FLASH FICTION – FOWC & RDP

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It started, as most questionable decisions do, with a woman, a trench coat, and a very hedonistic craving for street tacos.

Julian wasn’t even supposed to be out. The rain was biblical—Julian half expected to see Noah waving him aboard. His socks were soaked, his spirit soggy, and the umbrella he carried had the structural integrity of a wet paper crane. But tacos were calling, and Julian—private eye by day, glutton by destiny—answered.

Midway through the park, a lamppost flickered like it owed someone money. Julian stepped into the golden spill of light like he was in a film noir. All he needed was the dame holding a cigarette to her ruby red lips, waiting for him to light it. His coat flapped dramatically, mostly because it was two sizes too big and purchased during a clearance sale he mistook for fate. He imagined someone, somewhere, narrating: He was a man torn between purpose and guacamole.

That’s when it happened.

A squirrel launched from a tree like it had just discovered espresso. It landed squarely on Julian’s shoulder, using his necktie as a zipline to destiny.

He screamed like a man whose dignity had just filed for divorce and taken the house.

The umbrella went flying. The squirrel somersaulted off his head. And Julian—formerly mysterious, now flailing—slipped in a puddle with the grace of a ballet-dancing refrigerator.

As he lay on the sidewalk, soaked and stunned, the only thing colder than the rain was the betrayal in his burrito-less stomach.

A couple walked by. The woman whispered, “Was that performance art?”

Julian lifted his head with all the levity he could muster. “Only if you clap.”

They did.

He took a bow from the pavement. Somewhere, a squirrel chittered in applause.