Walking and thinking (flash fiction)
One crisp September morning, I retrieved my walking shoes from the top shelf in the closet and set out carrying yesterday’s coffee in a travel mug. The front door creaked open, and the screen door strained against a pile of fliers that had accumulated like autumn leaves.
I took a deep breath, preparing myself as memories filled my lungs. A hint of diesel exhaust lingered as the parents left the bus stop, some chatting, sauntering along wearing whatever they’d slept in. Others rushed off toward their cars, work shoes clicking on the sidewalk. A flock of geese passed, honking like city traffic. We all squinted into the light blue sky to follow their line. In a week, no one would even glance upward.
A couple of dogs stared at me, pulling on their leashes, ears perked. I turned at the corner to avoid my neighbors’ condolences.
Halfway down the block, a woman waved from across the street. My wife would have known her name. As usual, the lady was tending the garden her late husband had planted. I waved, then took the alley back to my empty house.
At a presentation by a professional editor, I learned the major rules of fiction. One was “no walking and thinking scenes.” Naturally, I decided to see how I could break that one.
What writing rule do you enjoy breaking?