Flash Fiction of the Forgotten

After years of work, the novel was ready. It had an astounding ending, impeccable language, unforgettable characters. Everything, except the title. He tried hundreds of combinations, discarded words, searched for hidden meanings, but none captured the essence of his masterpiece. Nothing worked, not even the Latin phrases he had found. “Too pretentious,” he thought.

One dawn, after nights of insomnia, the perfect word struck him like a lightning bolt. He jumped up, grabbed the pen and, swaying in the dim light, tripped over the chair, falling heavily.

When they found him, the sheet was still resting in his cold, purple hands. The title was perfect: Eternal, written in delicate and steady handwriting. Soon after, his editor rejected it, and the manuscript was forgotten, eternally, in a dusty drawer.

I found my grandfather’s typewriter in the attic, buried under mold and rust. He had never published anything; only scattered sheets remained, unfinished sentences, and characters that seemed to want to flee their stories.

I brought the typewriter to my desk and gave it a try, but the ribbon was dry. I cleaned the keys, adjusted the roller. That night, as I sat down to write, words came that weren’t mine. A shiver ran down my spine, but I carried on. Day by day, the stories began to take shape. They were my grandfather’s; I recognised them from descriptions of places I’d never seen, but that my mother remembered from her childhood. Then came things I couldn’t explain: faces, confessions, murders, torture, and scenes steeped in darkness.
That night, when I typed the final word, I realised they weren’t his stories; they were his ancestors. I rose from the chair, but the typewriter kept writing.

“We adore your prose,” the welcome letter had said. Proudly, the writer settled into the residency: a pristine, white, minimalist space. For days, ideas poured out of him like rivers. He didn’t notice the lack of windows or the absence of clocks.
But gradually, doubt seeped in. How long had he been here? The novel he’d started had grown into an unwieldy trilogy about human fragility; the pages towered in chaotic stacks on his desk. Examining the walls, he spotted a crack. Through it, he glimpsed fragments of other writers displayed on a screen. Wires coiled like veins, and a mechanical eye tracked his every move. He tried to escape, but the doors wouldn’t open.

“Thank you for your contribution, dear resident writer. The programme has concluded,” it was heard through the speakers. The writer retrieved his manuscript. Confused, he wept onto the pages. His silicone, metallic fingers trembled with unnatural precision.

Eva dreamt of a white dress and a bouquet of roses: white for purity, red for passion. She imagined them so vividly she could smell their fragrance in the air of the church. She could see them as her fiancé waited for her by the altar.

The night before the wedding, Eva stayed up late in her hotel room. She gazed at a painting on the wall: flowers spilling from a vase.

Mid-morning came but the church was closed and dark. A bend. A car. Fate awaited her on the asphalt. There was no wedding. Only tears and silence.

The coffin arrived, escorted by the bouquet she never held. The same flowers she had dreamed of bid her farewell.