written for Friday Fictioneers using this photo prompt:

© Jan Wayne Fields

Picture: Combustion [Explored!] by Emilio Küffer under CC BY-SA 2.0

Flash Fiction: Cubicle Life

We are bound on three sides by modular walls. We make our spaces our own with gaudy towels and loofahs on strings.

The man in twelve uses apple and cinnamon shower gel. The sweet steam drifts over the wall and makes my tummy growl.

The man in fourteen sings ’80s power ballads while he washes, making it hard for the rest of us to get on with things.

There’s a new woman in twenty. Smart, efficient, she wastes no hot water. I’d like to ask her for a drink but I’ve never been very good at that sort of thing.

Written for Friday Fictioneers using this photo prompt:

© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Picture: 5D (#28134) by Mark Sebastian under CC BY-SA 2.0

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