by Thomas Pitre

When do I sit down and write flash fiction? What makes me itch to get my fingers moving.

First, it’s a general mood. Today, I am sad. In four hours, the vet and her husband will be here to put down my oldest dog. She’s uncomfortable, can’t get up on her feet, and she is groaning. My eyes have been wet for three days. I will write a piece about my experience to get it off my chest and to find a way to get this sad and horrible experience behind me.

The second impetus for my writing is an attempt at cleverness and shock. This short piece below,  (72) words, was intended to shock and demonstrate counterpoint. I had just finished reading Ann Lamott’s book, and some of her anecdotes were fresh in my mind. I got into a conversation with my friend Judith that morning, and we talked about our childhood. I told her that mine was terrific, unlike my school chum, Conrad, whose parents abandoned him after they drove a stake through his ankle and left him on the steep, clay bank above the old Mobile station.

The story starts out benignly, but closes with a bolt. I liked the contrast, and when I read it aloud to a friend, I always look at their face for a reaction. Some people get words and strange images tattooed on their face. It’s not because they ran out of room on their bodies, it’s because they want attention and they want to shock. It’s like letting a big cloud of exhaust hydrocarbons sweep over the Thanksgiving table – and more than once, at your in-laws.

Third, writing flash is how I see life in my in my seventieth year:  in bits and blobs. Each day is filled with hundreds of stories. Some stand alone, while others might blend into each other.

Finally, I may write something that began as a poem. My poem, “The Right Stone,” was written because I had reacted emotionally to a news story about a woman being stoned for a minor infraction. I hoped to make a statement strong enough to get people’s attention and to nudge them into some kind of action.

The title is a play on words. Stone=rock, Stone=diamond or gem. I did some research and read about the ritual  of this heinous act. The stones are picked carefully, just as one might choose an  engagement ring.

I learned that they chant God is Great while they throw the stones at the person’s head. This contradiction made an impression on me, and reflects some of my personal feelings about organized religion.

The Right Stone

No, not the diamond for the engagement ring. Not the perfect opal for the October birthday. The stone had to be just the right size. Palm sized. Not too big to kill.

Big enough to injure.

Azar’s husband tired of his wife’s drooping breasts and the way she prepared the rice and hummus, accused her of adultery.

Sentenced to stoning, buried to her chest in soft earth and told that if she could escape, she would be set free.

A circle was drawn. The crowd gathered outside the circle, chanting Allah hu Akbar”*, and threw the stones at Azar’s head.

It didn’t look like it does in the movies. Everything inside of her came out of every part of her. Nine minutes later, she was unconscious , and left in her hole to die.

God is Great

__________________________________________________________

Thomas Pitre is a retired educator, and trainer, living on the Olympic Peninsula, Washington with his dogs and paint box. He has published online and has two self-published collections, Wind of the Green Hula Girls and Flash Fiction and Assorted Prose Pieces, both available on Amazon.com.  His work has been accepted by the National Gallery of Writing (2009-2010).   He continues to experiment with short fiction and poetry and maintains a blog for students and writers here.