29/04/2026
MY FIRST ATTEMPT AT FLASH FICTION
Recently I was introduced to flash fiction. Flash fiction is a genre of extremely brief fiction that tells a complete, self-contained story.
I decided to have a go. Writing fiction is not my strength, however I had a lot of fun writing this! Mine is on the shorter side for this first attempt - flash fiction can be anywhere from about 300 - 1500 words.
This piece is pure fiction, but the sentiment behind it is very Dutch. I draw on my experience of having a Dutch father and grandfather.
Here it is - tell me your thoughts!
GOUDA
Opa never bought cheese casually.
He approached the cabinet at the Dutch Deli with the suspicion of a customs officer. He would lift a shrink-wrapped block, inspect its edges, press a thumb into it, knowing full well that excess firmness was a deal breaker, then note the price with visible offence.
āTwelve dollars?ā he said, holding up a perfect wedge of Gouda. āFor this?ā
No-one answered. It was merely an opening statement, after all.
Oma busied herself looking at the goods on display on the shelves nearby.
We learned early that grocery shopping with Opa involved a lot of waiting, while he pondered packaging, produce or inflation. Bread was too soft. Tomatoes had no smell. Coffee was overpriced. Chocomel ā thick Dutch chocolate milk in a yellow carton ā was too chocolatey. Cheese, most of all, had become an international scandal.
āIn Hollandā, he said, which is how many of his sentences began, āyou could buy proper cheese from a man who knew what he was talking about.ā
This mythical Dutch cheese man improved each time the story was told. He tended his cart in a cobbled market square from Opaās childhood, apron tied, knife sharp, offering samples with utmost seriousness. He understood texture, and he respected ageing. He would never, under any circumstances, slice and vacuum-seal Gouda.
Opa placed the block back in the cabinet.
āWeāre not buying thisā, he announced.
He bought it anyway.
Later, as Opa began speaking more often about brutal winters and his father cycling to work in the rain, I understood that cheese was never only cheese.
It was standards. It was memory. It was the country that made him.
Still, twelve dollars was outrageous.
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