The days, cities, and people untold. The only constant was the singular purpose of those she met
with. Profit. At times she’d ponder how little she absorbed aside from what airport terminals to
avoid or the superior value of Wyndham’s rewards over Hilton’s.
She was a danger to herself in this assumed middle age, as she believed there would always be
time to drift into settings of wonder and speak with those who might flower her narrow
existence. Instead, she drained countless vodka tonics on trains and planes, losing sand from
every pocket.
An ad-hoc call with her husband debated “salad sandwiches.” She maintained chicken, eggs, and
potatoes should never be served cold; he admitted to the occasional hankering for egg salad on
rye—she wondered what other, more important bits she’d missed about him.
At a meeting she had little reason to attend 1,400 miles from home, Death sat beside her. After
collapsing into a boxed lunch, a handy defibrillator offered an epiphany…her remaining breaths were borrowed and no longer for sale.
Flash Fiction by Jeff Stone
Image by Adam Strong
Jeff Stone gave up a capitalist corpo career during the pandemic to write full-time. Years from now, many may call him a fool for doing so, but alas, that will be years from now. He resides among the Blue Ridge Mountains in Crozet, VA, with his family, and aside from 25+ years of writing ad copy, he is a newly published (Heimat Review, Intrepidus Ink, Alice Says Go F Yourself, Every Animal Project) writer of stories of whatever length they demand of him.
Backwards Trajectory 