A Short Story: Flash Fiction Fevor

Flash Fiction Fervor

In a world of rules, regulations, and definitions, there is always someone that likes to color outside the lines. He is such a person.  His age, race, background, and description aren’t important. These things are just mere words; adjectives as they are defined. His name isn’t really important either, but for the sake of reading, I, the author will assign him a name. I like to use the name, Dovev. Dovev is Hebrew for “whisper”. He likes to remain ghostly to those who might read of him.  His where-bouts of the past, present and future aren’t important either, only his thoughts and personality.

I must warn you, that in respects of writing about Dovev, you must know a few things.  He despises people without imagination, spirit, and an open third eye.  He looks down upon the reader that wants more details and craves to be spoon feed the story.  Thus, don’t be disappointed when you find that details about him are left out on purpose. He would only want you to fill in the blanks from your minds eye and the depths of your imaginative soul. So all in all, Dovev, is to be spoken of in extreme brevity.

Dovev was meant to travel the world. He dabbled in many things unorthodox though out his nomadic life. However he was getting tiresome of travel and irritated with small mindedness that seemed to follow him.  He was a great idealist, poet, and writer, imaginary, visionary and connoisseur of all fine green things that grew from the earth. One of his favorite past times was to dabble a few words of genius into a flash fiction story. This is where Dovev and I meet in life.  We both are lovers of reading and writing short, short stories. Not to mention those that are humorous, and somewhat nonsensical.

And as it was, Dovev was in a place that satisfied him at the moment. He was at peace in the small town that he has chosen to reside in. It did not matter to him that no one spoke his language.  It was more amusing and simply wonderful to him. However he did stick out when he went for his morning walks. He looked nothing like the local people.

As Dovev was creating his newest flash fiction story about a thug that resembled a squid and ends up falling in love with a mute British palace guard, he found himself being watched by someone.

I was gazing in his window, watching him as he was deep in thought about his story. I noticed that he amused himself in his non-sense; however I was not yet aware of how meaningless his story was becoming.  I just admired the whimsical look upon his face through the window.

We exchanged looks and then smiles.  I waved.  When I waved I must have given the impression that I wasn’t local.  Perhaps my wave was familiar to him, or perhaps it reminded him of the way he waves.  I never paid much attention to that detail of him. Never-the-less he opened the window and greeted me. As the day turned into evening, we were still in each other’s company and had found that we had much in common.

As all short short stories go; days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months and finally the months turned into a year. We stayed in our little nameless foreign town, wrote stories together, shared ideas, laughter and a bed.

Dovev referred to me as “Senca”, which means “shadow” in Slovenian. I never asked why or where he learned the word. We never inquired details such as birth names from one another. However, I wanted my name to be endearing to him, I felt as though he was subtly telling me that I was a burden and a follower.

After a year and 17 days of sharing our glorious time together, I had slept later in the morning than I usually do.  I found him and his few things gone, with the exception of my favorite green plant that he had grown for me and a note that read,

“Remember me when you hear a whisper.

Think of me when you infringe a regulation.

Speak of me vaguely with fervor.

Write of me briefly with few accessories.

I will cherish my Senca, for you will follow me always.”