|06-03-2009, 09:24 AM||#1|
Publishers are evil!
Join Date: Mar 2008
Location: Rhode Island
Device: Various Kindles
Flash Fiction Challenge
This is a new thread devoted to Flash Fiction.
There is only one rule -- write a story that is 500 words or less. That's right, character development, conflict, plot, etc., the whole kit-and-kaboodle all in less than 500 words.
ONLY stories should be placed in this thread. If you like someone's story send them a PM, or even better give them a little karma.
So that's the challenge. Let's see what you got!
|06-03-2009, 09:27 AM||#2|
Publishers are evil!
Join Date: Mar 2008
Location: Rhode Island
Device: Various Kindles
Ghost, G-H-O-S-T, Ghost by Daithi
The boys hopped the fence, leaving their bikes hidden behind some mulberry bushes. Moments later the boys were wrapped in the same mist that blanked the colonial-era headstones of the cemetery.
“What time is it, Tommy?” asked Ryan.
Tommy said, “It’s three minutes until midnight. We have to hurry,” then Tommy gave Patrick, a small framed boy, a quick shove and said, “You scared, wuss?”
Patrick smiled and said, “You’ll see.” The truth was that even though Patrick was the smallest of the three boys he was the only one that wasn’t scared. If they succeeded in summoning the ghost he knew exactly what to do. His departed Irish grandmother had told him the secret.
The boys hurried to the center of the cemetery and quickly found the mausoleum that contained the family remains of Capt. Mathers.
“I have to hand it to you, Tommy. Picking an old slave-trader’s grave was pretty smart,” said Patrick.
“Yeah, if anyone’s soul is rotting in Hell it’s going to be his,” said Ryan.
Tommy smiled at their praise as he pulled out the parchment with the pentagram drawn on it. He also pulled out the razorblades, handing a blade to each of the other boys. As midnight made its arrival the boys sliced their fingers and smeared blood on the pentagram. Then they slid the bloody paper under the mausoleum door and began to chant, “Rise from the grave and serve us. Rise from the grave and serve us. Rise from the gra…”
T H U M P !
Something banged hard against the inside of the mausoleum door. Then the wailing began. It was an awful sound of despair and horror that physically hurt as it passed through the boys’ bodies.
Tommy and Ryan turned and fled, but Patrick held his ground. Patrick knew what to do. His beloved grandmother had told him the secret.
The Ghost passed through the doors of the crypt and advanced upon Patrick, but still he did not run. When the ghost reached out and wrapped its ethereal fingers around Patrick’s throat it was too late to run. Patrick didn’t even have time to scream as he heard the sound of his soul being ripped from the confines of his body. When the deed was done the ghost tossed Patrick’s soul aside and began pursuing the other two boys. Patrick’s soul watched his lifeless body crumple to the darkened ground.
After the light appeared, and Patrick had walked through it, he was met on the other side by his grandmother.
“Mammo, I did what you said. I held my ground and didn’t run. You said if I held my ground and didn’t run that it couldn’t hurt me.”
In her lilting Irish brogue Patrick’s grandmother said, “Oh, Padraig, you always were a wee bit daft. When visit’n me farm I told you to hold your ground, and not be afraid, if you were confronted by goats, G-O-A-T-S, goats.”
|06-03-2009, 10:57 AM||#3|
Join Date: May 2009
I watched in reverie as my blood slowly pooled on the cobble-stone road.
It gleamed a most beautiful crimson under the noon sun. No ruby could
ever compare. For rubies gleam only of age; but blood gleams wholly
Looking up one last time, I saw her flushed, still delicate visage beset by
a golden halo; and within her hands the dagger that brought forth the
gentle flood that now whispered my secrets to the world, from upon the
crimsoned blocks of the cobble-stone road.
-- A. H. István
|06-05-2009, 06:15 PM||#4|
Still Easily Confused
Join Date: Apr 2009
Location: Hampshire/Berkshire/Surrey - yes I am that big
My first attempt at this flash fiction. Hope it's ok, oh and I am on a narrow boat trip for my birthday this weekend..............
I am still not sure exactly what I saw. Even after 15 years that day still haunts me. I can remember it like it was yesterday.
It was June and it was raining. Not hard but that sort of rain that makes you really wet. Wet all the way through to the bone. It wasn't particularly warm for the time of year but it wasn't cold. Pretty much a standard British summer. My girlfriend has given me a trip on a barge for a few days as my 50th birthday present. So there we were in the summer rain, ambling along the Basingstoke canal in a 40 foot narrow boat. The tea had been hot and sweet and replenished on a regular basis and I was really quite at peace with her, myself and the world.
And that's when I saw it.
At first I thought someone had just dumped some rubbish into the canal, then as we got closer I saw it was an animal of some kind. Maybe a deer had fallen in to the water and had not been able to get itself out. But wasn't that a bit large for a deer. More like the size and shape of a man?
The police arrived very promptly. They took us to one side and questioned us. Made sure that they had all the details we could provide noted down in little leather bound notebooks. It all seemed sort of futile compared to the body they had pulled from the canal. That was a man whose life had been snuffed out. I never was good with death, not since I lost my faith in the church.
They asked me if I knew who it was. I couldn't really remember the man's face even though we had pushed him to the side of the canal and check to see if there was any sign of life. I just remember looking at my girlfriend as she quietly cried and thinking that I hoped I didn't look as pale as she did.
They asked me to look at the body again, to see if I could identify it. I looked, but although I felt some hint of recognition, I couldn't place it, just a man in his late sixties, no one special. It's funny the things you remember, he had the same watch as me, a 40th birthday present from my girlfriend. And a wedding ring on his right ring finger, just as I wear my father's.
Fifteen years is a long time yet every time I look in that mirror I recognise that dead man's face just a little bit more. Just a little bit too much. I really don't want to go on another narrow boat trip this weekend.
Last edited by Peverel; 06-05-2009 at 06:24 PM.
|07-01-2009, 07:04 AM||#6|
That guy, no not that guy
Join Date: May 2009
Location: Alberta, Canada
Device: PRS600 Red
I have never tried flash fiction. It has also been a long time since I have put words to paper, or page, for anyone other than myself to read. 500 on the dot I believe.
The murky lamp light is made even hazier by the vast amount of dust floating inside the command tent. All seven of the War Chief's captains stand hunched over the map table on three sides. Their Chief standing alone on the fourth. This unusually hot spring day has all seven captains squirming inside their armour. The sound of their armour impacting as they squirm adds a most tiresome sound. Why is it then that their Chief stands there like a statue given speech. Does this heat, sweat and dust not bother him?
All these things come to mind as I sit on my crate. These things and many more. I sit on my raised crate, five paces back and three to the side of the Chief. I am his Harkener! It is my task to sit and to listen. To listen and remember. To remember and to make it known. I have been here, behind and to the side of the Chief, for many years and have yet to have reason to make known anything that I have remember. This Chief is not one who would repeat his errors or listen to an outsiders advice. He leaves me to listen, with no hope of ever being of use. I have come to fear that the day to speak creeps towards me out of this haze that is my life. The day that I shall remember, that I shall have to make it known, that I will have forgotten how to speak. This is my fear.
The day I have long feared has come at last. My imagination made much of this day.
“Chief, it is I the Harkener! I have listened, I have remembered, I must make it known” The words spill from my mouth before my thoughts have enlightened me of the reason.
“Captain McKay, I want you too continue to move your mounted archers.....” I almost shudder as the Chief stops mid sentence, finally coming to grip with my strangers voice. He turns his gaze upon me. His cold grey eyes attempt to devour my resolve. “You would council us Harkener?” If I were to but open my mouth I would taste his contempt for me.
“I have listened, I have remembered, I will make it known.” He will hear the old words and he will obey his oaths. It is strange to have spoken the words aloud. I have not even thought this phrase in the last thirteen years that I have been Harkener to the War Chief of the Endless Plains. Not since my training in the Shallow Pass. I remember well, my training and that which I must now speak. Odd that as a Harkener it is my memories that now keep me silent when I should be speaking. Taking four long, confident strides, I take my place at the War Chiefs side.
|07-01-2009, 08:16 AM||#7|
Join Date: Aug 2005
Location: Metz, France
Device: iPhone, iPad, PRS-650
|07-12-2009, 01:04 AM||#8|
Join Date: May 2008
Device: Cybook Gen 3, Kindle 3 WiFi, iPod Touch with Stanza
i went over by 37 words - edited down from an extra 108.
It was hot and stuffy, as such affairs usually are. The ballroom was lit with thousands of twinkling candles that sent flickering light around the room, leaving the far corners somewhat darker. The dance floor was crowded with couples, the women's long dresses moving as each couple twirled to the waltz that was playing. Through the door you could see several young bucks as they gambled rather than find themselves forced to dance with a wallflower. The latest gossip could be heard everywhere, about the murders of several of England's most scandalous rakes.
As always, Marcus had arrived late. It wouldn't do to miss such an event altogether - he had his social status to think of, after all. And although he had no plans for a permanent liason or friendship with these lights of the ton, Marcus was always interested in checking out the newcomers and young innocents just out of the schoolroom. He felt that both groups were his natural prey, the young or inexperienced women to seduce and the young men and their foolish older counterparts to fleece at the gaming tables.
Marcus had just been announced and was pushing through the hot, crowded room toward the refreshments when a woman he hadn't seen before caught his eye.
Even at a distance, she stood out. She was tall and slender, beautiful of course, and her pale hair catching the light of the candles so that it almost seemed to glow. She moved with such grace as must catch the eye of every man - and yes, even every woman - as she danced in the embrace of young Fitzhugh. And there was something about her that Marcus couldn't quite seem to put into words. She seemed almost cold. A challenge. No, a conquest. Marcus found himself moving toward the dance floor.
He found someone willing to introduce them. Her name was Angela and when she danced with him, she was as graceful and as beautiful as he had imagined. Marcus wanted to kiss her, then to force her to comply with his wishes, to crush her confidence and feel her underneath him. To his surprise, she was the one who suggested they meet outside, in an alley near the back of their host's townhouse.
Marcus was intrigued. He had ruined many a young lady, and not one of them had been willing. With a complete lack of manners, he took leave of his host and hostess only minutes after arriving, and found himself in the alley.
And she was there, pale hair and skin, glowing in all white. Without a word, he pushed her back against the wall, forced his mouth down on hers, and as he forced her lips apart he felt a small pain in his own lower lip. When he pulled back to look at his conquest, she pushed him backwards. Her strength was amazing for a woman or even for a man. Her eyes seemed much darker than they had in the ballroom. As he tried to push himself upright again, she stood over him, her hands holding him in place. As she brought her mouth to his throat, his last thought was that in the dim light it almost seemed as if she had fangs...
Last edited by basschick; 07-12-2009 at 01:08 AM.
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