In 2015, writers in one of my critique groups decided to try our hands at flash fiction, which is defined as very short fiction. How short isn’t clear. Some say up to 1,000 words, others say 500 at most. My goal was to tell a story — or in this case retell a story — in 100 words.
“You did sod all while the thieves hauled off our best milk cow,” my old man shouted.
He lunged toward me.
I ducked. “I told you. They carried daggers. They would’ve slit my throat.”
“Better they had, Jack,” he mumbled.
After dark I slipped out the front door, dug a trough on one side of our hut and filled it with water from the stream. I pulled the beans from my pocket, laid them in the trough, covered them with dirt, and patted it down.
“Grow, you feckers.”
I kept watch until dawn, when the first sprout appeared.
©Ann Oxrieder 2015