Flash Fiction: Jockeying for Position

[The following flash fiction story was a writing exercise I did based on this lecture. I took a bunch of notes during the lecture, and will make a separate blog post about the structure and such. But I’m running out of steam because it’s nearly 11 p.m. on a Sunday night. That said, the prompt from the lecture was to write a 250-word flash fiction story with a jockey as a character (however you interpret that), the object of a coaster (however you interpret that) and within the sci-fi genre. In addition, you more or less had to go along with the structure laid out by the lecturer, as well as do all of this within a certain time frame. Again, I’ll get more specific on what that looks like at a later date. For now, after the photo, here is my story that came of this fun exercise.]

Creative Commons photo.

The taste of dirt defeat still on his tongue, Frankie tried to place his glass of bourbon on the coaster, but it missed, falling and falling with no sound, as if into a wormhole. 

As he reached for the glass, wanting one more sip for a rinse, Frankie also began falling and falling, waiting for that thrum of hooves to signal the start, or stop. It never came. 

Frankie lost sight of his room, with trophies from bygone years when he still had what it took. He still had the leather reins in his non-drinking hand, and flung the reins into the void, hoping to grab anything. Instead, the reins looped back around his neck, gagging him. As his fall continued, oxygen also left his body, seeming to float above and taunt his descent. 

No end in sight, and his throat throbbing against the leather, Frankie whistled with his last remnants of oxygen. His whistle pierced the void. And then with a jerk like the end of a roller coaster, he landed with a thud on his horse, Scout. Scout neighed, and then recognizing Frankie’s bourbon scent, relaxed and stood at attention, waiting. Frankie lifted the reins off his throat, dropping them by Scout’s hooves, gasping.

Frankie stepped off of Scout, and was back at his recliner with his trophies. Shards of his bourbon glass were on the floor. He looked up at Scout’s ashes on the mantle, and swept the glass into the trash, whispering, “Good boy,” to Scout.

The rare double photo in a post, but hey, I liked the look of this old jockey photo.

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