Well, I'm still hoping that someone wants to participate in the Flash Fiction Challenge, but it doesn't look good.
So, I went looking for some sites with writing prompts. So far The Alchera Project looks promising. Seven topics are posted and you have about a month to get something together. I just skimmed it, but I'll take a closer look tomorrow.
Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts
Monday, May 09, 2005
Friday, May 06, 2005
Save The Flash Fiction Challenge
I sent an email out to the previous participants in Grimace's "Flash Fiction Challenge" in the hope that we can get it started again. Two people have responded so far, so I decided to send out the following challenge:
I can't wait to see what they come up with!
Flash Fiction Challenge #7:
- Maximum length: 250 words.
- The theme is: Resignation
- The year is: 1975
- Within the story you must use this text: "on a pedestal"
I can't wait to see what they come up with!
Friday, April 08, 2005
Flash Fiction Challenge 6: One in a Million
She was amazed at how much had changed. Colored lanterns illuminated the beach. Children played on the boardwalk. Vendors sold cold drinks and hot food. Desolation had given way to life.
“Remember that ancient warehouse where Tug died?” her brother said. “They razed it and built a pier.” He pointed. They watched in silence as another passenger-laden ferry came in slowly to the docks.
“The curfew’s been extended,” her brother said. “Maybe there’ll be fireworks!” There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
“Oh, no,” she said, worriedly. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“But we’re all so proud of you! Incono gives us everything because of you, you and the others.”
He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “SHE’S HERE! Our Guardian is here!”
People stated to gather. Some people stared in awe, others wanted to touch her, thinking she would give them good luck. This was the hard part. The training had been bad, and the fighting worse, but facing everyone’s expectations, that was worst of all.
A vendor offered her a steaming meat patty and would accept no money.
She slowly chewed the pastry, not wanting to offend. When the tears came to her eyes, she convinced herself it was because she had burned her tongue.
A boy of about five rushed forward. He wrapped his arms around her legs and looked up in admiration. “I want to be Chosen too!”
“Maybe,” she said softly, looking down at the child. “If you’re one in a million.”
Rules for Flash Fiction #6
Maximum length: 250 words.
The theme is: compensation.
The setting is: on the waterfront.
Within the story, you must use this text: came in slowly.
As always, the challenge originates from Diminished Fifth.
“Remember that ancient warehouse where Tug died?” her brother said. “They razed it and built a pier.” He pointed. They watched in silence as another passenger-laden ferry came in slowly to the docks.
“The curfew’s been extended,” her brother said. “Maybe there’ll be fireworks!” There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
“Oh, no,” she said, worriedly. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“But we’re all so proud of you! Incono gives us everything because of you, you and the others.”
He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “SHE’S HERE! Our Guardian is here!”
People stated to gather. Some people stared in awe, others wanted to touch her, thinking she would give them good luck. This was the hard part. The training had been bad, and the fighting worse, but facing everyone’s expectations, that was worst of all.
A vendor offered her a steaming meat patty and would accept no money.
She slowly chewed the pastry, not wanting to offend. When the tears came to her eyes, she convinced herself it was because she had burned her tongue.
A boy of about five rushed forward. He wrapped his arms around her legs and looked up in admiration. “I want to be Chosen too!”
“Maybe,” she said softly, looking down at the child. “If you’re one in a million.”
Rules for Flash Fiction #6
Maximum length: 250 words.
The theme is: compensation.
The setting is: on the waterfront.
Within the story, you must use this text: came in slowly.
As always, the challenge originates from Diminished Fifth.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Flash Fiction Challenge 5: Wake Up
Though the Army had been integrated for well over a decade, there was still a tendency to self-segregate. The blacks had a spot in the chow hall dubbed the “Sugar Shack” where soldiers would gather in the rare event that there was some downtime. On days like today when the heavy spring rains made it seem like all of the ‘Nam was drowning, Corporal Darcy became the self-appointed morale officer for Bravo Company.
“’Bout time!” said Darcy, cranking up the volume on the battered transistor radio when the broadcast switched from Rock to Soul.
“Check it out man,” he said to the group, “when we get back stateside, Lewis and me gonna cut an album.”
Darcy and Lewis drifted into a practiced harmony.
Groovin' . . . on a Sunday afternoon…
Sergeant Baines looked up from his chow. “With all due respect, y’all two are acting like faggots.”
“This faggot is short,” grinned Darcy, unphased. “Twelve days and a wake up, baby.”
“You should re-up,” Baines insisted. “Ain’t nothin’ for you back in the world.”
“Only thing that needs to re-up is this rain,” joked Darcy. “This is official ‘Charlie Time Out Day.’”
That got a chuckle from all present.
Another favorite song followed. “Two for two!” Darcy marveled.
He was launching into his imitation of Aretha when Sergeant Mills burst into the chow hall, shouting.
“Dr. King is dead!”
Stunned, Darcy cut the power on the radio.
“Shut it down,” said Darcy, sober for once. “Shut it all down.”
This week's challenge:
1. Maximum length: 250 words.
2. The theme is: power
3. The time is: 1968
4. Within the story, you must use this text: all due respect.
“’Bout time!” said Darcy, cranking up the volume on the battered transistor radio when the broadcast switched from Rock to Soul.
“Check it out man,” he said to the group, “when we get back stateside, Lewis and me gonna cut an album.”
Darcy and Lewis drifted into a practiced harmony.
Groovin' . . . on a Sunday afternoon…
Sergeant Baines looked up from his chow. “With all due respect, y’all two are acting like faggots.”
“This faggot is short,” grinned Darcy, unphased. “Twelve days and a wake up, baby.”
“You should re-up,” Baines insisted. “Ain’t nothin’ for you back in the world.”
“Only thing that needs to re-up is this rain,” joked Darcy. “This is official ‘Charlie Time Out Day.’”
That got a chuckle from all present.
Another favorite song followed. “Two for two!” Darcy marveled.
He was launching into his imitation of Aretha when Sergeant Mills burst into the chow hall, shouting.
“Dr. King is dead!”
Stunned, Darcy cut the power on the radio.
“Shut it down,” said Darcy, sober for once. “Shut it all down.”
This week's challenge:
1. Maximum length: 250 words.
2. The theme is: power
3. The time is: 1968
4. Within the story, you must use this text: all due respect.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Flash Fiction Challenge: Moscow, Idaho
“Been a hard winter,” Preacher Ned was saying. “Likely to be a late spring. But I digress.”
The diner was empty save for a waitress cleaning up down front and a cook in the kitchen. The opening bars of Come Go With Me drifted from the jukebox.
Ned pushed the salt and pepper shakers toward Joey. “You’ve got two men,” he said. “For the sake of argument, let’s call one ‘A,’ the other ‘B.’”
Joey snorted, bored with the weak analogies, bored with the company. He took a long drag on his cigarette and looked out the window at the bleak Idaho landscape. It was snowing again in Moscow. No surprise.
He looked at Ned. “Got a lot of Reds here?”
It was a joke, of course, but Preacher looked offended. “Only God-fearing people here. Good Christian people.”
“Except for Mr. Pepper.”
Ned tapped the pepper shaker. “A cancer that needs to be excised. A cancer that cannot be allowed to spread.”
Ned passed him his fee in a paper bag under the table. Joey did a quick inspection.
“You’re short.” A note of warning crept into his voice.
“In lieu of the, ah, down payment, I thought you’d appreciate this,” said Ned, quickly handing him a set of keys.
Preacher gestured with his pinky at a ‘58 T-bird in the parking lot. Light blue. Brand new.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get the rest. I have need of, shall we say, ‘an avenging angel?’”
“God’s will be done,” Joey said dryly.
The rules for this week's Flash Fiction Challenge #4 from Grimace at Diminished Fifth were:
1. Maximum length: 250 words.
2. The setting is: Moscow, USSR
3. The year is: 1958.
4. Within the story, you must use this text: for the sake.
If you prefer, you can set it in Moscow, Idaho. In fact, that might ultimately prove much cooler.
The diner was empty save for a waitress cleaning up down front and a cook in the kitchen. The opening bars of Come Go With Me drifted from the jukebox.
Ned pushed the salt and pepper shakers toward Joey. “You’ve got two men,” he said. “For the sake of argument, let’s call one ‘A,’ the other ‘B.’”
Joey snorted, bored with the weak analogies, bored with the company. He took a long drag on his cigarette and looked out the window at the bleak Idaho landscape. It was snowing again in Moscow. No surprise.
He looked at Ned. “Got a lot of Reds here?”
It was a joke, of course, but Preacher looked offended. “Only God-fearing people here. Good Christian people.”
“Except for Mr. Pepper.”
Ned tapped the pepper shaker. “A cancer that needs to be excised. A cancer that cannot be allowed to spread.”
Ned passed him his fee in a paper bag under the table. Joey did a quick inspection.
“You’re short.” A note of warning crept into his voice.
“In lieu of the, ah, down payment, I thought you’d appreciate this,” said Ned, quickly handing him a set of keys.
Preacher gestured with his pinky at a ‘58 T-bird in the parking lot. Light blue. Brand new.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get the rest. I have need of, shall we say, ‘an avenging angel?’”
“God’s will be done,” Joey said dryly.
The rules for this week's Flash Fiction Challenge #4 from Grimace at Diminished Fifth were:
1. Maximum length: 250 words.
2. The setting is: Moscow, USSR
3. The year is: 1958.
4. Within the story, you must use this text: for the sake.
If you prefer, you can set it in Moscow, Idaho. In fact, that might ultimately prove much cooler.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Flash Fiction Challenge: Mind Over Matter (2)
Okay, here's a second stab at this. This time I stuck to the word count.
It was, the right fielder reflected, not a great day for baseball.
Maybe it was the snow flurries that accounted for the pitiful attendance on Opening Day.
No, the truth was the Detroit Tigers were a bad team. The window dressing – a few free agent signings, a pretty ballpark – hadn’t fooled the public.
Hoping to entice people to come, they had let a basketball player throw out the first pitch. He had even dispensed advice to the team as if he knew this game.
His game.
The veteran knew a little something about motivation. His body had started to lose its inherent ability. Still, discipline made it possible to make a difference.
The sharp crack of the bat abruptly brought the fielder out of his musings. He wasn’t going to catch it. He had been leaning toward center. Desperately he made a leap and slipped on a patch of frozen grass near the ample foul territory. He went down hard, but he had fully extended with his glove. The ball unerringly sailed in. He raised his glove and the umpire made the call.
OUT!
The center fielder trotted over. “You okay, dog?”
I’m not a dog, I’m a man.
The kid offered him a hand, helping him to his feet, and gave him a high-five.
The veteran pounded a fist into his glove, ignored the twinge in his left knee and willed himself to make it through his sixteenth season.
One hundred sixty-one more games to go.
It was, the right fielder reflected, not a great day for baseball.
Maybe it was the snow flurries that accounted for the pitiful attendance on Opening Day.
No, the truth was the Detroit Tigers were a bad team. The window dressing – a few free agent signings, a pretty ballpark – hadn’t fooled the public.
Hoping to entice people to come, they had let a basketball player throw out the first pitch. He had even dispensed advice to the team as if he knew this game.
His game.
The veteran knew a little something about motivation. His body had started to lose its inherent ability. Still, discipline made it possible to make a difference.
The sharp crack of the bat abruptly brought the fielder out of his musings. He wasn’t going to catch it. He had been leaning toward center. Desperately he made a leap and slipped on a patch of frozen grass near the ample foul territory. He went down hard, but he had fully extended with his glove. The ball unerringly sailed in. He raised his glove and the umpire made the call.
OUT!
The center fielder trotted over. “You okay, dog?”
I’m not a dog, I’m a man.
The kid offered him a hand, helping him to his feet, and gave him a high-five.
The veteran pounded a fist into his glove, ignored the twinge in his left knee and willed himself to make it through his sixteenth season.
One hundred sixty-one more games to go.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Flash Fiction Challenge: Mind Over Matter
It was, the right fielder reflected, not a great day for baseball.
True, not a cloud was in the sky, but the temperature was below freezing.
Maybe the weather was why the attendance was so pitiful on Opening Day.
Or maybe fans found other things to do because the Tigers were a bad team and they were playing KC, another bad team.
A basketball player had thrown out the first pitch today.
A basketball player!
Now that the Pistons had won something, they were suddenly the sports ambassadors of town, weighing in on anything and everything. Prior to the game, Management had let some of the Pistons tour the clubhouse and give pep talks, like they knew anything about this game. The right fielder could only shake his head.
“You ever won anything, paps?” A scrawny teammate with skinhead looks tried to be conversational as they suited up. “Say, you got that edge... You been in the game, like, forever. So…” he dropped hid voice, “What’s the deal?
The veteran glared at him, then answered. “Forget the trainers. It’s about the mind. Use its inherent ability to heal yourself.”
He instantly realized that people were going to think he was a Wiccan, for Christ’s sake..
But instead of laughing uproariously and inviting the others to join in, the kid was nodding thoughtfully.
The sharp crack of the bat abruptly brought the fielder out of his musings. He wasn’t going to catch it. He had been leaning toward center. Desperately he made a leap and slipped on a patch of ice near foul territory. He went down hard, but he had fully extended with his glove. The ball unerringly sailed in. He raised his glove and the umpire pumped his fist -- OUT!
God bless Comerica! And the architects who had modeled the park after Yellowstone.
The center fielder trotted over and extended a hand to help him to his feet, “You okay, man? That mind over matter stuff, it looks painful, dog.”
“I’m not a dog, I’m a man,” the right fielder grumbled.
“Naw. You’re a Tiger!” The grinning kid held up his hand and the veteran obliged with a high five. Grudgingly, he smiled back.
One hundred sixty-one more games to go. The veteran pounded a fist into his glove and willed himself to make it through his sixteenth season.
True, not a cloud was in the sky, but the temperature was below freezing.
Maybe the weather was why the attendance was so pitiful on Opening Day.
Or maybe fans found other things to do because the Tigers were a bad team and they were playing KC, another bad team.
A basketball player had thrown out the first pitch today.
A basketball player!
Now that the Pistons had won something, they were suddenly the sports ambassadors of town, weighing in on anything and everything. Prior to the game, Management had let some of the Pistons tour the clubhouse and give pep talks, like they knew anything about this game. The right fielder could only shake his head.
“You ever won anything, paps?” A scrawny teammate with skinhead looks tried to be conversational as they suited up. “Say, you got that edge... You been in the game, like, forever. So…” he dropped hid voice, “What’s the deal?
The veteran glared at him, then answered. “Forget the trainers. It’s about the mind. Use its inherent ability to heal yourself.”
He instantly realized that people were going to think he was a Wiccan, for Christ’s sake..
But instead of laughing uproariously and inviting the others to join in, the kid was nodding thoughtfully.
The sharp crack of the bat abruptly brought the fielder out of his musings. He wasn’t going to catch it. He had been leaning toward center. Desperately he made a leap and slipped on a patch of ice near foul territory. He went down hard, but he had fully extended with his glove. The ball unerringly sailed in. He raised his glove and the umpire pumped his fist -- OUT!
God bless Comerica! And the architects who had modeled the park after Yellowstone.
The center fielder trotted over and extended a hand to help him to his feet, “You okay, man? That mind over matter stuff, it looks painful, dog.”
“I’m not a dog, I’m a man,” the right fielder grumbled.
“Naw. You’re a Tiger!” The grinning kid held up his hand and the veteran obliged with a high five. Grudgingly, he smiled back.
One hundred sixty-one more games to go. The veteran pounded a fist into his glove and willed himself to make it through his sixteenth season.
[I went over the word count by a lot. Ooops!]
This week's challenge:
- Maximum length: 250 words.
- The theme is: toil.
- The setting is: Detroit.
- Within the story, you must use this bit of text: its inherent ability.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Flash Fiction Challenge: The Broker
“Sure you want to do this?” Donovan pushed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter across the table to the teen seated before him. A spry octogenarian, the broker had a squirrelly look.
The young man nodded, though he eyed the offering with suspicion.
The clients were usually older. The old always wanted to relive memories. Something was always missing from the present. Donovan shrugged mentally. Whatever it takes to ease the pain.
“So... why 1995? Political climate more to your liking? Good year for baseball?”
“I got my reasons.” The kid slouched in his seat and scowled. An act, of course. From money, Donovan mused.
“Have it your way, son. Any questions?”
“It’s real?” the client asked slowly.
“How do you define ‘real’”? See---”
“Don’t fuck with me,” the kid grated.
Donovan sat back, frowning. “You just blew it. Happy now?”
“NO!” the kid stammered. “I want to get this started. Please. How does it start?”
“You’re already there.” Donovan pointed at the door.
The kid looked confused. “Just like that?”
The broker snapped his fingers. “Done.”
Hope entered the teen’s face. A second later a soft gray light filled the office as he opened the door.
He hesitated. “I would’ve paid ten times as much...”
The old man folded his hands. “My loss,” he said lightly, but the boy was gone.
Reaching out for a battered notebook on his desk, Donovan smiled faintly and drew a neat line through another name.
“Two more left,” he whispered.
Above is my entry for this week's Flash Fiction Challenge: http://diminishedfifth.blogspot.com/.
The rules were as follows:
The young man nodded, though he eyed the offering with suspicion.
The clients were usually older. The old always wanted to relive memories. Something was always missing from the present. Donovan shrugged mentally. Whatever it takes to ease the pain.
“So... why 1995? Political climate more to your liking? Good year for baseball?”
“I got my reasons.” The kid slouched in his seat and scowled. An act, of course. From money, Donovan mused.
“Have it your way, son. Any questions?”
“It’s real?” the client asked slowly.
“How do you define ‘real’”? See---”
“Don’t fuck with me,” the kid grated.
Donovan sat back, frowning. “You just blew it. Happy now?”
“NO!” the kid stammered. “I want to get this started. Please. How does it start?”
“You’re already there.” Donovan pointed at the door.
The kid looked confused. “Just like that?”
The broker snapped his fingers. “Done.”
Hope entered the teen’s face. A second later a soft gray light filled the office as he opened the door.
He hesitated. “I would’ve paid ten times as much...”
The old man folded his hands. “My loss,” he said lightly, but the boy was gone.
Reaching out for a battered notebook on his desk, Donovan smiled faintly and drew a neat line through another name.
“Two more left,” he whispered.
Above is my entry for this week's Flash Fiction Challenge: http://diminishedfifth.blogspot.com/.
The rules were as follows:
- Maximum length: 250 words.
- The theme is: memory.
- The year is: 1995.
- Within the story, you must use this text: ease the pain.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)