I entered this flash in a competition recently. It didn’t win. Let’s be honest; it didn’t even get an honourable mention. I was quite pleased with my effort though, so here it is for #fridayflash. The rules required use of the phrase ‘a race against time’.
Please comment if you feel like it. Go on. You know you want to.
Nip over to #fridayflash to find many other writers flashing furiously.
The Narcissist’s Vindication
In his twenties, Nigel lacked the maturity to control his flashes of inspiration.
‘Life,’ he said, checking his date was awake with a judiciously placed poke, ‘is a race against time.’
‘And death,’ replied Jane, ‘is when you come in last. It’s three in the morning and I was fast asleep. Goodnight.’
Unused to having his genius reposted with such cruel efficiency, Nigel ended the romance over breakfast.
With the passing years, Nigel’s situational awareness improved enough to deliver his bons mots on occasions appropriate to the subject matter.
‘Eating in such an establishment,’ he announced one evening at The Ivy, ‘is simply disguising man’s bestial urge for self-nourishment with the culinary gewgaws of the privileged.’
‘Oh,’ said Rebecca, ‘and there was me thinking we were celebrating my thirtieth birthday.’
The trouble with other people, he’d decided by his forties, is that they lack enquiring minds.
‘The fact is, no-one seems to be able to analyse life like me.’
‘Is that another of your pearls of wisdom?’ asked Amy, whose capacity to endure Nigel’s insightful affirmations had significantly diminished.
‘Just one of many.’
‘I see,’ she said, rising from the bed, ‘well, string them together and there should be enough to hang yourself. Goodbye.’
As the door slammed, Nigel decided that such arrogance was misplaced and grossly inappropriate in a person of limited intelligence.
In his later years, Nigel resorted to specialist, MENSA-approved dating agencies and cleverly-worded, cryptic ads in the high-end papers. The few dates which resulted from his efforts proved predictably inept at matching his mental capacity; a fact which he shared with Fiona one evening, as he poured the wine.
‘Believe me,’ she said, noticing with approval how a well-aimed glass of Château Lafite stains a shirt as thoroughly as the cheapest of wines, ‘you’re no Stephen Hawking.’
Later that night, Nigel paused to wonder how the eminent professor might apply physics to the problem of measuring out just the right length of rope required to break a man’s neck.
‘I might not actually be him,’ he thought, ‘but I’m surely equal to the task.’
© flyingscribbler 2012