While there is no widely accepted definition of the category, flash fiction has been commonly defined as fictional literature of extreme brevity. The short stories have also been referred to as “smoke longs” because they can be read in the time it takes to smoke a cigarette.

She felt everything when she walked. I’m talking everything: cobblestones, sidewalk cracks, little pebbles that would get stuck in the tiny crevices of her sole, jealousy, fear, all that shit. Not even cigarette butts were safe from detection. She didn’t care, though. She seemed to like those feelings, but I don’t know why. Every night she complained about how much her feet hurt, and I always thought she needed new shoes.
Her soles were flat, but her personality was not. People would say she had an infectious laugh, that she was very gregarious and jovial and habitually interjected her opinions into everyone’s matters, personal and otherwise. I didn’t care too much for her opinions, and I usually let them slide without so much as a peep. But not this time.
Nope. This time I let her have it. No holds barred. I wasn’t even angry, just in the mood for a tussle, but I spit my words like venom in self-defense anyway. I watched as they splattered against her cheek and dripped like a sappy melodrama. She was quick to wipe them off before they could stain, before they could make tracks for the gripes that would soon follow.
That’s when she barked back, so hard my pipe shook, almost quivered. I held my ground, though, strong as I was
taught to be.
She ran off. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks.
I watched until she ran out of sight before I looked back at my unfinished drink. I threw my cigarette on the ground, stomped on it and kicked the bench outside. Didn’t feel a thing. Not that I’m complaining, but maybe I’m the one who needs new shoes.

© Jarrett A. Young
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@JarrettYoung
allen@jarrettyoung.com