flash fiction

How many words does it take to make a great story he wondered, sitting on the loo of the shopping center. He read another paragraph; the words flowed on. It was Good Friday, but the day wasn't good to the center, which was half empty. The intellectual magazine, his only purchase so far, lay on his bare legs. Five pages make an assay. Shorter are only the funnies. He turned the page. Above him, a single sun dispensed cold light.

As his eyes were about to bite into the next column, the light flickered briefly. It turned orange, then black. There was a slap on the hard tiles next to his left foot. Before he could startle in surprise, the light came back. Where there had been the clean geometry of the stone floor now lay a book, it's black-and-white cover facing up. The White Road it said in big bold letters.

"Hello", he inquired, and "Anyone there?" but there was no response. The room was as quiet as an abandoned train station. He picked the slim volume from the floor and scrutinized it. It was brand new, never been opened. The back promised an exciting collection of very short stories, and though he wasn't sure he needed any more excitement, he began reading. He was soon absorbed and entranced. The story hypnotized with skillful minimalism. No words were wasted.

"We wish our customers a Happy Easter", a cheerful voice said from above. The announcement came out of nowhere and brought him back to earth. As he stood up, the New Yorker slid from his knees but he failed to notice. He stuffed the book into his backpack and left the stall, stepping into a new world. Water roared into the white bowl behind him.