Stiletto Signature: Flash Fiction

iStock_000005350621XSmallDid you know that every Friday afternoon, the awesomeness on a stick that is JD Mader opens up his website to YOUR flash fiction? Yep. Depending on his delightfully evil whim, he’ll set a time limit, but it’s usually two minutes. Don’t worry about editing, spelling, if it makes any sense…it’s a great writing exercise to keep the muscles loose and the words flowing. Here are three that I put up last Friday and here’s a link to all of them. It’s a lot of fun and SO much great reading. If you like to write, come play with us one week!

I think I was angry when I wrote these. And it was raining. Coupled with some kind of Facebook quiz that told me my secret nickname is Stiletto. I didn’t know if that meant as in the blade or the shoes. I’ve never had the blade, nor the desire, and maybe wore the shoes once before I turned my ankle. Anyway…


You don’t need a weapon to kill. All it takes is a look, a word, a wave of a hand, a signature on a form. You can mark me off as surplus goods, you can load me onto a wooden pallet and shrink wrap me and mail me off to the auxiliary office in Katmandu, it is a way of killing without a gun or blade. Just render me redundant, leave me off in the parking lot, erase my name from payroll and I’m as good as gone. So why go back? Easy. To get what is owed. And you look like I’ve gone crazy, like you should call security and have me once again removed from the premises. Hah. You can do that all day long but you can’t remove my spirit, you can’t eliminate my secrets, you can’t shut me up.


You’ll never feel the knife go in until you see the glistening tip sticking out the other side. You won’t notice because you’re falling asleep in front of the hockey game. You won’t notice because the whiskey numbs the pain. You won’t notice because there is food in the fridge and the lights turn on and the hair dryer works. You won’t notice because you’re a good two tracks behind the album of my life, and I’ll be long gone before you get to the flip side. You’ll wonder where to find the light switch, and the electric company’s phone number, and the key that never fit the front door to begin with. You’ll wonder why it’s so quiet at night and why the bed is so empty and why the cat doesn’t have any food. Because she’s the only one who’ll notice that I’m gone.


We leaned on the railing overlooking the catwalk after hours and made plans, easing the overtime stress, laughing away the ridiculous deadlines. You were going to become a yuppie in Connecticut, drive a BMW, marry a Kennedy. I had no idea what was coming next, but this sure wasn’t it. Hearing the inhale and exhale of machinery night after night, the last one out of the building, the last one of the last ones who used to like each other, before the entire cast changed. You said that when you finally arced, everyone would know it, because you’d be driving the forklift. I only drove one in my imagination, into a plate-glass wall, just to feel in my bones how it would sound.

3 thoughts on “Stiletto Signature: Flash Fiction

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