| Humor Flash Fiction posted January 9, 2021 |
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The devil's in the details
Top Ten in a FLASH
by Elizabeth Emerald
When I was 45, I ran races with my then-husband, "Dick" (not his real name but should have been).
The top racers in my division paced sub-seven-minute miles. My goal (unachieved) was an eight-and-a-half-minute mile.
Above all, I yearned to make the top ten.
The 40s division comprised dozens; I'd place mid-range. Given that there was no fudge factory in the vicinity of the race course, I couldn't tempt the numbers to give me a boost.
Until that magical day: September 9, 2003. When, after having scanned the posted race results, Dick bounded gleefully to my side and shouted:
Congratulations. You finally made top ten. You came in ninth place!
I rushed to see for myself. There was my name. Ninth of ... nine. With a finish time of two minutes and (not-so-small) change behind number eight's.
Crestfallen, I made my way back to Dick.
I'll never forget his smirk, inspired by the success of his prank.
I was inspired as well; it was in that very instant that I dubbed him "Dick."
When I was 45, I ran races with my then-husband, "Dick" (not his real name but should have been).
The top racers in my division paced sub-seven-minute miles. My goal (unachieved) was an eight-and-a-half-minute mile.
Above all, I yearned to make the top ten.
The 40s division comprised dozens; I'd place mid-range. Given that there was no fudge factory in the vicinity of the race course, I couldn't tempt the numbers to give me a boost.
Until that magical day: September 9, 2003. When, after having scanned the posted race results, Dick bounded gleefully to my side and shouted:
Congratulations. You finally made top ten. You came in ninth place!
I rushed to see for myself. There was my name. Ninth of ... nine. With a finish time of two minutes and (not-so-small) change behind number eight's.
Crestfallen, I made my way back to Dick.
I'll never forget his smirk, inspired by the success of his prank.
I was inspired as well; it was in that very instant that I dubbed him "Dick."
The top racers in my division paced sub-seven-minute miles. My goal (unachieved) was an eight-and-a-half-minute mile.
Above all, I yearned to make the top ten.
The 40s division comprised dozens; I'd place mid-range. Given that there was no fudge factory in the vicinity of the race course, I couldn't tempt the numbers to give me a boost.
Until that magical day: September 9, 2003. When, after having scanned the posted race results, Dick bounded gleefully to my side and shouted:
Congratulations. You finally made top ten. You came in ninth place!
I rushed to see for myself. There was my name. Ninth of ... nine. With a finish time of two minutes and (not-so-small) change behind number eight's.
Crestfallen, I made my way back to Dick.
I'll never forget his smirk, inspired by the success of his prank.
I was inspired as well; it was in that very instant that I dubbed him "Dick."
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FLASHing solo (sans contest) at 175 words.
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