Last night, in a writing workshop I’m taking, we did a flash fiction exercise. We were given three essentially random prompts and ten minutes in which to complete a story. My prompts were: “Laurie, the famous actress” (protagonist), “to be king of the heap” (goal), and “the bartender from Seattle” (obstacle). Here’s what I came up with.
Some small part of her, somewhere, knew it was wrong. A very small part of her, pulsing out messages of Don’t, but they went unheard in the roar of her hunger.
She hadn’t chosen this, after all. It could hardly be said to be her fault. Given the option, of course, she’d rather this than the alternative, but still she was not the primary agent here.
Her eyes flitted from body to body, wondering when he would make his move. She fingered the tip of the machete; still sharp enough.
Don’t, don’t! cried the small part of her, and this time she heard it, and considered. The more fool she.
He was upon her before she realized he had moved, the butcher knife stabbing into her leg, the one he’d already wounded.
She rolled over, pretending to weep. He came at her. She decapitated him.
Yes, she cried. Yes!
Don’t, the small part of her said.
She turned on it, that small part of her, and killed it.
She stood up and began to walk toward the city.