Here's a short short I wrote today. The genre of the short short, or flash fiction, or 55-er has held my fancy for some time, like water holds my fancy, and was a bit reluctant to dive right in. These days I am writing more of this type since a bigger and fatter short story is beyond reach because of the time commitment it requires. Following is an excerpt, to read on go here.
He looks old to me, his eyes are rheumy, and his hands are stiff on the steering wheel, which he holds the way I was taught to hold it – with both hands planted on either side. I put the taxi’s meter flag down for him, got in in the front seat alongside him, the old geezer seemed okay, driving smoothly, without jerks. Then I am in two minds: should I; shouldn’t I? I mean, I like to talk to taxi drivers, but not this one, suppose he kept silent and asked me to mind my own business.
But being the impulsive guy I am, I spoke.
“How long have you been driving a taxi?”
“Fifty years.” He warms up instinctively to conversation.
“Fifty years!” I say incredulously.
He nods.
“And how old are you now?”
“Seventy-six.”
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