Flash fiction

The Joy of Random 

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The imaginative brain needs as much exercise as a dog. Said someone. Once.

Sometimes it’s a case of letting it just run free and hope it doesn’t get run over. By a bus.

I’m going to be writing some flash fiction using this website:

Which is nice.

I’ve clicked the buttons, and the system is asking me to complete a story based on the following:

A woman in her late forties, who is very naive.
The story begins in a boxing club.
A father makes a last request as he lays dying.
It’s a story about love.
Your character is determined to get to the truth.

His head lolled under the ropes. Not good. She wasn’t of a medical background, but the way his eyes were rolling about definitely wasn’t good. The two boxers seemed to have stopped smacking each other in the head and stood watching her. They were violent young offenders who’d been sent to the boxing club by the court to learn about civic values by smacking each other in the head.

“Dad?” She reached out a gloved hand. Rubber. Someone had once told her that human sweat carried 99% of all known types of dangerous bacteria, so she always wore elbow-length rubber gloves every time she came to the gym. The face guard and protective glasses were for the bus.

He muttered something. She moved closer. Her father. He needed her.

“What was that? I can hardly hear you?” She leant in, his breath warm against her ear.

“Turn the music off. For God’s sake.” He whispered. “And take out the Goddamn earplugs.”

“Aunt Laurie told me it stops bad things getting to my brain.”

“Aunt Laurie is an idiot. I swear you’ve inherited her genes.”

The woman didn’t hear him. She was on the other side of the room turning Eye of the Tiger off. Of course.

By the time she got back, she was alone with her father. The young offenders had taken his wallet and were going through the lockers.

Her father was dying. He asked for an ambulance, but she couldn’t hear him, so just held his hand. He gestured her close again.

“I’m…..I’m not your father.” She could see the pain in his eyes. “I put you in the will to keep your mother happy. It’s not true. I can’t stand you. You’re an idiot. I want one thing from you. My dying wish. I want you to strike yourself from my will. I don’t want you getting a penny. You understand?”

And as he drew his last breath, and his eyelids slowly closed, she simply shook her head and indicated the earplugs.

“Of course daddy. Of course.”

And as she dropped his head onto the floor, she knew then that truth really was relative.

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