I was out of bed at 4:30, an idea for a piece of flash fiction in my head. The first draft is 91 words. My shortest story before this, Hip Hop, is 715 words. My longest is 6000+. I’m in the midst of a mini renaissance. After averaging only one story per year the past few years, I’ve banged out three since late July. Below is the first third of a 1200 word piece. Unable to come up with a satisfactory title, I simply used the main character’s last name. I thought about using Miller Time, but that may be under copyright by the beer company. The story came together faster than any I've ever done, which has me questioning its worth. I'd say it's 98% done. I'll tweak it until it gets to 99%. As I've said many times, no work is ever 100% finished:
He turned left from the elevator and immediately spotted a note taped to the door of his apartment just below the large UFT decal. He scanned the message, crumpled and threw it to the floor.
“I will not be bought,” he muttered indignantly.
His bushy beard and what remained of the hair on his head were largely gray. He was of average height, about 30 pounds overweight. He wore wire-rimmed glasses.
“Mr. Miller! Mr. Miller!” someone called.
Miller recognized the voice and sneered as he let go of the doorknob and turned to the middle age man in a suit. “I’ve got nothing to say to you, Costas.”
“Have you seen our latest offer?”
“I’m not joining the plot to rid Manhattan of the middle class, to make it a playground of the rich.”
“We’ll give you a studio right here in the building.”
“The maintenance fee would be a lot more than my current rent. What kind of deal is that?”
“But you’d own the apartment and you’d be able to sell whenever you want. You have a nice pension and great benefits. You’d have no trouble keeping up.”
Miller eyed him with suspicion, seething. “How’d you find out about my finances?” No doubt the banks were in cahoots with real estate agents and building owners.
“Please. You’re alone. You don’t need four rooms.”
“What if my wife comes back? Take a hike. I’d never trust someone like you.”
He entered the apartment and locked the door. The interior was in the middle stages of disarray. Ashtrays filled to the brim were everywhere. His wife had always seen to the upkeep. He hadn’t the time or patience for it. It’d been a year since she walked out and moved to Florida. He was surprised she was able to live outside of Manhattan. Both had been born and always lived in the borough. They’d spent their entire married life, raised their children in this rent-controlled flat. He’d expected they would die here. He felt betrayed.
He lit a cigarette and sat at his cluttered desk, on which there were several books, a few open. He scanned a paragraph in one, closed it and returned it to its proper place on the top shelf of the case, which held books on the Kennedy assassination. The second was devoted to 9/11, the third to the McCarthy era. All were alphabetized.
The floating book shop was almost like a regular business today. My thanks to all the buyers and donors, especially Frances, who purchased A Hitch in Twilight a couple of years ago and now has taken a chance on Killing. And best of luck to Barry, 65, a teacher at John Jay College, whose first book will soon be published by a division of McMillan. It's a non-fiction academic piece on heroin and music.
Vic's 4th Novel: http://tinyurl.com/bszwlxh
Vic's 3rd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3
Vic's Website: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
Vic's Short Story Collection (Print or Kindle): http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic's 2nd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/6b86st6
Vic's 1st Novel: http://tiny.cc/94t5h
Vic's Screenplay on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3
Vic’s Short Story on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/k95k3nx
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