Purveyor of Tall Tales.

Friday Flash Fiction: Cliche

It’s that time of the week again:


By Neil Beynon

“I don’t want it,” said the woman handing the box back to the man. He looked crestfallen taking the intricately carved cube in his large ponderous hands. The woman smiled gently at him as you would a child who had just learnt their first unpleasant truth about the world.

“It would never work,” she explained. “I’m just not like that.”

“But I meant it,” he said. “It’s meant to be you.”

“No,” she said. “It’s not. You’re young, you’ll learn. Life is not that clichéd.”

She turned and walked away from him, her stiletto heels clipping on the concrete pavement as she did. He flipped over the lid and gazed on the contents with watery blue eyes.

“I meant it,” he said quietly, then louder. “I meant it.”

She turned back briefly, she did not smile and after a brief glance she was walking again. He closed the box that held his heart and locked it before dropping it into his bag.

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