FlashFeeD 1.12

Enjoying the seemingly endless festivities?

 

Do you need a prompt to help create a flash fiction story and take you away from it all?

Please join in. You’re very welcome here.

Full rules here:

If you can focus on emotion this week, that would be grand.

 

Stories will be limited to 2000 characters* (about 300 words), including the title.

*(The field itself will allow for 2050 characters, but this extra 50 characters is only to be used as contingency and it won't be increased).

Use the comment field to post stories, include your story title. Use the reply button on a particular story to provide positive feedback. Press the ‘like’ icon if you like a story.


 

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11 Stories or Comments on "FlashFeeD 1.12"

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Colin Smith
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Irish Wolfhound
Predictive Story Challenge
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I had never really known love. Happy on my own for many years, people tried to find my perfect match, but no-one compared to the pleasure of my own company, the joy of solitude. They said there was someone for me somewhere, someone to fill the empty space in my life. I didn’t know there was an empty space.

Not until she made one.

My usual seat at the bar, my usual glass of IPA, I scanned the crowd as I usually do. And there she was, sitting alone on the other side. Pale blonde, with skin smooth and dark. She caught me with a side glance, a slight twitch at the side of her mouth. My heart burned, nerves on edge as I got up and moved closer. She didn’t turn, but I knew she saw me. I took a stool a couple down from her.

She remained cool at my smile. I worried my stare would unnerve her, but I couldn’t take my eyes away. My mouth began to dry up. I reached for her, but she didn’t respond. Cleared my throat, but she remained unmoved.

My tongue was sticking to my mouth but she sat impassive, untouched. The only one who could wet my lips, quench the fire in my chest, smiling and out of reach.

And then she was gone.

But the thirst remains.

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Siberian Husky
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A cat and mouse tale at first, then becoming a haunting story. Nicely done.

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Siberian Husky
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First hope and then…nothing.

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Siberian Husky
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Nathan’s mood was like his beer: black and bitter. All these months his mind had beeen racing, his heart beating.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t noticed him. He knew she had. She had that look many others shared when they saw his tattoos. Nobody minded if they didn’t notice him.

Nathan drummed with his fingers on the counter. Would he dare do it today? What would she think? Even worse, what would she do?

He shook his head and drank.

Like every day at the exact same hour, she walked past right then, avoiding to look inside the pub, where he was sure she knew Nathan was. Always in a hurry, afraid to get home late. Always trying to hide her shame.

But he saw.

He saw the unnatural limp she tried to conceal. He saw the make-up that tried unsuccesfully to cover the blue eye. He saw the swollen lip that was already on the process of healing.

Nathan felt his blood boil. He finished his beer in one large gulp, smashed a tenner on the counter and stormed out of the pub, right before she disappeared down the corner.

Cracking his knuckles, he produced his phone.

“Police? I want the home abuse line. I want to report a case of domestic violence.”

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Siberian Husky
FlashFeeD Pioneer
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If only everyone cared enough to help. Nice one.

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Siberian Husky
FlashFeeD Pioneer
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Thank you. I just had to write it.

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Siberian Husky
FlashFeeD Pioneer
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Needed to write it should be more appropriate…

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Irish Wolfhound
FlashDogs TIME anthology
FlashDogs Solstice Anthology
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Time Called

Adam showed his love with his fist, a bouquet of knuckles ribboned with purple. His other hand hid hate, it was the one which reached for the pint, for the whisky, for anything that would numb the senses. Over the years his hands had delivered many messages and most had been rejected. Today though, it was he who had been on the receiving end, had been given a message that could not be returned to sender. The walk from the surgery to the pub had been done on automatic pilot and his pint now sat before him … as always. Did he really hate himself that much that he would drink it without thinking? Condemned, Socrates had administered his own death. Adam, likewise sentenced, lifted the glass.

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Siberian Husky
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The other side of Vicente’s story.
Well done, Steph! I like the reference to Socrates.

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Siberian Husky
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What is love? I’ve struggled with this question all of my life. Spent years in therapy working out my childhood attachment issues, defining and redefining what love is, and seeking answers in a bottle of booze.

Dictionary defines love as a noun, as in being an intense feeling of affection, (whether it be platonic, kindred, romantic) sexual attraction, chemical reaction blah blah blah.

It’s also a verb: “to love” someone as in show affection, do kind things like give flowers or backrubs, sacrifice your last chocolate chip cookie or maybe even your life.

People like Ghandi, Oscar Wilde and Shakespeare and The Romanticists have shared their prose and poetry about love. Indeed, love is the subject of most sonnets and songs.

Some describe it as selfless, safe, home, unwavering commitment, faithful, respectful, transcendent, exciting, heart-thumping, butterfly-inducing, sacrificing, unconditional, blinding, painful, messy, scary — you get the idea.

I personally think Haddaway sings it best. Baby don’t hurt me. Yeah yeah.

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St Bernard
FlashDogs Anthology 1
FlashDogs TIME anthology
FlashDogs Solstice Anthology
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Ken looked at the ice cold Guinness. “It used to be served just a bit below room temperature so you could taste it,” he said to the barman.

The barman nodded. “Aye, it’s to get the kids drinking it. They’re used to this cold shite. Never tasted anything, have they?”

The glass was frosted up and not at all welcoming to Ken. He hadn’t had a Guinness in years. Not since when he was last in England.

“You a friend or relation then?” the barman asked.

“A friendly relation I’d say.”

The barman laughed kindly then walked to the other end of the bar spying a potential customer.

Ken felt conflicted since he’d arrived in the town the night before. It seemed both homely and foreign to him after all his years in the States.

He ran his damp fingers through his grey hair. He felt suddenly older, realising he’d been in the bar last around thirty years earlier; probably wearing big hair and big glasses and some god-awful 80s shirt or jumper. It made him feel colder than the Guinness.

He looked around the room. The brash adverts on the walls selling Bingo Nights and Karaoke and some DJ who was on every Friday; it was all somehow discomfortingly familiar, not that there’d been karaoke when he was a lad. .

“Couldnt make it up could you?” the barman said. “That guy had come for a funeral too. But it was last Wednesday. He’d got the date wrong.”

Ken smiled. “Poor fella. Should have told him he could stay. Looks like there’s only me here. Some wake.”

“He was going to stay but when I told him there was no buffet or bar tab he said he’d just pop to the bookies then down the Wetherspoons.”

“What’s a Wetherspoons?”

The barman pulled a disbelieving face. “You been away a while, have you?”

“Yep. It was still all fields around here when I left. Though this place was still here.”

“This place was here before the Roman’s fella.”

Ken laughed. The humour hadn’t changed and that was the most comforting thing of all. It was time to try the Guinness, maybe it was warm enough to drink now too.

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