Three Sentence Stories

Flash Fiction, for The Junction

Matt Querzoli
Mar 10, 2018 · 3 min read

Beginning. Middle. End.

The bald man was indeed hairless on his head, but he refused to be defined by this genetic disposition. He left his corporate job as soon as his last follicle left him; he threw himself into a new trade with a raw zeal that was a surprise to the many that had once seen him work with Excel spreadsheets. Within three years, he was styling the hair of Hollywood celebrities, and had opened up four salons across the country.

In the beginning, God created coffee. On the next day, he created Ritalin. Only then he was able to cram in the creation of everything else on the last day after procrastinating on all of the others.

As a millennial con man, Francis O’Donnell was assigned the repetitive and boring task of creating spam emails to try and trick the technologically inept into clicking phishing links. After a while, and moderate successes, he went out on his own and set up shop as a Nigerian prince. After a bumper first year, the business slowed, and he wound up at culinary school, where he discovered his new passion of cooking cheap produce and selling it for a huge markup.

Sleep came naturally to Rachel Simpkins, but dreams eluded her subconscious mind. Luckily, the writer who created her and her blank nights simply wrote a bunch of words, and all of a sudden, dreams came to her. Unfortunately, then came the plot twist: nightmares.

As his only son fell and burst into tears in the middle of the quiet library, Mark felt like joining him. The air quickly began to sizzle with the glares of strangers and the pursed lips of librarians as he hurried to pick up Max from the carpeted floor. But his resolve appeared out of nowhere upon exiting, when one studious punter had the audacity to utter a loud ‘Shoosh!’; Mark gave him the finger and kissed his son on the cheek in an act of solidarity.

Jeanne waited for the text to tell her that her husband would be late for dinner due to a work meeting running over time. Or some other excuse offered up in place of the fact that he was cheating on her. When it came, she sighed, poured herself a glass of expensive Scotch, and began to fill in the application for divorce.

As the light fucked off from the world, the couple at the end of the wharf fucked off from the end of the wharf. They dived, naked, into the ocean, and swam out until they reached the lone barge aways from shore. There, they made slippery love, discussed the future as the moon began to rise, before heading back to make the future happen.

Matt Querzoli wrote these. Thanks to Stephen for being a good bloke and publishing them to The Junction.

Thanks to Stephen M. Tomic

Matt Querzoli

Written by

And on the third router restart, He rose again.

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