FlashFeeD 1.22

Thanks for your continued stories and contributions. The Leaderboard is looking mighty impressive. Keep writing, reading and contributing.

Nice to know that the prompt last week was challenging and it even appeared to materialize into real life for some people last week (freaky).

As always, write a story within the character limit, based on the prompt, below.

No special instructions this week as I suspect you’ll find the prompt challenging enough.

Surf’s up? Monsters of the deep? What’s on the shore? What’s behind the wave? Who is this person?


Full rules here:

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.



10 Replies to “FlashFeeD 1.22”

  1. ‘New Wave’

    She quite liked The Beachboys. She’d never tell her friends: it was her father’s music, inherited from his father; not cool.
    She liked the beach boys too: she wouldn’t tell her father, not yet. He thought she was a kid. Sixteen wasn’t a kid, sixteen was a woman. Sixteen was old enough to leave school, to start learning, to play the lottery. Sixteen was grown up. Sixteen was cool.
    The beach boys listened to Lucia; she listened too and dreamed of them making her sticky with melted ice cream. They listened to Suzi Wu; she would be their teenage witch, their beautiful disgrace, someone to be taken care of. This summer, she would be the girl who made waves and they would surf her.
    She bought hair dye; she would become the sun-kissed blonde the beach boys wanted. She bought a bikini she wouldn’t dare wear; she gave it to the blonde, who didn’t care. She bought a job at the ice-cream kiosk; her dignity the only price, practicing her flirting on an old man. And she bought music. Cool music: Nilufer Yanya, so they’d know who she was; Husky Loops, so they’d know she had plans; Drug Store Romeos so they’d know who was in them.
    She was ready. Sixteen was ready.
    The beach boys came. She learned quickly to spot the ones who’d stay, those who’d make her home theirs for the whole summer: they had a quiet confidence that the brash weekenders and vacationers didn’t. They could wait and they knew it. She couldn’t wait; they couldn’t know that.
    So she copied their cool and sold it back to them; she smiled and flirted and chatted and sometimes, when it was quiet and they might believe she believed no one was looking, she danced.
    And she waited, because the beach boys didn’t care whether she couldn’t, only that they could; because they only cared whether they were the cool, sun-kissed ones; because she never found the one song that would make them fall for the little ice-cream girl.
    She was sixteen: old enough to learn. By September, she learned to say “I love The Beachboys”.


  2. The board shook beneath me as it sailed over the ripples. I was practiced enough to keep my feet planted firm, and let my knees absorb the shock, like a car riding over gravel. One slip of the foot and my board and I would part ways. Possibly forever, given the size of the wave ahead. I ignored the spray, the crescendoing roar, and the wall of water getting taller, and focused my attention straight ahead.

    Already the wave was beginning to crest, succumbing to gravity as the white foam hemming the edge turned in and started forming a tunnel. I crouched low on the board, eyes on the far end of the watery tube.

    A jolt. I put my arms out, and leaned to counter the sudden turbulence. But the lean moved the board off-course. As soon as I realized, I used my body to pull the board back. That’s when I hit a small wave, sending me airborne.

    My heart raced. It was all I could do to stop my mind panicking. I took a deep breath, held my position on the board, and crouched low, bracing for impact.

    I closed my eyes.

    Just as I felt the board begin to drop away, the sea slammed it back in place. I wobbled, and almost came off, but managed to right myself.

    And not a moment too soon.

    The other side of the tunnel was just ahead. I could feel the top of the wave brushing my hair. Soon I would be submerged, unless… unless…

    A flash. Followed by complete darkness.

    The board was still at my feet, but the only roar was the noise of the ocean still ringing in my ears, amplified by the complete silence around me.

    “You made it.” The voice came from the void. I smiled.

    “I guess I did.” I stepped off the board onto solid nothing. “Where am I? I did as the message said.”

    The voice laughed a deep, thundering laugh that rivaled the ocean’s roar, echoing through the void.

    “Danny. Your journey has just begun…”


  3. The Journey

    I will ride the wave
    Wherever it takes me
    Over oceans that I’ve crossed
    for you

    So much love, so much hate
    So much joy, so much pain
    So much to release
    Inside me

    I’m holding on to threads
    The current shifting beneath me
    Gliding me towards
    What is left

    There are moments in a dream
    Where we are allowed to touch
    Oceans away
    The waves carry our thoughts

    I need to hold you tight
    Or release from me
    I will wait by the shore
    Calling out to you once more


  4. This Place
    A.J. Walker

    I sat down at the top of the beach on a broken polystyrene surfboard. It took me back to childhood holidays in Devon. Attempting to surf on waves no bigger than a bow break from a canal barge. It was supposed to be exciting, but I thought it was impossible and silly. In the end there was an inevitability that the board would just be used as a float to bob up and down on just beyond the waves. Meanwhile mum and dad turned like sausages on the beach looking for the perfect all over tan. One week in the English sunshine – more often it’d be two or three days and the remainder would be drizzle. If we couldn’t go to the beach we’d go to country houses and museums or worst of all gardens. The highlight of the holiday for me would be the knickerbocker glories at Antonio’s Ice Cream Parlour.

    I remember one summer we were all sat by the window watching drips race down the glazing, placing imaginary bets, mum had a ninety nine and dad had a rum & raisin and Cornish; he always had two scoops and never the same. It was always such a race to eat the knickerbocker glory before it all melted, pulling up the ice-cream and cream from the bottom with the long spoon was a surgical operation. This one year I finished it in record time, mum hadn’t even eaten her flake. It felt like an achievement; I was the master of knickerbocker glories! Behind the rain streaked windows I watched the beach beneath a glowering sky feeling immense comfort.

    Beyond the breaking waves something white bobbed up and down erratically. It looked like my polystyrene surf board. I couldn’t remember if I’d picked mine up the day before. The wind whistled through the gap in the doors and rattled the yellow plastic fisherman outside the chip shop next door. If the weather kept up we’d have a chippy tea that night. I crossed my fingers. Summer in England.

    Next year mum promised we’d go to Italy or Spain. Sunshine guaranteed. I’d miss this place and that plaice and I hoped that they didn’t have gardens abroad.


    1. Oh, I love every part of this! It has just enough points of contact with my own childhood to make me nostalgic for someone else’s life. Beautifully done.


      1. Ah, thanks. It made me want a banana split just writing it. But it didn’t make me want to go surfing – or around a garden.


  5. Wave Goodbye

    Sheeted water froze above him, its glass a barrier to any further travel. Aiden felt his own body slow as the waves around him stilled, the molecules inside obeying their pull rather than his will, his nervous system helpless in the face of this primordial claim. He too was water, no more than a moving sac, a bubble, floating on the surface of the ocean.

    The transmitter at his waist bleeped. They were tracking him, summoning him to return to the small patch of land remaining to them. He thought of those whose lives he now shared, the cramped quarters, the petty quarrels, the sheer claustrophobia of their island in the storm.

    Out here, he was free. Endless blues skies and an eternity of water. The world was huge and their ark a microcosm. He could not go back. Aiden tugged the transmitter from his waste and cast it into the ocean before lying back in his small craft and closing his eyes. A drifter in the before days, he became a drifter once more, unshackled and rudderless. Time and tide had combined to claim him and he gave himself up to them willingly.


  6. He parks by the beach at half past six. He’d go earlier, but you need daylight to surf. He’s already wearing his neoprene: he just zips it up and picks his board. He appreciates the perfect offshore wind as he paddles on, searching for his first wave of the day. He pushes and pushes. At this time of the day, feeling his arms ache is invigorating.

    Then comes the rush, as he manoeuvres, one eye on the next crest, ready for take-off… And he’s riding it, smooth at first, just feeling the waves this morning.

    Ten minutes later, when the next group of surfers arrives, he’s already kneeling inside a barrel, feeling alive again. He can hear the cheers from the coast, but he doesn’t let them distract him.

    From then on, it’s pure fun, playing catch with the rest of the early risers, always in good humour. He fakes a burn or two and even falls off his board to compensate. He’s inside another barrel when his watch chimes. Seven thirty. He kicks out and rides out of the water. He even hears a couple of complaints from the distance, but he simply waves goodbye as he runs towards his pick-up.

    Surf’s over. He’ll be at the office by eight-thirty. His last case cannot wait any longer.


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