This is the last day of July, and so Flash Fiction Month ends. There will be more flash fiction here on the blog, as well as experimental writing, short essays, poetry, and the other bits an pieces that make up the fragments of Michael Dickel. I hope that you enjoyed the wild excursion into fiction this month, and whomever you are, dear readers, that you will continue reading my blog posts. As always, comments welcome.
That night, he wrote a note to his doting students. In the note, he told them he needed to be free of them, so he was leaving, bye-bye to all that had gone before. The note stretched ego-dystonically to fit a not very harmonic blues melody line.
When he arrived at school early the next morning, he silently crept downstairs to his classroom. He taped the note to the white board that had long since taken over from the chalk boards that themselves had first been slate then replaced with green-paint. He left just as quietly through a back exit.
The less-doting students noticed the off-note right away and left for parts unknown immediately, disregarding the blues. The more doting waited for him to arrive, inexplicably late, before they acknowledged the blues and found the notice taped on the board, but missed the tone that rang just out of their range of hearing.
They stayed longer to discuss the matter. Yet it mattered little what they thought. He had left. They wondered what was the matter with him.
Then those grinds went back to work, imagining his lessons, assignments, and grades given them. Thus, they graduated.
The blues still penetrated, and a certain melancholia infused the rhythm of their lives; a twelve-bar pattern emerged that shifted a minor-key across major-seventh chords, setting their thoughts adrift in a world of smoke, whiskey, and lost lovers.