I have a love/hate relationship with Flash Fiction. It is both fun and difficult to do. My mind starts whirling with all sorts of ideas when I see the words, but when it comes down to writing something coherent it is not a ‘flash’ to write! This week on the Romance Writers Weekly Blog Hop, Leslie Hachtel says it’s…
Flash Fiction Time! 500 words using rosebush, knees and mascara.
Judith was on her knees, scrabbling around under the rosebush for the contents of her purse. The bag had gone flying, vomiting its cargo in a looping arc, after she’d collided with a solid wall in her haste to escape the wedding reception.
“I’m so sorry,” a deep voice said, “let me help.”
Judith froze. The wall was talking.
A large hand entered her field of vision. It was lightly tanned with a dusting of dark hairs on the back of the wrist, and it was holding a bright pink tube of mascara.
She lifted her eyes, following the line of muscular forearm, bicep hidden by a bright white fabric with a rolled cuff, and strong neck rising from a crisp collar to a face that stopped her in her tracks.
“I think there’s something else under here,” the wall said. She was mesmerized by his lips—thin but not too thin, with a hint of an upward curl at the corners. The face vanished from view, but before she could move, reappeared. “Here.” Dark blue eyes framed with black lashes and heavy brows gleamed.
She tore her gaze away from the fascinating face and looked down. In his palm lay a paper-wrapped cylinder with the word Tampax in a feminine script stamped on it. She snatched it from him and stuffed it back in her bag.
“Are you okay?” the wall said. “You were in a real hurry there.”
“I’m fine,” she muttered, finally finding her voice. Well, she would be fine, once a hole opened at her feet and swallowed her. It was bad enough she’d just watched the man she’d once loved marry her best friend. Now she’d humiliated herself with her usual klutz routine in front of the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen in real life.
“I’m Quentin,” the wall said. “I am sorry I got in your way. Let me buy you a drink as an apology.”
“I don’t drink.” Keeping her face averted, she closed her eyes in despair. Now she sounded rude and ungrateful.
Her surly words bounced off Quentin, much as she had done earlier. “Not even a soft drink?” he asked. She could hear the amusement in his voice. “Tomato juice? Water?”
Amazed she hadn’t chased him away like she did all other men, she took a deep breath. Gathering her courage, she raised her head and looked him in the eye. “A sparkling water would be great,” she said. And when he stretched out his hand, let him help her to her feet.
Maybe there was hope for a happy ever after for her yet.
I’d love to hear your comments on this little scene. Then, hop over to read what Clair Brett has come up with!