Following the Breadcrumbs: WU Flash Fiction Competition, Round 1
By Jo Eberhardt | January 3, 2015 |
photo by Flickr’s Taro Taylor
Therese here to introduce you to our newest monthly contributor, Jo Eberhardt! If you’re a part of the WU Facebook scene (and if you aren’t, remedy that pronto), then you are surely familiar with Jo’s name; she frequently provides helpful advice and encouragement for others there. If you don’t yet know Jo, let me make a prediction: You’re going to love her. It’s nearly impossible not to. I had the pleasure of meeting her this past year at the Un-Conference, and was struck by her effervescent, warm personality (not to mention her magical red hair). When an opportunity opened up here at WU, I thought first of Jo–writer, mother, Australian adventuress, and already one of us.
Now that I’ve introduced you to her, she’s going to introduce you to something else. Take it away, Jo, and welcome to WU!
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When was the last time you sat and watched ants?
As a child, I could do it for hours. Or what felt like hours to a small, non-time-telling version of me. I’d sit and watch a line of ants walk across the grass, and then follow the line one way and then the other, working out where they came from and where they were going. But then I grew up, and ant-watching became just another hobby left behind as I moved from childhood through adolescence and into adulthood.
Until now.
Fifteen months ago, I threw in the towel on my suburban life and moved to live in a caravan in the bush. Since then, I’ve rediscovered a lot of my childhood joys, largely by watching my children discover the same ones, and shamelessly copying them. These days, I build stick-houses for fairies, find shapes in the clouds, and make up stories about the water dragon who lives in the creek. And, of course, I watch ants.
And because I’m me, watching ants soon transitioned into experimenting with ants. What would happen if I lay down a trail of breadcrumbs for them? Would they follow it?
Spoiler alert: The answer is yes.
With a trail of breadcrumbs, I could lead them anywhere. First one ant, and then another, would find the first breadcrumb. A bustle of activity would run up and down the line. And then the trail of ants would split, some ants continuing on their original mission while others went to investigate this new, tasty treat to be taken home and put in the ant-parlour for later consumption.
Eventually, I took the experiment to the next level. I set up my trail of breadcrumbs, and then finished it with a larger piece of bread. Then, I watched the ants swarm.
As you probably know, ants can carry up to fifty times their own weight. But if something is too big for them, too awkward, they don’t just let it lie. They gather their ant-cohorts and they patiently work at bringing the whole thing back home. One piece at a time, if necessary.
It reminds me of the way I develop ideas for stories.
Come on, you knew that was coming.
There I’ll be, minding my own business, when all of a sudden I see or hear something, and BANG. A story breadcrumb. My thoughts swirl around it eagerly, getting a feel and a taste for it. Then I follow it to the next breadcrumb, and the next, and the… You get my point.
Breadcrumbs can appear any time; often when you least expect it. For example, a couple of months ago I found one lurking in the “trending articles” list of my Facebook feed. My eyes skimmed over it, and I started to scroll down, and then– BANG. I was jolted back to the headline.
“Logan International Airport: Nude suspect assaults 84-year-old man after falling through ceiling.”
A breadcrumb.
My thoughts raced, searching for the next breadcrumb on the trail to this story. Maybe the guy was a time-traveller, sent back into the past to prevent some terrible event from occuring. No, poor Sarah Connor deserves a break.
Maybe he was a member of an ancient druidic order intent on creating world peace by having druids perform mystical rites in the ceilings of all international airports simultaneously, and when this hapless druid (with anger management issues — ironic, yes?) fell through the ceiling mid-rite, he opened a rift in reality to another, more terrifying, world. And now, all hell is about to break loose.
I can hear the melodramatic movie trailer already.
Or maybe Mike Swift was right when he pointed out that the guy was probably a psycho stalker on drugs. But that’s okay. There’s a story there, too. You just have to keep following the breadcrumbs.
And, speaking of flash fiction (What? We weren’t? Did you not notice my seamless segue?), I’d like to officially welcome you to the–
2015 Writer Unboxed Flash Fiction Contest!
“A contest?” you say. “How does it work?”
I’m glad you asked.
- On the first Saturday of each month between now and November, we’ll post a prompt. Your story must be inspired by each month’s visual prompt.
- Each submission must be 250 words or fewer. The restrictive word count means that each word is crucial. Also, 250 words fits nicely into the comment section.
- Each story must contain a beginning, middle, and end. Like all stories, a compelling narrative is essential.
- All submitted work must be original, not published elsewhere, and written by you, for this contest. After the contest, what you do with your story is up to you; we hold no claim on your work.
- Post your submission in the comment section of the prompt post. Each month, the deadline will be one week after the prompt is posted, meaning 7 a.m. EST on the second Saturday of the month. Stories posted after that time will not be eligible for the contest, but feel free to post them anyway — we’d love to read them.
- No more than two entries per person, per prompt will be eligible for that month.
- The winning story each month will be selected by a mix of votes in the form of Likes in the comment section (remember to Like your favourite stories!) and our own discretion.
- Each month’s winning story will be announced the following month, and republished on Writer Unboxed, along with the author’s bio, and links to the winner’s website and social media accounts. As well as this platform-raising exposure, the monthly winner gets bragging rights and the exclusive opportunity to compete for the grand prize in December.
- In December, the eleven monthly winners will be asked to write a new flash fiction story based on a new prompt. The overall winning story will be selected by a mix of votes via a poll and our own discretion.
- The overall winner of the 2015 Writer Unboxed Flash Fiction Contest will be announced by the end of December 2015, and will win a fabulous Mystery Prize Pack. (Trust me when I tell you it’s even better than bragging rights.) The other ten finalists will also receive runner-up prizes.
So, what are you waiting for? Below you’ll find this month’s picture prompt; a breadcrumb for you to follow all the way to your story. Good luck, and may the ants be with you.
photo credit: Rebecca Pagel
Jo Eberhardt is a writer of speculative fiction, mother to two adorable boys, and lover of words and stories. She lives in rural Queensland, Australia, and spends her non-writing time worrying that the neighbor’s cows will one day succeed in sneaking into her yard and eating everything in her veggie garden.
Jo,
Colour me ecstatic for your position as a monthly WU contributor! And I had to laugh at your memory of the druggo-psycho-nudo-stalker. Quite humourous. If memory serves, I think he ended up being a hologram from another dimension.
Loved your metaphor on breadcrumb story ideas. I have sheets of “breadcrumbs” pinned to my bulletin board, waiting for ants to carry them to the hill and make a feast of them.
So looking forward to your flash fiction Saturdays. I think I’ll write one or two (or three or four).
Congrats on a great first post as a contributor! (And I was tickled to death when you mentioned me. Don’t worry, I have a defibrillator for just such occasion.)
Thanks for the welcome, Mike. I’m so excited to be here!
I love that you have sheets of breadcrumbs on your bulletin board. I keep mine in a folder (an actual real one, with mass and everything), since I don’t even have a desk, let alone a bulletin board. :)
I look forward to reading your flash fiction entry this month. (And next month, and the month after that, and so on and so forth.)
We need to get you another caravan.
JO!!! I was so thrilled when I opened up WU this morning and saw your name — and what a perfect thing for you to be doing. You already got me into flash fiction…now all of us :-) I can’t wait to read what people come up with. The last time WU did this, it was great, but it was just for a summer, if I remember correctly. Love it. I love everything about it. Now to get daydreaming about that image…
Thanks so much for the exuberance, Nat-Nat! I loved the Summer Flash Fiction comp as well — it’s one of the things that cemented my love of flash fiction. I can’t wait to read what you come up with for this contest.
I have two trails of writerly breadcrumbs: a folder in a filing cabinet, and a Pinterest board called “scope for imagination” (in homage to my first favorite character, Anne Shirley, aka Anne of Green Gables).
Oooh. You’ve got a folder with actual mass as well? Here’s to keeping it old-school.
Yay, Jo! As with Natalie and Mike, congrats on your new gig! ;)
I’ve never done flash fiction, but that may have to change now that I know it will be under your direction (though I may still hover around the edges for a couple of rounds). Regardless, I look forward to the entries, and the discussion guided by your wise tutelage.
Cheers!
Hey, John…I admin two groups on Fb that do weekly flash fiction. In one, every Friday, the inspiration photo is common to all and limited to 100 words and in the other, on Tuesdays, the author provides their own photo as inspiration and is limited to 200 words. Obviously it is hard, but it sure is fun. If you are interested in honing your flash fiction skills, email me: Muffy@MuffyWilson.com
Happy New Year, all!!
Thanks so much for the warm welcome, John. It’s great to be here.
I’d love to see you what you come up with once you finish hovering and dive in. Flash fiction is incredibly, but even more fun than watching ants. (I know, it seems impossible.) One warning: Flash fiction is highly addictive, and can lead to permanently tighter prose.
Congratulations, Jo! This gig is perfect for you!
Can’t say I’ve ever tried flash fiction and (ACK!) that 250 word limit scares me. I’ll definitely be hovering around, reading, and voting, though.
Thanks so much, Kim! So now my mission for the year is to encourage you to try flash fiction. :) 250 words is definitely a challenge, yes. But, if it helps, when I’m writing such short flash fiction, my first draft usually comes in at twice the prescribed length, then it’s just a matter of distilling the story and tightening the prose.
Big congrats on the new contributor post, Jo! You’re the perfect selection. I love the ant metaphor, too. I’m glad no one’s brought up utilizing the focused beam from a magnifying glass to… Oh, never mind. (I suppose even a childhood small scale experiment in masculine malevolence can become story fodder. But enough about my neighbor. ;-)
Looking forward to seeing what develops in this space!
We used to raise pigs when I was young, and had an insulated wire to check the “hot wire” that surrounded the pen. I’d hook it to the fence and touch it to the ground, zapping anything and everything that moved: ants, spiders, and all the other creepy-crawlies. Oh, the power. I felt like Zeus.
Be careful playing Zeus. We all remember what happened to Prometheus…
Thanks so much for the warm welcome, V. I’m not sure what happens if you follow my ant metaphor with the carnage a small boy can do with a magnifying glass. Perhaps that’s a lesson in not letting our creative thoughts be derailed, even if sometimes it feels that malevolent outside forces are distracting us with intent? Or something.
For the prompt:
The wind hurled rain at the walls of the tiny cabin. Mendi wrapped her worn shawl around her shoulders and peered out the window. The storm seemed to make the night even blacker, and the trees swayed, trying to touch the ground.
But under the wind and the water, she caught another scent: Male. A traveler perhaps, caught in the storm, hoping for shelter.
Hunger gnawed at her stomach. She tore off a bit of jerky from her precious supply. As she chewed on the salty meat, she fumbled for a brimstone match from its protective tinderbox.
The flame flared orange in the dim room, its sulfur fragrance sending a rush of warmth through her. She tipped the match into the candle votive carved with shapes of the wings of butterflies. The candle was more plain, mutton tallow worn down by heat, and a flax wick.
Things had not been the same since the King’s Highway had been built, she thought as she carried the candle to the window. Few came on this road any more.
The flame flickered in the air, the shadows dancing orange on the walls. It was a good night to see a candle from a ways. But the scent of the visitor was fleeting. She couldn’t tell if it was being carried away by the storm or if the visitor was moving away.
Then: A fist thumped at her door, with desperation.
The change pulsed against the Mendi’s skin. It was time for dinner.
Thanks for your contest entry, Linda. If you enjoyed Linda’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Hi Jo,
Congrats on your new position. I carry a little notebook with me to write ideas if I’m inspired away from home.
I’m looking forward to the flash fiction stories. I’ve never done anything like this before.
Do I leave my entry in a reply box like this one? Thanks.
Thanks for the welcome, Jackie. After being a long-time fan-girl of WU, it’s insanely exciting to be here. Good luck with the flash fiction contest. As I said above, be warned that flash fiction is highly addictive. Yes, please leave your entry in a comment box on this post. Happy writing!
I saw your posting this morning and thought I would write something before I had my breakfast and here is the result. (I blame this on my stomach growling loudly.)
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The imaginarium sat in the corner of the room, it’s light slowly dimming. Powered by flights of fancy imaginariums used to be in every house and hovel and cave, seen by many but ignored by most as a figment of their imagination. Now there were just a handful left, each one weakly struggling against the darkness known as “progress” and “reason”.
As Jo walked into her grandmothers parlour she noticed the glowing object in the corner and was immediately captivated by it’s aura. It reminded her of a Bunyip eye in the stories her grandmother used to tell her. As she image of her grandmother telling her stories flickered through her memory the light from the imaginarium waxed and waned.
Intrigued by this change Jo moved closer to examine the imaginarium. The glow came from the centre, but there didn’t seem to be anything there, just a glimmering ball of light. As shadows crossed the surface of the ball of light Jo’s imagination took over and saw men on horses chasing dragons, women growing from childhood to adulthood in the blink of an eye and her neighbours cows sneaking into her yard.
Each image caused the imaginarium to brighten. Each dimming brought the truth to Jo.
It was dying.
As the imagination of people was replaced by technology the imaginarium was given less to feed upon. As tears started to fill her eyes a solution came to mind.
“I’ll start a contest!”
Thanks for your contest entry, Donald — and for the personal touches :). If you enjoyed Donald’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
So nice to “hear” your voice here, Jo, and let me add my congratulations! Love the ant and breadcrumb metaphor for writing!
Thanks so much, Kathryn. It’s great to be here!
Jo! So happy to see you doing this! Onward and upward!
Thanks, Joe! So, any chance I can tempt you to write some flash fiction, then?
What a great idea, Jo (and WU)! I’ve never written much flash fiction, but I admire the discipline it takes to get a “full” story into so few words. So I want to have a go at it! The prompts will also be fodder for longer stories, I expect.
I loved the ants and breadcrumbs metaphor, too; so apt!
Glad you enjoyed the ant metaphor, Gerry. I’d love you to see you dive in and have a go at writing some flash fiction. It is definitely challenging to get a full story into so few words, but it’s the challenge that makes it fun. Happy writing!
For the January 2015 Prompt:
She lit a candle that had once been on the mantel and entered the secret door. The draft was chilly, musky, and cast flickering light into dark corners that exposed them briefly to her curious penetrating gaze. There was no handrail along the stone wall created by the back of the fireplace. And the stone steps, narrow, uneven, and steep, descended sharply into a black abyss.
She had no fear and was not burdened by anxiety nor foreboding. Her expectations were not tied to any particular outcome. The journey into the cellar was not overshadowed by any explicit feeling except that of awe, wonderment, and a raw anticipation. Her heart beat out a cadence that her footsteps followed deeper into the chasm which she knew in her soul was no void.
It would be filled with secrets.
She knew, in the very heart that she could not control—cold secrets seized her core in an icy grip and her lungs in piercing convulsions—that cold, perhaps dark, secrets would soon be her own.
Would the candle be enough to light her way banishing the darkness into the golden hue of emanating truth? She was soon to find out. Each step brought her closer, each breath added to an incantation she whispered to no one but herself—and yet everyone in the past—each heartbeat brought her closer to him, only him. Involuntarily, she caught herself invoking his name.
“Colin…”
His whispered name preceded her willful plunge into the waiting darkness.
Thanks for your contest entry, Muffy. If you enjoyed Muffy’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Three cheers for you Jo!
Can’t think of a better way to launch 2015 than with an intention and a challenge.
May the patience and persistence of the ANTS be with us all as we write forward!
Happy New Year!
Thank you, Jocosa. Happy New Year to you!
Here’s my entry:
Melody looked at the light from the candle on the bookshelf. She liked the way the light fell onto the row of books. Orange light, but soft, like a warm blanket.
She wasn’t supposed to light the candle, wasn’t supposed to touch matches at all. How many times had Mama told her? But the lights had been out for more than three days, and there was nothing else to do.
Brian came to her on his toddler legs and grabbed at her skirt, pulling. “Meddy,” he said. That was how he said “Melody.” He was little, and he couldn’t say much, and what he did say, he couldn’t say right. “Meddy.” He tugged at her skirt and started to make his hungry noise.
She smoothed his hair with her hand. “Let’s get you something to eat.” She took the candle from the bookshelf and carried it into the kitchen, her brother following.
The kitchen was dark and tidy. Melody did her best to keep it neat, the way Mama wanted. It was hard without running water, but she tried.
No point in opening the refrigerator. Without power, everything had spoiled. She went to the counter and got the last piece of bread from the bag and carefully spread peanut butter on it. She handed the it to Brian, who started shoving the soft bread into his mouth.
No more bread, and that was the last of the peanut butter. Melody’s stomach growled as she sat down to wait for Mama.
Thanks for your contest entry, Linda. If you enjoyed Linda’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Congratulations on the new position and, oh, I’m so glad you’re doing this! The Seven Sizzling Sundays of Summer contest WU had a couple years ago was so fun. Thank you!
Thanks so much, Larissa! I loved the Summer contest as well — so much fun. I hope you enjoy this one just as much.
Jo,
Congrats on being a new contributor to WU! I am so excited and proud to find you here. It’s kinda like when your favorite indie band hits the mainstream radio, and everybody benefits from their art.
The breadcrumb analogy–love it! It’s so true. Presently I am following a trail of breadcrumbs aiming to mash together a full loaf, as I work to make blank pages into a first draft. (A first, first draft after the overwhelming enlightenment known as WU UnCon.)
Awesome about the flash fiction contest, too. I learned a lot about technique from the WU flash fiction contest last year, and I look forward to reading your posts, here in the coming year.
Happy New Year! And may the ants, the bread, and a full glass be with us all…
Oh, Bee. Thank you!
“It’s kinda like when your favorite indie band hits the mainstream radio, and everybody benefits from their art.”
That made me laugh. It’s so very, very you, and (thanks to the overwhelming enlightenment known as WU UnCon), I could hear it in your voice. Enjoy the flash fiction contest. Can’t wait to see what you come up with! *raising a glass to you*
Hello All! I loved doing this today! Here is my entry:
My grandma thought she was helping. I mean she was, taking me in when my parents dumped me. My own father wouldn’t even cut the engine on the night they left; he just pushed the Gran Torino’s wide, heavy door out with his shiny, crocodile boot and said, “Git.” My mother sobbed next to him, curled up in a ball, cradling herself. I squeezed out, then stood there not knowing what “git” meant this time.
I always feared the dark. I stumbled across the yard marked by pine roots that buckled up from under the ground like the skin of unseen beasts forcing their way through and Grandma’s flower pots empty for the winter, discarded there until spring. I forced my way across, skinning my knee twice as I lunged toward what I hoped to be the front steps. No moon lit my way. The car’s taillights disappeared down the long drive before I even made my second step.
Grandma fixed that candle above my headboard, patting the blanket twice as if to say there, there, before she closed the door and disappeared back down the stairs. I heard them creak, then the flick of the television, a laugh track, people excited about something, somewhere faraway.
The heat kicked on; the candle’s flame hissed and spit. The shadows moved. Sharp shapes like fangs and ears. The points of polished cowboy boots and the ends of leather belts. They danced around my head. No amount of light could change that.
Thanks for your contest entry, Brandi. Glad you had a good time writing it! If you enjoyed Brandi’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Jo, so glad to see you here (and your fun way with those word things we bat about). A terrific start for WU’s 2015, says I.
Thanks for the welcome, Ray. It’s so great to be here.
Okay, I’ll play:
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Not an especially imaginative child, Ari believed whatever fantasy stories adults told him. Why shouldn’t he? Adults had to know a lot more, about everything, than he’d ever experience on his own. Talking bears? Sure – all Ari knew first-hand about bears came from zoos. That none had spoken in his presence seemed plausible. Magical pixies? Santa Claus? Devils in Hell, and angels playing harps from their clouds? Why not?
But that had been many, many years ago. Ari held no more illusions about adults’ omniscience and honesty, and now he was dying: a final, bitter reality.
He looked out the window of his bedroom, to the nightswept street. His son Jake was in the kitchen, fixing what they both pretended to be dinner, but Ari hoped to see the closely spaced headlights of the Mini Cooper belonging to his granddaughter Tinka. It would ease the indignity of being unable to swallow milk-soaked bread, if he had Tinka here to make him laugh.
No headlights appeared. All the traffic in the street outside his window seemed to Ari, however impossibly, to be receding: taillights all, fading to – what were they called? Pixies? No, that was ridiculous. Not pixies. Pixels. Taillights fading to ruby pixels.
Jake said something from the kitchen, which Ari could not catch. He looked at the lighted candle which Tinka had brought him, there on the sideboard visible above the foot of the bed…
My gosh, he thought. The wings. The wings are really real.
Thanks for your contest entry, John. If you enjoyed John’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Well done. Nice take on the prompt. Thank you for sharing it!
…and CONGRATULATIONS, Jo — this is a wonderful kickoff for the series. Although now that you’ve laid out all those psychological breadcrumbs, now I’m hungry.
Hahaha. Hunger is an unplanned side-effect. :) Thanks so much for the welcome!
May the ants be with you? Sputter-cough-laugh. I love it. I’m having a cup of tea before running off to do some errands and now I just want to stay home and write … but the kiddos doth protest. But I will return to this. Thank you for doing this!
Kiddos are so unaccommodating that way. :) Glad you enjoyed the post. I look forward to reading your entry when you come back.
Jo, small world—I knew a druid with anger-management issues too. And he smelled of elderberries. Hey, this flash fiction stuff is fun! Here’s mine, that manages to mangle point-of-view in only 227 words:
“His life was a flickering candle.” No. He frowned. Maybe first person? “My life was a flickering candle.” Ugh, no—smells of the self-help shelf.
What about a passive-voice variant, with a sort of atop-the-mountain sweep? “Life, a flickering candle, was all he had.” God no. Sententious bullpuck, of the first order.
He set the pencil down in front of the candle he’d lit and rubbed the back of his head. Its steady, one-inch flame seemed an affront. Stupid candle. Doesn’t even flicker. How am I supposed to get any inspiration from that?
He waved his hand vigorously in front of the candle, causing its flame to bend and flutter. His hand-waving also caught the top edge of a half-full glass of cheap pinot, sending the glass and its contents to bloody hell all over the table.
CRAP! He leapt up, but not quickly enough: the wine made a purplish Rorschach of a gored bullfighter on his second-best pair of corduroys.
He cleaned up, face set in a scowl. What’s the use? Writing. It’s impossible.
He returned the candle to the shelf, but his eye fell on a small but realistic replica of a 1930s locomotive, a bullet-shaped cylinder of steel. He’d always loved trains.
He set the train on the still-damp desk and settled in.
“His life was a runaway train.” No, that’s not quite right …
I love the smell of elderberries in the morning.
Thanks for your contest entry, Tom. Flash fiction is, indeed, fun. :) If you enjoyed Tom’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Oh fun! I have been working on flash fiction over the past few months, so this is a great contest for me. Here’s my first shot:
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Jack pulled the blanket up over his nose, leaving his eyes free to watch the Face.
Oh, sure, Daddy said it was only a shadow from the nightlight, but Daddy didn’t see the way the Face leered when Jack was alone. The Face hated Jack, no matter how many nice songs Jack tried to sing for it or the treats he left under its nose (until Mother scolded him for attracting ants).
His tired eyes drooped shut, just for a second, but it was long enough for the Face to grow and stretch across the empty wall towards the bed. Jack began to shake under the blanket.
“Please…” he whispered to the Face, but it was no longer a face at all—it was a hand, reaching, grasping. Jack whimpered as the fingers brushed against his cheeks.
Thanks for your contest entry, Nora. If you enjoyed Nora’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Here’s my entry:
“SCENT”
“It’s one thing for a house to be scented,” Mrs. McCaffrey had thought, “but O’Brien is taking dis much too far.” She looked around her. There were scented candles on every shelf and counter, in every room, all melting slowly under a soft flame, all culminating in a nauseating stench.
Mrs. McCaffrey used to go next door for a cuppa every Monday. It was their ritual.
“How’s your b’y?’ she’d ask.
“Fine.”
“He’s shaved his head, I see. It’s a good t’ing he’s got a good shaped head.”
“Ya, good t’ing.”
“And Mr. O’Brien? We ain’t seen him in a bit.”
“Ah, God bless ‘im, he’s off doin’ the Lord’s work.”
They’d chat and sip their coffee until eventually, McCaffrey would excuse herself.
The smells were tolerable at first, but when Pumpkin Spice, Vanilla, Pomegranate, and something else wafted out the O’Briens’ open windows into her own home, Mrs. McCaffrey started to look for excuses not to go over. “Jesus Murphy,” she’d think. “What’s dat woman t’inkin’?” and “How can she stand it there wit’ all dat stink?”
And then, one morning, she saw the police arrive at the O’Briens’ with the coroner.
She watched through her bedroom curtains. Watched as a body went out on a stretcher, shrouded in plastic. Watched as they took O’Brien away in handcuffs.
The boy was left sitting on the porch. She went over. “What’s happened, b’y?” she asked.
“We’d been waitin’. For him to be resurrected,” he said.
“We’d only waited four months.”
Thanks for your contest entry, Larissa. If you enjoyed Larissa’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Well done, Jo. I’m so, so proud of you. WU readers are going to enjoy the witty and creative brain that percolates 24/7 beneath that magical red hair.
Breadcrumbs! Hansel and Gretel would agree, there’s no better way to begin an adventure. At least we writers get a say for how it ends, eh? ;)
Tighten your bootstraps. Stories abound. It’s going to be a great 2015. <3
Thanks so much, Denise. Ah, Hansel and Gretel… The forerunners of the breadcrumb-movement. :)
It most definitely is going to be a great 2015. Glad to be able to enjoy the ride with you.
Welcome aboard, ye red-headed piper-of-writers! In other words, this has felt inevitable for some time.
Love the idea/structure of a flash fiction contest, too.
Thank you, Jan! (I’m glad it felt inevitable to someone — I think I’m still in shock over the sheer awesomeness of being here!)
Hope you enjoy the contest.
Here’s mine!
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They rustled and shushed outside, their leaves filling the air with a dry hiss. The orange light, almost like firelight, shone through the window. Branches cast a pattern of light and shadows on the wall behind. Tomaš watched them sway, almost exactly like trees in the wind.
‘Don’t stare at them,’ Agnes said. She had her back to him, and clinked glass against glass as she fixed their drinks.
Half a dozen sentences dried up in Tomaš’ mouth. He watched her. The strange light showed off her figure.
‘I gotta love that dress,’ he said. ‘Polkadots, and victory rolls. You shoulda worn that to Steve and Mary’s party.’
Her shoulders shook. ‘Shit,’ Tomaš said. ‘Sorry.’
Agnes turned around with six glasses on a tray – three with clear liquid, three with amber. They brimmed and slopped as she walked.
‘Beautiful,’ he said.
Outside, the trees-that-were-not-trees drew closer. Branches tapped and scratched at the window.
‘What do ya think they do to people?’ Tomaš backed towards the couch, peering into the orange light. They had some kind of orafices on their trunks. Were they eyes? Mouths? He couldn’t tell.
Agnes carefully laid the tray down on the coffee table and sat down. Tomaš sat next to her. She opened two prescription bottles and poured them onto the table, white pills against dark wood.
‘Do you think there’s anyone left?’ Tomaš watched the trees. ‘The army?’
‘Take your pills honey,’ Agnes said quietly. ‘We don’t wanna be awake when they come in.’
Thanks for your contest entry, Jon. If you enjoyed Jon’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Thank you WU & Jo for taking a great idea and making it reality! I really love this “challenge” of Flash fiction, as I think its a great way to get the creative floodgates open when writing seems to slow down to a trickle… Heres my gully washer – 150 words :)
~
It was a long workday. On the drive home, all he could think about was a hot shower, putting on sweats, and watching the game. Maybe even drink a few cold ones if there were any left in the frig. And definitely no more thinking.
Struggling with the apartment key, he finally swung the door open to their flat. Wednesday is her creative writing class night. The place was going to be entirely his. YES. Re-tucking the mail under his chin, his gym bag and work files in his arms, he backed in slowly while shutting the door. He turned.
The place was dark except for a single candle lit on the mantel. From behind, a familiar voice whispered “I would marry you all over again just for this” as he felt her silky hands slide up under his suit coat.
His mind raced.
DAMN.
It was their first anniversary.
~
Thanks for your contest entry, Janice. If you enjoyed Janice’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Teacher called us back together that evening, at the end of a long week. We all sat on the floor in the circle and watching the flickering light against the wall. It was our final lesson, he said, one called foretelling. I did not like it.
“What is it you see?” Teacher walked amongst us, tapping each head.
“Butterflies!” most whispered. I lowered my head, not wanting to be called upon. Finally, Teacher stood behind me, and tapped, not gently, either. “What is it you see, boy?”
“Butterflies?” Teacher tapped my head again, hurting enough that I reached to rub the spot. “Moths?”
“Again. What is it you see?”
I sighed. I wished to not be different but Teacher would not let it go. “To the east, I see the sun rising, giving us a new day.”
“Again!”
“To the south I see a vast, sun-sparkled sea lapping to the horizon.”
“Again!”
“To the west I see amber waves of grain, rippling from light and shade. Like the ancient song you sing on the Sabba. “
He pulled my hair. “That is not foretelling, boy. Again!”
I yanked myself away and closed my eyes. I would be alone, then. “To the north, I see the wide-winged owl coming this way.”
“Nay!” Teacher swore. Children began to cry, rising to run home. I wanted to weep, too.
“You should not have pushed, then, if you did not wish to know.” The dark weight of a thousand years settled on my shoulders.
Thanks for your contest entry, Thea. If you enjoyed Thea’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Hey, welcome to the team and thanks for the prompt, here’s my entry in 244 words:
Since swiping right to Samantha three hours ago Jake had become increasingly nervous. He’d cleaned his apartment and gone were the t-shirts and socks from the floor. In their steed were smelly candles, his not so subtle attempt at romance. He had second thoughts about the one placed on his bed head, wondering if the evenings activities might end up causing a fire. Either way he was imaging a hot night.
Samantha had been texting Jake throughout the afternoon, his excitement growing with each one. It was the first time he’d found a match that wasn’t a fake account and was keen to proceed. He had hooked up with girls before but nothing online or through an app. This time things seemed to be working out and he knew he had to impress. Only a couple more hours to go.
8pm came and went and Jake began to sense he’d been taken for a ride. He texted Samantha a couple of times at 8:15 but by the time 8:30 came around he had given up all hope of seeing her. There had been no response. He sat down on the couch, checked his phone five times in the next two minutes and realised it was all over.
As he lay pondering how bad his Saturday night had become he heard the familiar sound of his neighbours headboard banging against the wall. He suddenly had the urge to check the messages he’d sent.
Thanks for the welcome and your contest entry, Jon. If you enjoyed Jon’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Jenna’s Tuesday morning went according to plan. Hit the alarm, rise, make the bed, and tuck the sheets tightly like a trained soldier. Drink up the black coffee, throw cup in the dishwasher. Bathe, dry, dress, heels, purse, keys, and out the door to work.
She arrived to a yellow sticky note and read: In my office. – Chuck. …Chuck? She advanced down the hall, purse still on her shoulder and keys in hand. She cleared her throat at his doorway.
“Jenna,” he said jovially, “Sit down.”
“Morning, Mr. Langley.”
“Please, call me Chuck, Jenna. I’m sorry but we’re going to have to let you go. Nothing personal. Budget cuts, you see. Hard times. You’ve been an asset to us. Don’t worry. You’ll find the severance package generous. I’m sure with your ability you will find employment in no time. Please, accept this also as a token of my appreciation.” He handed her a box, larger than jewelry, smaller than shoes.
“Oh,” Jenna said. “That’s everything?”
“See Katie for your severance package. Blessed day to you!”
Box in hand, Jenna picked up her severance package from Katie and left C. Langley & Langley for the last time. Once home, she walked to the bedroom and opened the box.
“A bloody candle!?!”
With a heavy sigh she found a matchbook, lit the votive, and placed it in the clay holder-full-of-holes. She placed it on her headboard; the candlelight projected a sanctuary of stained-glass images about her room.
“A blessed day indeed.”
Thanks for your contest entry, Emily. If you enjoyed Emily’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Here’s my flash fiction story:
GO TO THE LIGHT
It was beautiful. That was my first thought. My second was how good it smelled. It drew me in, like a siren singing my name.
I’m no fool. I’d heard stories about the dangers of such things and I practiced fire safety. I wasn’t born yesterday. Oh wait, yes I was.
It had been the best day of my life. I moved with lightning speed. I thrilled with every minute.
I had seen bright lights before and they always tugged at something inside me. I might have succumbed to one of them, but the screams of agony from my brothers and sisters always stopped me.
Until a while ago.
It was mesmerizing. Never had I seen such glorious design. Dancing shadows, bigger than life, projected into the air like flitting butterflies. I confess a certain amount of jealousy. Their wings were much more dramatic than my smaller, nondescript ones. I fancied myself a visitor among them and flew into their midst, only to find them ethereal in nature and unfriendly.
I looked to the warm, tugging light. The call was stronger here. More urgent. The swirling butterflies surrounded me and drew me toward the beautiful glow, the place where they were born. I felt such joy.
It was a short life.
This is great. Man, there are some strong stories in this competition.
Thanks for your contest entry, Linda. If you enjoyed Linda’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Hello! Here’s my contest entry for this month’s prompt (250 words…checked the count in Word and Wordcounter.net)
“Is that it?” Julie looked over at the lit ornate candle holder sitting on the makeshift alter and bringing a flickering patterned orange light to the darkness.
“Yes,” squeaked Vanessa.
“But we’re trying to call up the devil!” Julie flapped her arms in the air, her black poncho rising up, showing a hidden ‘Hello Kitty’ t-shirt underneath.
“And? My parents aren’t great collectors of demonic ritualistic ornaments, okay?”
“But this?” She couldn’t believe how pathetic it all was. Their plan to summon the ‘Dark One’ and put a curse on Clara with her ever-so-perfect ponytails and cute button nose was now in ruins.
“It’s all I could find.”
Julie sighed and stared at the candle light, wondering what to do next.
“It’ll have to do, then. Where’s the book?”
“What book?”
“The book! Your ‘Occult Rituals’ book!”
“I had to return it to the library, it was overdue,” replied Vanessa.
“What?” Vanessa cowered away from her imminent rage. Deciding not to hit her, Julie walked it off, pacing the length of the darkened room.
“I got this, though,” murmered Vanessa, handing over a small, thin colourful book.
“What? ‘Dora goes to the Dentist’? Are you crazy?”
Vanessa turned the pages of the book while it was still in Julie’s hands.
“See?”
“Oh yes, I see. Excellent, excellent, mmm, this might just work,” grinned Julie, laying the opened book on the alter, kneeling down and forcing her friend to do the same. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
“Oh, Lord of Darkness, hear me now!”
Thanks for your contest entry, Dani. If you enjoyed Dani’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Hi. I’ve just come across writeunboxed via a friend of a friend on Facebook. Looks like a vibrant and supportive community, so here’s my flash fiction story (first effort!)
FADE TO BLACK
Evenings are best, after they’ve all gone home. I look forward to the goodbyes. I know it’s wrong to talk about family like that – I should be grateful that they care – but I can’t be doing with all the fuss.
I’m 90. I’m tired. I’m ready to pack it all in, but this old heart of mine just keeps on pumping. And that’s another thing; random snatches of songs I thought I’d forgotten pop into my head and play endlessly like a scratched record.
Mornings are worst. I go to sleep at night hopeful that this will be the big one, then wake up feeling disappointed that I’m still here, that I have to endure another day. I’ve had what they call a good life. I had a ball until the last few years when everything started to fail on me: now I can no longer see or hear my beloved birds, I can’t taste my favourite foods, smell the roses or take a walk in the park.
There’s one nurse who understands. She’s what I call a real Christian. She lives the creed but doesn’t try to ram it down your throat. I call her the lady of the lamp. When she gave it to me, she said it was the light of my life. She told me it’s not my time yet, that I have to be patient. Clara says she’ll know when it’s my turn to go and then my light will softly fade to black.
Welcome to the WU community, Pete. Don’t forget to sign up to the FaceBook group as well (link at top of post). Thanks for your contest entry. If you enjoyed Pete’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
THE CANDLE
The candle in the holder burns for me, throwing strange patterns onto the wall and reminding me of arches and lush green leaves. People wander about the room, some kiss and hug, others sit mute. I don’t understand the sadness that permeates the air. I’m happy, why aren’t they?
The kids enter. Their chatter and laughter light up the room, annoying some of the older participants, who throw them nasty looks and shushing sounds. Thank goodness the children pay them no attention as they run around through furniture and people alike.
At last he enters. The room hushes and they all stare. What is he doing here, how dare he show his face after all the heartache he caused? These thoughts are written on their faces.
I can understand their reactions, but I do not agree. After all, they were not the recipients of the heartache. I know better than they, these people who want to hate for the sport of it. They were not left with three children and no income. Left to try to provide for them. Left to become seriously ill and hospitalized, my children farmed out to the family.
But I forgave him, a long time before I took sick. Why can’t they? He walks down the aisle and takes a seat away from the rest, my ex-husband, the father of my children.
They will speak about me. I hover for a moment. The Rabbi voice comes through the microphone as he begins my funeral service.
Thanks for your contest entry, Irene. If you enjoyed Irene’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Kate set the candleholder on the platform and took a calming breath. Exhaling slowly, she lit the candle. Trying to ignore the pounding on the door outside, she continued breathing in and out, slowing down her racing heart. The air smelled of blood and anger and her own fear, but she focused on the scent of beeswax and the lavender her aunt Jacqueline mixed in the ritual candles. Most candlemakers didn’t bother with scents that weren’t strictly necessary to the spells but Jacqueline knew that the first step to a successful candle spell was a quiet mind and the lavender helped you get there.
The pounding at the door was louder now and the shouting angrier. Kate knew it was only a matter of time before the lock broke and the door gave way. She had to get home immediately. The light through the holes in the candleholder cast shadows on the white walls behind the shelf. Positioning the candle so the shadows created the right shape for the right spell was something that came naturally to Kate, and the archway she needed glowed into view on the wall.
Staring at the archway, breathing slowly and deeply, Kate coalesced the scents of the candle into fog. The door frame splintered but the gathering fog blanketed everything beyond the archway to home. Kate softened her gaze and let the light from the archway brighten and expand. By the time the door gave way, she was gone.
Thanks for your contest entry, Annalee. If you enjoyed Annalee’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Just adding my congrats to the long list. I’ll be back with a bit of story soon. I always thought of candles serenely burning in the dark as evocative. I have a Tiffany lamp that creates beautiful shadows like the above prompt image.
So happy to see you here. :-)
Oh- I once held a funereal for an ant. I found it writhing on the sidewalk in front of my house while I was making daisy chains and in a fit of childhood ennui, I sang to it while I buried it. Yes, I was that kind of strange child…
Thanks so much for the welcome, Tonia! It’s absolutely amazing to be here. :) It doesn’t at all surprise me that you held a funeral for an ant. I can imagine your crying and singing as you carefully lay it to rest.
A monthly mainline of Jo-juice? O frabjous day!
On a serious note, I find that when I’m “alive in a story” almost everything I see in the real world starts to throw off what Jo calls bread crumbs. Especially if I’m working on a sitcom (as I am now — a German one) I look at almost everything and think, “Ooh, that’s a story! No, that’s a story! No, THAT’s a story!” Combine with endorphins and take as needed.
Rock on Jo-Jo. Glad to have your wisdom so close to hand. -jv
I have that same experience, JV. The more my creative juices are flowing, the more breadcrumbs I stumble across. It’s an amazing feeling. (Must be all those endorphins.)
Thanks for the welcome!
I submitted an entry yesterday, but it is not showing up. Did I do something wrong? :-/
It must have got itself stuck in the interweb for a while, because it seems to be here now. Thanks. :)
Thank you! :-)
Hey, Emily! I saw your reply on my email but then not on here…I was going to reply lol…I’m campaigning for sleep. When you can’t keep your eyes open over your coffee you know something’s wrong! And, I felt bad after I posted my submission then scrolled up and realized everybody had congratulated Jo except my slow butt! ;) Anyway, that’s my lack-of-sleep-fogged explanation to what I think you said! lol…have a good day.
Okay, if I don’t post this, I’ll nit-pick it to death until the week’s over and it’s too late. My entry (249 words):
LUMINARIA
Aiden tipped the messenger and closed the door behind him, wondering what the package held. Sure, it was his birthday, but everyone knew he wasn’t celebrating this year; it had only been two months since he’d lost his bride.
They had married despite his friends’ objections. “She has terminal cancer. Why bother? You’re setting yourself up for heartbreak.” But it was one of those love-at-first-sight clichés that blinded even the most rational man. They’d spend what little time she had left, together.
He gave the package a light shake. Nothing. The jute-tied box bore no return address, but seemed familiar. Then he remembered. It was from that voodoo shop in the French Quarter that he and Miranda had visited on their honeymoon. He’d seen others like it on the counter, ready for mailing. He tore open the package.
Black velvet wrapped the votive lamp she had spied in the window. “The pattern looks like daisies,” she’d said, referencing her favorite flower. “How much is it?”
“For you, petit bébé, a gift. Come wit’ me and I fix you up.” The old woman led her behind a drape. A few minutes later, Miranda returned alone.
“Where’s the lamp?”
“Oh…she’s going to scent a candle with my perfume and mail it later.”
Aiden lit the votive and watched the daisies dance until the memories became too painful, then blew it out, wishing his wife were still alive. His eyes adjusted, and an image appeared in the shadows.
“Happy birthday, my love.”
Thanks for your contest entry, Mike. If you enjoyed Mike’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
The Light Fairy
Bethenny huddled under her covers waiting for her Dad to leave the room. Above all she didn’t want him to see the smile on her face. He’d already scolded her twice this week. Once for leaving her night lamp on too long, keeping her awake, and twice for the dark circles under her eyes. Her kindergarten teacher had called the house more than once to say that Bethenny had fallen asleep during the day. It didn’t matter to the little girl. All that did matter was for her little friend to show up.
“Good night.” Her Father reaches for the light switch.
“Not yet Daddy, I want it on a little longer.” Bethenny tells him.
Tired and not wanting to enter an argument he relents. Closes the door behind him and heads for bed. It’s not long before she drops her blankets a little. Her eyelids recede almost to the point of disappearing altogether. Quietly she waits for her friend to show herself. From a line of shadow along the wall, a small figure stands up. The tiny silhouette of a winged ballerina begins to twirl. Leaping along the wall and singing notes higher than any adult could hope to hear.
It only takes a few minutes before Bethenny starts to clap. Clap and cheer and laugh so loud it brings her Father storming into her room. A hand reaches over to slap down the light switch.
“No please don’t. I won’t bother your daughter again.”
Thanks for your contest entry, James. If you enjoyed James’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
The power had finally gone out.
After three months of ignoring the bill, the electricity had been shut off and we were left to live by candlelight.
Danny and I had high hopes of making our relationship a go, but as soon as he lost his job and money got tight, I felt a shift in his mood. He had been spending an extraordinary amount of time in bed lately, perhaps knowing it would come to this.
That night, I put the candle over our bed, lighting it for the first time. I said a prayer to myself, knowing the words would only hurt him. He wouldn’t dare ask his own father for a job, he’d be put off if he heard me asking God.
I slid under the cool sheets, thankful it wasn’t the dead of winter and that summer of months away. My hand traveled over the duvet. The down filled comforter had been a splurge when we had first moved in, now it seemed like a wasteful expense. My fingers found his but instead of intertwining, he stiffened.
“You should go back to your mom’s, Hannah.” He said pulling his hand away.
“And what will happen to you?” I asked.
“I’ll move in with Jerry.” Jerry was his college roommate who lived in the city.
“What will happen to us?” I closed my eyes.
Danny turned toward me. He ran his knuckles down my arm. “Maybe another time, Hannah.”
Thanks for your contest entry, Kelly. If you enjoyed Kelly’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Remembering Edward Powell
It was foolish to come back. She was naught more than an old woman with a penchant for lost memories. She trailed a withered finger down the entries in the guestbook. Not early enough by far. Trembling hands peeled back the pages of time. She paused. Her heart lifted. April fifteenth. Nineteen Twenty Three. Edward and Esmeralda. They’d been no Mister and Missus then. Esmeralda’s smile warmed. She read further. Our memories here hold the secrets of our hearts.
“Mrs Powell? Your room is ready now.”
Esmeralda turned to a vision of her younger self. The maid stood poised, hands clasped together at her front, silky hair knotted in a practical bun. Esmeralda’s smile masked the ache of her losses and followed her to the room. She did not hope. The entry might be enough to chase some twilight from her years. But when she stepped into the room, her eyes glistened. The room was the same. Oh, the paint was fresher and the bedspread new, but over the bed head, a tea light flickered from within an old candle lantern. The intricate pattern of light splayed over the wall exactly as it had some ninety two years ago.
Esmeralda closed the door. She placed her overnight bag on a chair by the window then lay down on the bed and clutched her hands over her heart. Candle light ironed the wrinkles from her face. She smiled, eyes closed, then whispered.
“I remember you now, Edward Powell.”
Thanks for your contest entry, Pauline. If you enjoyed Pauline’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Ivory Lights
Jade had dug through once-forgotten cabinets and boxes for hours, trying all the spare bulbs, but none would work.
“Do you have one just like this one?” she asked the store clerk.
He turned the nightlight around in his palm, “No, sorry we don’t carry these anymore, but you can try one of—“
“Can you check your inventory?
“Please,” she strained.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Jade walked through the aisle a third time, waiting. Always waiting. But this time she and Kiran were done for good, and they didn’t have to wait for each other anymore. They didn’t have to wait for one to move to the other.
Her eyes fell on battery-powered candles. Ivory. Like the candles her mom used to leave at the front door. “For dad to find home,” she’d say. It took two weeks before Jade snapped, “But he’s dead!” The next night, the candle remained unlit. And her mom stopped talking about finding home.
Jade used to tell that story to Kiran all the time, as if sharing the memory could bring it back to life just enough to alter it. “She needed it to say goodbye,” he would gently scold, “Lights are important.” “Like your nightlight?” Jade had teased, and they’d fall asleep until a plane came to take him away.
The clerk came back with an apologetic look on his face.
“It’s okay,” Jade said. “I’ll figure it out.”
Thanks for your contest entry, Angelica. If you enjoyed Angelica’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Here’s my Round One entry
The Absence of Light
Two of their neighbors brought the tabletop lantern into the living room.
“Perfect spot,” Adele blurted, quickly rubbing her arms.
Royce kept silent. It made the room obscenely bright, even revealing strands of a lifeless cobweb floating near the ceiling.
“Well,” said the taller neighbor. “Candle’s battery-operated. No fire worries. It’ll burn two weeks. Be back Saturday. Next neighbor’s turn. Y’know, set by the window like that, even passersby may notice. Bless you both and may you find peace in the light.”
Peace in the light? What a line of crap. Royce had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. But look at this. Adele on the verge of tears. And when wasn’t she?
“It’s beautiful,” she told the two neighbors as they were leaving, and afterward stood transfixed before the table and the lantern’s light.
“What’re you simple-minded?” Royce yelled from across the room.
“So pure, so peaceful,” Adele answered.
“Yeah, pure stupidity.”
“Not true. Something . . . more. I feel it. You must believe me.”
“Been snookered’s what I believe.”
The light reflecting off Adele’s face at that moment was like nothing Royce had seen before. It wasn’t simply that she looked suddenly younger, although that was part of it, but that she wore an expression of such innocence it made his muscles limp.
But the feeling passed, tightening as quickly as it came.
“Move away!’ he shouted, reaching Adele. But she remained transfixed by the light, and unmoving, despite his relentless punishment.
Thanks for your contest entry, Vincent. If you enjoyed Vincent’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Great work– wanted more!
Hey Jo, I couldn’t tell from the rules—can we vote for more than one story? I’ve seen a number I’ve liked, besides the one I voted for.
Hey, Tom. Vote away! Vote for as many stories as you like. I’ll make sure to be more clear on that next month. :)
************************************************
Marjorie watched the flickering light from the lone candle in the pseudo-shrine she’d erected to her late husband Mark. Usually it calmed her nerves. Not today. Shadows cast by the designer candle holder became macabre, twisted.
The crash was horrible, Mark burned beyond recognition – along with another body. They still hadn’t identified her. Marjorie didn’t know her name, but she had a tattoo on her bottom.
Marjorie looked the part of the widow with her weight loss, red eyes, and dark circles. She would have no peace until it was done.
“Marjorie, how are you holding up sweetheart?” Mark’s best friend Grandy intercepted her outside Mark’s office. She had come to clean it out.
Grandy had always run interference for Mark. But now she knew everything. Mark wasn’t creative. Getting into his PC and reading his emails was a snap.
“The days are hard. The nights are worse.”
“Sweetie, I’m so sorry. Let me do this for you.”
His disingenuous smile disgusted her.
“Thank you, no. I need to do this.”
“At least let me buy you lunch first.” Grandy took Marjorie’s hand to lead her out.
“No.” Marjorie snapped
“I absolutely insist.”
As Grandy stuffed her into his expensive sport’s car, Marjorie glanced at the pillar where the tip of the rose clippers could just be seen. She thought of that candle and how the shadows had twisted upon themselves. Perhaps this was as it should be. Grandy started the car and took off. He always drove too fast.
Thanks for your contest entry, Tracey. If you enjoyed Tracey’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
“Triantafillo”
I could feel white anger building inside me. Trying to summon my muse in every possible way almost broke me, afraid the story had been drained out of me. I surveyed my flesh looking for the puncture mark but discovered nothing. I was checking off an invisible list…the perfect recipe for summoning my Muse to the alter of creativity. The smell of roses began to ascend and light needed to feed my hunger was dancing within its small cage. I was ready to worship…but nothing was emerging. My fingers..struggling to surgically remove each piece of the code when I heard a fierce whisper. There, almost imperceptible, a shape had formed in the midst of roses. Stomach turning, my eyes transfixed. A flicker bid me closer so that I could feel the heat radiating off Him. He whispered to me of plots unnatural…uninhibited, raw and dangerous. I wanted to feed. Reaching down, I coupled with intensity, insanity. A deeper, darker subconscious writhing like a worm deep into my mind. I wrote as if I was driven by a disembodied voice. “Faster, faster,” echoing down the worm tunnel taking over my fingers and breath. Time shifts, spinning,merging with my flesh, sliding right back out. I ignore it all. He breathes life into to constantly now and His essence satiates my thirst. Once or twice I thought I heard noises outside my sanctum that sounded like my wife and child. They don’t understand yet…but they will soon.
Thanks for your contest entry, Rose. If you enjoyed Rose’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Burnt Wings –
Julie started out in life two minutes behind Trevor, an afterthought like the santa mugs with tissue paper hiding chipped rims and nicked candles from clearance bins. Items the kids on her route handed her while parents, whose names she didn’t know, waved from the curb that week before winter break.
She’d been waiting all night at her brother’s, occupied with past promises and projections on bare walls. He’d said they’d talk, but by the time the shadows flickered from church arches to angel wings, she knew. The heavy tread outside apartment 312 was not going to be Trevor. The suffocating scent of balsam pretended comfort, another afterthought she’d brought. A failed effort to disguise the spilt beer, bed sheets well-past washing, and memories of teenage years. Years spent joking away her twin. When passing out in your car in the middle of your front yard, could still be considered a joke. The car he’d bought cheap by mowing middle-aged neighbors’ lawns. Smart enough to take his shirt off when the front curtains fluttered.
Julie scraped out a laugh, choking the flame to falter back and forth. Middle-aged. Had she turned into ghostly fluttering behind curtains, too?
Before the muffled clearing of a stranger’s throat, the flickering wings stretch long, like they might touch heaven if she’d just let them keep trying. When the knock finally came, she pinched charred wick, allowing the burning to die. It didn’t exactly hurt, but the flame left black that smeared everything she touched.
Thanks for your contest entry, Kim. If you enjoyed Kim’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
I just realized when you click on my name it goes to my website. How awesome is that? Thanks for the opportunity and writing prompt! Flash fiction is always fun. And, it doesn’t take two years or more like some, ahem, unfinished book-length projects… ;) Congrats on the new position with Writer Unboxed.
-Kim
Youch. Powerful and lyrical, both. Yay you, Kim. Thanks for a lovely read.
Thanks Jennifer! I’m so glad you liked it.
Your imagination sends me over the moon Dearest Kim ! I cannot help be inspired by your words, thoughts and ideas !
Awww, thank you Rita! You are so sweet. Good to see you on here. You’re one heck of a poet yourself…so thank you for the compliment!
Love this, Kim! I came, I saw, I voted!
Thank you Bonnie. I’m glad you liked it! Can’t wait to read your new book.
Lights of Memory
That brown clay cylinder with the cutouts sat on our console TV when I was a child. Every Christmas it held a pine scented candle from Woolworth’s. The smell made my throat scratchy, but my mother loved the scent. “It makes the house feel like Christmas,” she’d say. I’d cough.
Throughout my life the cylinder never moved from its place of honor over the TV and every holiday season the dusty candle was lit again. She lit it last Christmas when her grandchildren came to visit. They coughed.
When my mother’s memory began to fail, I arranged to move her into a care facility. The only personal belongings she cared about were the faded photograph of her parents and that candle holder.
“Put it on the TV. It makes the room look homey,” she told me as I unpacked her suitcase. At this point she did not always recognize me as her son, just that nice man who comes to visit.
“Where did you get this, Mom?” I’d been told that items served as effective memory prompts. Perhaps this would help her remember me.
“My son gave it to me for Christmas. He was six and he bought it with his own money.” I could see that look in her eyes. She was visualizing every moment of that Christmas morning almost 58 years ago. “I think it’s ugly as sin,” she said, “but the candle makes pretty patterns on the wall.”
Sometimes you don’t know how much you are loved.
Oh I really enjoyed this short short! You captured it all, the dynamics between mother and child, youth and elderly, and what we do for love, all under 250 words! Brava!
Thanks for your contest entry, Judith. If you enjoyed Judith’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
That is a lovely tale, well told. Thank you for sharing it.
Congratulations, Jo! This is going to be so much fun. :)
I’ve never written flash fiction but thought I’d give it a try.
Lynn sat watching the candlelight dancing on the wall, then closed her eyes and slumped. “What should I do?” She was more tired than she’d ever been. More tired than when Stephen was born, more tired than when they brought him home from the hospital.
She opened her eyes and focused on the candleholder, trying to find an answer. She recalled when Ron bought it for her. They had been dating and were talking about marriage. She was thrilled at the gift, the first of many.
They had a beautiful life, until things changed. Eight months ago she noticed friends and neighbors were talking about animals acting strangely. She didn’t think much about it at the time, until a dog mauled a boy.
Lynn rubbed her face, trying to stay awake, trying to clean away the memory. Both the boy and the dog died. The vet said the dog was infected with something he couldn’t identify. What ever it was didn’t just affect dogs.
Soon after that she saw Mrs. Wagner at the grocery store, stumbling from her car. Lynn ran to her side but recoiled when Mrs. Wagner looked at her. If it’s true that eyes are windows to the soul, then she knew Mrs. Wagner’s was gone.
Lynn shivered and took a deep breath. The beating on the door had been nonstop for two days. It was time to decide. She picked up the revolver and reached for the doorknob. “Ron, it’s time to say goodbye.”
Thanks for your contest entry, Valerie. How did you enjoy writing your first flash fiction?
If you enjoyed Valerie’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
It was exciting! And a good exercise on how to use words economically. I wanted to add more, to explain things further, but thought maybe some ambivalence might work to my advantage and make the reader think more.
Delightfully creepy!
Thank you!
This is my very first comment here. I usually get the WU posts by email and lurk in the facebook WU group. I actually got online on the Blog Proper because of you, Jo – so WOW! JO! I am so, so, so excited for you, that you are an Unboxed contributor now – woo hoo, you go, girl!
CONGRATULATIONS!!!
:-) Jules
Oh, Jules, you made my day. Thank you. (And you’ve got no excuse to be a lurker now. We all know you’re there. :) )
Good job, Jo! Welcome.
And so for what’s worth, I’m tossing something in. (And I’ve enjoyed reading all the stories above.)
*
Farrah’s parents told her that a candle would light the way for the dead. They said the spirit would see the light through the veil between the worlds, and, wishing for someone to talk to, would follow it.
There was a trick to it, of course. She’d have to find the right candle and light it at the right time in the right place. Her parents didn’t ask her why she wanted to know these things. They didn’t think she’d take them seriously.
But Farrah took the dead very seriously. The dead outnumbered the living, after all, and if she were going to rule over any land, it would have to be the greatest land ever known.
Sixteen-year-old Farrah knew herself destined for greatness, but she also saw the failures of the living. No one alive ever appreciated her. No one alive believed in her. No one alive understood.
Farrah possessed infinite patience, however, and a clever plan. To begin she needed one dead spirit, an emissary, to talk to. She’d convince this spirit of her promises. She’d reveal her powers. She’d give them back the land of the living. How could they not desire such an opportunity? All they had to do in return was make her Queen.
‘Twas a pity Farrah never considered a queen already existed because the candle worked. The emissary came to show the girl she should not play with fire. And that the Queen always liked a new handmaiden.
Thanks for your contest entry, Marta, and for your welcome. If you enjoyed Marta’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Huh, the old movie was right. Children shouldn’t play with dead things. :) That was fun! Thank you for sharing it.
Love the contest! here’s my take.
The chanting rose, and Samantha gulped nervously. The blade threw reflections of torches against the ancient walls, quivering as her hands shook. The lantern stood, carved from a single immense piece of bone, its wick black and cold. Four men in masks held torches high in a circle, their other hands presented in offering.
She turned to her left. “Why does the door exist?”
In unison, the four masked men replied. “To be opened.”
A swift motion, and his hand was pierced, scarlet dripping along the blade.
She turned to her right. “Why do we open the door?”
“To pass through.”
Another stab, and the torches flared as the blood ran.
Samantha repeated this twice more, front and rear. Her voice, her hand, were steady, though her insides churned with fear.
“What lies beyond the door?”
“We do not know.”
“Who shall pass through the door?”
“You shall pass.”
With the final words, the four stepped back, smothering the torches with their bleeding hands. Darkness swallowed the world as she brought the silver blade to her own hand. The mixed blood of the five dripped onto the wick, igniting it. The carvings threw sharp shadows on the walls, curves and whorls inscribed by nothing.
The darkness grew firm, the dark arch in front of her becoming solid. As the light grew, and the shadow sharpened, a door appeared.
Knees shaking, she strode towards the portal. She gathered her wits, took a breath, and stepped through.
Thanks for your contest entry, Alexander. If you enjoyed Alexander’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Here’s my second submission for Round One.
Aunt Meg’s Light
Aunt Meg was thrilled when I told her about Todd.
“Bring him over, Bree” she said. “Love to meet him.”
I drove–just in case. You never know how a visit to Aunt Meg’s will turn out.
She lives in a fashionable section of the Philadelphia suburbs, and is always entertaining one wealthy guest or another. She’s moneyed, knows how to live, and when it comes to judging a man, there’s no opinion I trust more than hers. She’s steered me clear of some real bad relationships.
We drove up to her house, following the circular drive.
Todd seemed nervous, obviously intimidated by such affluence. I’d have felt intimidated, too, in his place.
“Bree, my darling,” said Aunt Meg when the maid led us into the dining room. “And this must be Todd.”
“I’m Todd.”
“Yes,” said Meg.
“Todd’s a political science major,” I began, hoping Todd would fly on his own.
“Political science,” said Meg. “How fascinating.”
She invited us to get comfortable, but Todd wandered over to a table where Aunt Meg’s antique lantern was displayed.
Todd seemed mesmerized by the glowing light, by the hypnotic sway of the pulsing shadows the candle cast upon the wall.
Aunt Meg squeezed my hand. I crossed my fingers. Todd swayed for several minutes in the lantern’s light, collapsed beneath a heap of clothing, and crawled out seconds later as a ferret.
“Oh, darn,” said Meg. “I was so hoping.”
Me too.
Luckily, this time I brought a cage.
Thanks for your second entry, Vincent. If you enjoyed Vincent’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Thank you, Jo, for this great opportunity. So much fun to read. Here’s mine added to the mix:
What an exhausting, emotionally-draining day.
In the bathroom, Carolyn lit the candle on the corner shelf, turned off the light, and settled into the steamy sandalwood-scented water. The heat soothed her tired muscles. She poured herself a shot of Lagavulin and relaxed in the claw-foot tub.
“Caro…” her sister peeked in, “is Peppi in here?”
“Seriously? No,” her wet washcloth missed Madison, who shut the door.
Madison’s “I was just asking,” sounded huffy as her footsteps faded.
The three of them had arrived yesterday at this home away from home, their first year without dad. Yesterday had been tough, the memories. And today they’d hunted pheasants. Not wildly successful.
Madison screamed; a scurried, scrabbling noise followed.
The door burst open. In flew Peppi, their new golden retriever. Floppy ears flying, a dead pheasant held in her grin, she aimed for the tub.
“No, Peppi. No,” Carolyn moved; glass in hand, but too late. Peppi leaped and landed with a happy splash.
Knocked off her feet, she glimpsed Madison’s big eyes, and then slipped under, legs and whisky above water. Struggling, she surfaced, spluttering and coughing.
Madison replaced the whisky with a towel.
She wiped her face, “What the hell…,” and stopped. Peppi remained in the tub, now nose-to-nose; head cocked, tail wagging, eyes expectant, the dead pheasant still in her mouth.
“Aackk,” Carolyn hopped out, Madison steadied her, and then, they both broke into giggles and tears.
And in the corner, the shadow and the light danced.
Thanks for your contest entry, Lisa. If you enjoyed Lisa’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
I bought the candle holder at the local craft fair last month as a reminder. Every night I watch shadows from the flame dance across the wall near my bed as the faint breeze from an open window breathes life into the flame. Every night I give thanks to be in my bed. Alone. And I swear I won’t do dumb stuff again. Ever.
The holder has cutouts like the ones I fingered in the souk in Tangier. Didn’t buy one because my backpack was already too heavy. But the afternoon I looked at them I was sure I’d have plenty of time to shop after Ahmed showed me around like he had promised on the ferry from Marseille that morning.
Sure, I’d seen the posters in the women’s bathroom. They all said “missing” under a photo of a blonde girl. Well, I’m not blond so why worry? And I wanted to see the sheltering sky of Morocco.
I’d hitched from Dover down to Spain with no problem. The truckers were all nice guys but I really fell for Ahmed’s olive skin and green eyes. So I went with him on the boat. We toured the souk before stopping at a grimy bar. I don’t know what was in the drink but I managed to stagger back to the dock the next day despite the blinding headache.
When the test showed positive I was shocked. Yet, I’m hoping the baby will look at me with those bright green eyes.
Thanks for your contest entry, Judith. If you enjoyed Judith’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Can we vote more than once? I was sure this was asked before, but I just couldn’t find it. Thanks!
Tracey
Hi Tracey, yes you can. There are too many great stories (being submitted at different times) to realistically limit the voting to once per person. I’ll make sure to be more clear on that next month. Thanks for bringing it up!
New Year’s Resolutions
New Year’s Resolutions. Her record was fourteen days. Last year she’d only made it three. This year her focus was on being healthier. A vision of a glazed donut interrupted her meditation preparation. Stop focusing on treats she sternly reminded herself.
She shoved her chubby legs into yoga pants and lit the sandalwood scented candle. She slid the candle into the metal container with the butterfly cutout she had found on clearance. The butterfly’s shadow flitted across the brick wall.
After taking a sip of hot tea, she sat on floor cross-legged. She inhaled through her nose and blew the breath out through her mouth. Visions of holiday treats stomped across the runway of her mind. Do not pay any attention to them she warned herself. Let them flow across your mind like a cloud, a sugary cloud of fluffy yumminess.
The fan moved cool air over her skin. She shivered. Think of warmth. A butterfly floating over the sandy beaches of Hawaii. I bet I wouldn’t have any stress in Hawaii. Deep breath in and out. Visions of macadamia nuts covered in chocolate invaded the spa-like atmosphere of the basement.
Relaxation should not be so hard. Her right eye began to twitch making the shadow butterfly’s wings flutter. Deep breath in and out. She checked her phone. Did ten minutes count as day one?
Thanks for your contest entry, Christine. If you enjoyed Christine’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
With just one single breath, she can change this orange-tinged world. Just one single breath, and the arches will threaten to crumble and the intricate windows will waver on the brink of darkness. Just one single breath and she can extinguish the solitary flame and the holy chapel it has projected upon the walls.
Strange thoughts, she knows. Who looks at a simple candle sitting in a corner and contemplates the nature of existence? Yet the flame still tugs at her; mesmerizes her with how fragile yet resilient it is. She exhales softly and watches the shadows flicker upon the walls. Her imaginary chapel wavers and distorts into strange shapes that don’t quite fit, then slowly returns to the pristine arches and windows she has created in her mind. She reaches deeper into her lungs and exhales again, more forcibly. The lonely flame flickers again, more violently this time. For just an instant the chapel is dark, with only a small glowing ember at the tip of the wick to prove that the flame was ever there. With the last vestiges of her exhaled breath, the flame ignites with renewed vigor and greedily rises to its former place of glory in the center of the temple.
She knows she holds the fate of that holy chapel in her hands. One single breath, slightly stronger than the last, and that flame and the false temple it projects will be gone forever. She thinks it must be fun to be God.
Thanks for your contest entry, Justin. If you enjoyed Justin’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
I LOVED this!
Thanks for showing some love, Kayte :) It’s my first time trying anything like this so positive feedback is encouraging!!!
I’ve enjoyed reading the submissions. Here is mine
Freedom
Catherine sat at her wooden table, her old but nimble fingers weaving cages for pets. By day she sold them in the marketplace. At night she put sticks and twine together, this was the way she earned her bread.
Tonight she sat weaving, the amber light from the tin lantern throwing patterns on the wall. In three little wooden cages were three little pets: Pippo, a golden tamarin monkey; Emil, a small tortoise, and Henry, a small black dog. Their eyes in the lamplight watched her every move. Catherine stood up, clutching the edge of the table while her knees ached. Soon she gathered her sticks and twine into piles for tomorrow’s work. She turned, peering into the faces of her three little captives, then smiled and touched each nose before ambling to her bedroom. The lamp flickered, as it would until morning.
Pippo chattered quietly, methodically chewing the twine holding the sticks. Emil looked on until, bored, pulled his head in his shell, closing his eyes. Henry kept watch, pricking his ears for any odd sound.
At dawn, the twine came loose. Pippo popped from his prison. His nimble fingers opened the doors on Emil’s and Henry’s cages. Henry stepped cautiously, sniffing. His nose poked Emil, tight in his shell. Henry gathered Emil in his gentle mouth and followed Pippo out of the room with the flickering light into the landscape beyond, dark earth becoming green as the sun peeked, turning the world from black to amber to gold.
Thanks for your contest entry, Jay. If you enjoyed Jay’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Hi, I’ve been a lurker for years and I’m a big fan of the WU community. Your flash fiction challenge has gotten me talking for the first time. Here’s my entry:
—–
I rinse the knife under the tap flipping it back and forth. The motion sends little drops of water over the sink and onto the backsplash. To finish I skate my fingers over the edge. Careful. The edge is sharp and smooth. There are no burs or nicks I have to repair.
It’s a bad habit, the exact opposite of how you should handle a knife, but I’ve been doing it for years so I suppose it’s too late to change now.
I’ve always had a fascination for the edges of things—the space where it changes to something else—the edge of a knife, the edge of a cliff, the edge of my husband’s temper.
Is the edge sharp and well defined? Is it crumbly and unstable? Does it blur into the next space, so you don’t know where one thing ends and another starts?
The only way to really know if you’re on firm ground is to test the edge. If it crumbles underneath you, well, that’s a good hint that it wasn’t what you thought.
I wipe down the counter. Start water boiling for tea. A nice darjeeling will be perfect.
I sit in the living room with my tea. The sky is grey. It gets dark so early this time of year. I don’t turn on the lamps, instead I light the tea light on the mantle. The light flickers across the walls of our home.
I sip my tea and wait for the police.
Thanks for your contest entry, MJL — and thank you for stepping out of the shadows to play. There’s no excuse now to keep being a lurker: we all know you’re there. :)
If you enjoyed MJL’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Good writing MJL, this is my personal favorite.
Can I just say that after fighting with my manuscript for the last month (an ugly fight, no one is winning) that you just made my day. Thank you so much for your kind words.
Please don’t doubt yourself. The piece has an elegance and a cadence to it that I really enjoyed. And it is a “tip of the iceberg” kind of story, left me curious about the character and her backstory. Looking forward to reading more from you.
Naked, cold, stripped of all dignity, she lies face down on the rough table; tied wrists and ankles covered in bruises and dried blood. Vomit caked on her hair from the last time she threw up; the sick never goes away. A fleck of life reveals itself through tiny slits allowed by puffy blue and green and yellow eyes and parched lips droop open in a tiny, tiny smile. Golden light-faeries dance on the walls, ceiling; soft geometric shapes illuminating her dark and painful world with a few moments of peace and beauty.
It won’t be long, she knows, till he comes for her, to beat her then kiss her then beat her. When he does, she’ll ask that he blow out the candle. He will. Light-faeries don’t like watching. They don’t like seeing the way he pushes, or how hard he hits. The darkness saves them the sorrow of pain, shrouding them in a dark veil of protection. But when the faeries dance she is free from it, and they save her.
She wishes he will forget her, and let the light-faeries live and dance on the walls forever. She could go with them, be one of them, dance on the walls.
And the time will surely come when the ugly man, the man who has claimed her, killed her, will light the candle for her but she won’t see the light-faeries. She will be one.
Thanks for your contest entry, Laura. If you enjoyed Laura’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
The creature takes form from the shadow cast by the lamp, lifting out from the back wall, having waited for the lighting of the Marley Candle. It has a goal to complete. The guide lighting the candle is new to the company offering tours of the old house in Salem and oblivious to the importance of her action.
Writers touring the historic home notice the shadow pass over them and think to open the dark oak door to chase it out. The world may yet be saved to carry on as it has. There is a moment where the gossamer shape circles above them, making soft whispering sounds, as though casting a spell. Abruptly finishing its activity, the creature swoops through the doorway and away.
Down the street, into an old hotel, it negotiates a way to the bar and repeats its performance over a group of writers in hearty discussion there. They take no notice of it.
Once again seeking the open, it systematically seeks out each and every Unconference member, repeating the action, completing its goal. Then it disappears.
On Christmas Eve, each Unconference participant is visited while asleep by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come and shown a potential future which could turn bleak unless someone extends an invitation to writers to contribute to a Flash Fiction Contest throughout the coming year, culminating in generous prizes. Jo Eberhardt invites, writers respond.
Newly invited writers shout, “WU-hoo!”
Tiny Emily says humbly, “Muse bless us, every one!”
Thanks for your contest entry, Emily. If you enjoyed Emily’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
I was tired when I submitted my entry, and left out my middle name which will show up as my other Facebook page. Sorry. It’s still the same me.
THE FAIRY LAMP by Suzanne Joshi
Two different types of fairies dwelled in the ancient wood. There were fairies of the light who gathered at a clay lamp in the cave of radiance, beings of wellness and love. There were the wicked fairies of darkness who worshipped all things evil, beings of sickness and hate.
Humans knew of these things only by rumor. All feared to go far into this wood. It was told if someone became ill and found the clay lamp, they could petition the good fairies to restore their health. The evil fairies would try to stop them.
One day Mathew the Good, a local woodcutter, decided to take his small, sick daughter to search for the light.
The fairies knew of this. First he met with a tiny, grotesque fairy who warned, “You’ll become lost if you go further; turn back.”
But Mathew continued on. His love for his daughter overcame all fear.
Finally he saw a dim, flickering light coming from a cave. Entering the cave, he saw tiny, lovely creatures surrounding a clay lamp of beautiful design. They saw him, but were unafraid.
One tiny being, delicate and enchanting, floated forward. “What is it you seek woodsman?” it asked.
Mathew stepped forward holding his small daughter. “I come to you beings of the light seeking healing for this little one, my daughter, whom I love dearly.”
“Becaise pf bravery and deep love, your desire is granted,” said the fairy. And it was.
Thanks for your contest entry, Suzanne. If you enjoyed Suzanne’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Rain woke her.
When the grownups got home. Daddy sat in the rocking chair, not paying attention to anybody. She’d snuck out and walked to the church. She’d been tired, talking to Mama. Mama didn’t answer; so she took her nap.
The preacher yelled last week about people going to heaven or hell. “Please, God, my mama was good. Take her to heaven.
She opened the church door. There on the wall were beautiful angel wings. “Thank you, God.”
Daddy came at her. “Baby Girl, I thought I’d lost you too.”
She put her hands on his wet cheeks and said, “No, I wasn’t lost. Look! Mama is an angel, working up in heaven. Daddy, we’re gonna be ok. Did Mama take her umbrella with her?”
The man laughed for the first time since his wife had died. “Yes, we’re gonna be ok,” quietly tucking matches into his pocket.
Thanks for your contest entry, GatorPerson (Can I call you GP for short?). If you enjoyed GatorPerson’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Yup. That’s my nickname. Of course I didn’t reread the instructions and so thought the word limit was 150. Duh. Well, I certainly learned to delete everything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. Maybe a few more words that really were necessary, but over the fictitious 150 limit.
The Confession.
He was late. His fingers trembled into the robe pocket but panic gripped his heart when he felt the damp cardboard. He withdrew a match, but when he struck the flint, the head crumbled into a soggy mass of red paste.
He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Three minutes. He took the tea light from the candle lantern above the bed head and placed it next to the clock. Then he pulled another match from the box and carefully struck it. Hope flickered. But a swirl of storm driven wind through an open window snuffed the flame before he could ignite the wick.
He rushed to the window and tugged it closed. A glint caught his eye. His heart faltered. But it was only the glimmer from the polished cross on the far wall, the bronze burnished from years of seeking deliverance from the evil which tormented him.
And torment him it would if he couldn’t cast his room in the Light of the Lord. He took out another match but the box dropped from his hand. A red glow burned from within the candle lantern, the delicate petals of the daisy pattern now fiery slanted eyes shrouded in a scorch of shadow which illuminated the wall.
He fell to his knees. He knew the confession by heart. But even though he clamped his ears, he still heard the guttural growl which mocked him from the depths of hell.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Thanks for your second contest entry, Pauline. If you enjoyed Pauline’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
SHADOW-PEEPS
Mum called them shadow-peeps, the dark creatures that danced around my room. Each had four golden eyes and four golden hearts. There were usually two of them, but sometimes they multiplied.
On nights when Dad cursed and crashed around the house like a tornado Mum usually slammed out the front door before Dad slammed into her. Then the shadow-peeps danced for me, and crooned lullabies in my ear until I fell asleep. In the mornings Mum came home and we pretended nothing had happened.
Then one morning Mum didn’t come home.
As I got older Dad got louder and took to hollering my name and banging on my bedroom door when the moon was up. That’s when a myriad of shadow-peeps appeared, so many I couldn’t count them all, and they whirled and swirled around that door and somehow kept Dad on the other side. In the morning I’d find Dad sprawled on the couch or the kitchen floor. If he woke before I left for school he’d grab a fistful of notes from his pocket and thrust them at me. ‘Get something for tea,’ he’d say, covering me with his cat litter-box breath.
When I moved out of home I didn’t see the shadow-peeps for a while. Then I got engaged to Bernard. He got drunk last week and yelled at me about spending so much money on the wedding. Suddenly there they were, the shadow-peeps, dancing on the wall behind him.
I’ve decided not to marry Bernard.
Thanks for your contest entry, Mandy. If you enjoyed Mandy’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Hello all. I’m new to this site, but enjoying reading the articles immensely. Anyway, I thought I’d give this a go.
*****
The Candleholder
“I think it’s haunted.”
“Don’t be stupid. It’s not haunted. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
“Don’t count on it. What else would explain this?” Mary tipped the glass upside down. Water poured out, but the flame in the antique candleholder still burned.
“Well, I, I don’t know.” Dolly folded her arms, defiant. “But it’s not haunted.”
Mary set the glass down on the mantel beside the candleholder. “I can try it again, if you like. But the flame won’t die. The candle never melts, and the flame never even wavers. I told you, I even set it out in that storm on Saturday. Brought it in just as it is now.”
“You’re talking nonsense. This is all something you’re doing to trick me. I’m going to bed.”
Mary shook her head as her sister left the room. Dolly never could accept things that simply weren’t explainable.
“Don’t worry,” Mary whispered to the flame. “I know you’re there.” She ran her finger over the metalwork of the holder, as she remembered Kelly’s promise, that she would always be with Mary, even after the end. “I’ll always love you.” With some effort she left the living room for her bed.
A shadow on the wall danced, and Mary smiled. “Good night,” she replied.
Thanks for your contest entry, Phoenix, and welcome to WU. If you enjoyed Phoenix’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
*Show to tell*
Their communication skills were fallible. When they first started dating this didn’t pose much of a problem. Sweet feelings, noble feelings, grand feelings, love. They were all easily conveyed through numberless acts and gestures that left no doubt about the depths of each other’s emotions. But that all changed once they moved in together. Boredom, irritation, indignation, rage made themselves noticed through subtle acts of sabotage… A favorite mug put away behind three rows of china they would never use, expensive suede shoes jammed between pairs of muddy boots, migrating objects that never settled in any accommodation. Subtlety faded as tension rose. One day, after he kindly made her coffee (“already put sugar dear! Oh, didn’t I say I didn’t stir?! Sorry…”) she decided something must be done. On her day off work she went home and started cleaning and tidying everything, sure that if the house felt more like a home instead of a deposit, everything would be better. When it was almost time for his return she realized she would never be able to clear all the boxes that were left; so she pushed them all against a wall like a Tetris master. They still made the room feel very uninviting so she took a black blanket, never again used after her punk teenage days were over, and neatly covered them. She felt nervous when he got home, not knowing if she would face reward or retaliation. But he liked it because he put a candle on it.
Thanks for your contest entry, Cecilia. If you enjoyed Cecilia’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
This is a great idea, Jo.
I haven’t written flash fiction before. It was most enjoyable.
Here’s mine.
To begin with there was nothing. No sight. No sound. Not even consciousness itself. Jim’s lifeless body lay perfectly straight, his dirty red pumps pointing upward.
Hissing in his ears grew louder as consciousness battled it’s way forward, gradually giving way to ringing and spurious thoughts. The first sensation Jim truly became aware of was pain. He opened his eyes to total darkness and it wasn’t until he tried to raise his arms that he realised something was very wrong. With all movement severely restricted, panic rose from the pit of his stomach, eventually bursting out in a scream. His unyielding constraint giving no quarter to his frantic wriggling.
Something slid from his chest and landed against his chin. There was just enough room to grab it and his confined space erupted into an intense light causing further pain from his eyes.
“A torch. Thank god a torch.”
He struggled to focus.
“Blue silk. What the …”
He looked left and then right.
“No, no. Oh please no. A coffin!”
Memories flooded back. The romantic light of a flickering candle. His girlfriend’s tender body. Her father’s enraged glare.
In desperation Jim pushed against the lid. Every ounce of energy went into his bid for freedom.
“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, “I’m sorry. I’ll never see her again. Just let me out. Please.”
The sound of his pleas went unheard.
“Please.”
Exhaustion took it’s toll, and as the oxygen became depleted he gasped his final words.
“Mum. Help me.”
Thanks for your contest entry, Andy. I’m glad you enjoyed the challenge. If you enjoyed Andy’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Thank you for the challenge!
—-
Closure
I hesitated before her tomb, a lit candle clutched in my scorched hands. Melted wax dribbled while hushed expectation mixed with the incense puffing in a vain attempt to smother what had happened, to shroud what I was about to do.
The silence of those left to gather nudged my back and I shuffled a step closer.
Holes in the pottery watched me approach, their darkness as empty as her eyes had been when they’d last met mine. Rubble had surrounded her then, not whitewashed boards or the velvet cushioning her final resting place.
She wouldn’t be trapped though, her soul wouldn’t be locked within the oiled wick, if I stopped moving. She could stay tucked in my memory, her limp weight ever in my arms, if I could keep my feet from another forward drag, my hands from extending, my candle’s flame from igniting its enchanted mate.
The flame I held pulled back as if hearing my heart’s plea, and trembled, as tentative as I’d been to first touch her cheek.
Then, around our gathering, a pure breeze stirred. With gentle coaxing, it lengthened my timid fire over the wick I feared to ignite.
The oil caught, fast as our roof’s timbers, and I stumbled back, wary of another conflagration.
Instead of heat, though, instead of burning lungs and cries of pain, her candle’s glow, her soul forever encased in wax and flame, soared across the walls on wings of shadow and light.
Thanks for your contest entry, Kate. If you enjoyed Kate’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Here’s my entry, with 1 whole word to spare:
“El, mommy says we’re not a-spozeda play with matches,” Lily whined.
“Shush or go back to bed. You’re lucky we woke you up,” Ellen said, stretching her arm to the shoulder in the crack between the wall and dense oak drawer. Her fingers found the coarse strike-pad of the matchbox and she pulled her arm back, panting. “You know he only likes fire.”
“Nightlights don’t work?” Jacklyn peeked her head from under the thick wool comforter Mrs. Hunt had laid down in the basement as a bed for the two girls.
“No.”
“Flashlights?”
“No! I told you Mister Spindles needs fire. He likes to dance on the shadows,” Ellen said, frustrated with all the questions from her sister and friend.
“I wish you hadn’t got me up…,” Lily said. She hugged a stuffed moose half as big as her and plopped down on the make-shift bed behind the older girls. “He’s mean.”
Ellen grabbed the ceramic candle jar off the pushed-aside coffee-table and set it in on the ground in the corner. “Only that one time,” she said striking a match to life. She tilted the candle until the wick started to pop.
The candle threw patterned shadows onto the walls while the girls stared in the dark, holding back their breaths to keep the silence. The light flickered. They stared.
And stared.
“Maybeeeee we shouldn’t…,” Jacklyn asked nervously.
“Shhh!”
The shadows started to move, fluid and smokey, curling and coalescing into a single mass.
“He’s here.” Ellen said.
Thanks for your contest entry, Matt — and for resubmitting when it disappeared into nullspace. :) If you enjoyed Matt’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
Thanks, Miss Jo! That was fun. I did two.
Here’s the first:
“Within These Shadows”
“Your home waits within the shadows.”
“In the candlelight?” I asked. A mistake I had made before.
He cursed and pulled my open palm to him and spat into it. At least I wouldn’t have to scrub the floor this time. I tucked my hand into a pocket and wiped it clean.
“You are not ready.”
The old man resumed his position, a gnarled stone monk surrounded by his candles. Each flame cast a different light against the polished granite walls, shadowy dark squares, arches and diamond patterns that flickered above our heads. I’d seen them all before. Each time I’d felt the fire’s flames or an icy stone wall smash against my face. This was my last chance.
But the old man was wrong. He had to be. Three years of servitude, doing the foulest things in fouler places, every subhuman task the old man demanded. Surviving on insects and whatever small creature held still too long. All for a few minutes of lesson a day. Always studying. Always alert for the next test to come out of the darkness. Three years. All for this last chance to find the light.
“Look between the shadows. Do not let your eyes tell you what to see.”
I rubbed my forearms, felt the burn scars on my hands. Old ones, new ones. The last ones.
I was ready. One light on the wall was not candlelight. I walked between the shadowed arch, into the light beyond, and went home.
Thanks for your contest entry, Eldon. If you enjoyed Eldon’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
As I mentioned, I took advantage and did both. The arch in the picture prompted both, but they play differently. This one is a touch graphic.
Again, thank you.
—-
Righteous Flames
The victim was like the others. Elderly male, naked, nailed head down on an inverted cross. His genitals were mutilated, femoral artery severed to make sure he bled out, but not too fast. The blood would have flowed down, filling his eyes with the truth of his end.
The candle was like the others, too. A thick sacramental in a hand carved wooden votive that cast a pattern of arches across the wall around the cross.
“This one a priest, too?”
“Gardener,” said one of the local cops.
“Both,” my partner said. “From Boston. Monsignor says he retired and moved here to tend the flowers.”
That explained the dirt on his hands.
“Maybe something under the dirt will be a clue,” I said. “We could use one.”
“All the others have candles like this?” the local asked. “You could ask the Basilica.”
We turned to look at him.
“They might know who made the votives.” He pointed to the wall. “See the shadows? The arch in the middle, spires on either side? That’s the St. Louis Basilica. I was an altar boy there.”
I grabbed my phone and flipped through the crime scene photos. Each votive was different. I looked at the last one. It didn’t match the church we were standing in.
“What’s your name?”
“Ryan, sir.”
“Call your supervisor. Tell him you had to go to St. Louis to catch a bad guy.” I tossed him the keys and walked past him toward the SUV.
“Drive fast.”
And thanks for your second contest entry, Eldon. If you enjoyed Eldon’s story, please remember to vote by clicking the Like button above.
FAIRY FOREST
There was my cousin Eli’s all’s-well whistle, followed by the scritching sound of his shoes against the stone. So it was probably heading towards what we used to call evening. After being in the cave for so long, “evening” no longer held meaning. Neither did “day.” Or “sunshine.”
I was sitting on a rock formation across from a charcoal drawing I’d made of a tree on a craggy cave wall. As my candle end sputtered and the flame flickered, if I squinted, the branches looked like they were moving in a breeze.
“Close your eyes.”
“My candle’s almost out, anyway.” But I did. Eli sometimes brought me treats from the upper world. “It’s not food, is it?”
Eli huffed. “Not making that mistake again.”
One look from my little sister’s hollow eyes and it felt like one of those stalactites from the ceiling had fallen on us.
Whatever he was doing took a long time and lots of clanking to set up. And then the gentle whoosh of a wick catching fire echoed in the little chamber. Fifteen times.
“Keep them closed.” He took my hands and pulled me to the middle of the room. “Now.”
There were cut metal lanterns all around us, throwing overlapping patterns on the walls. We were standing in a fairy forest. My eyes teared from being open so wide and so unblinking.
It was the most perfect gift. And the most awful.
Because a beautiful cage was still a cage.
Carefully, she placed the votive on top of the brown blanket that covered the bricks. She lit the candle and sat back to watch the flickering shadows and remembered cathedral windows she’d seen on that bike trip she’d done through England when she finished college.
She’d travelled by herself with just a warm sleeping bag and a backpack containing a second pair of jeans, a wool sweater, a few t-shirts, a couple changes of underwear and a good map. She didn’t make plans. Each morning she would climb out of her sleeping bag and decide which direction she’d ride in. At one hostel, an American guy had tried to discourage her since she didn’t have a bike repair kit. She didn’t know if he was trying to take care of her or pick her up. She didn’t stick around long enough to find out.
Her travels continued and today she didn’t carry much with her, other than a poncho to keep the rain off. She scrabbled through the trash for food, slept in a niche under the bridge, read books she found on the street. It wasn’t an easy life, though at times she was surprised at how easy it was. Like this moment: staring at the found votive flickering against the wall of her place, remembering those cathedral windows.
Prayer had ripped out her throat and left her silent. She did blame God, childishly, completely, but out of a real necessity. Her rape in this church was like basking in cold sunlight. She had seen tourists do it on the Oregon coast, and not understood until now.
Disbelieving their own experience as it happened, as teeth chattered and gooseflesh raised, the visitors forced themselves to stay put on the beach for at least fifteen minutes- trying to look languid as they counted the seconds before they could turn to their cars. Something as predictable as ebb and flow didn’t steady their rhythm at all. And sunshine, -the brightest beacon there was!- brought them no comfort, as they had promised themselves it would in their heads. Yes, yes they are trying to justify the two hour drive, but they are especially slow to leave, the idiots. their skin still prickled, acutely sensitive. Just one degree hotter or if that bitch wind had stilled, they would have left with a goofy smile. It would have meant there were actual strings to pull, a plan solid enough to abandon.
This is how she prayed now. Listening for creaks on the floorboards. Not just for danger, for presence alone.She lit the candle, leaned in and tried to speak the word.
“Help.” It needed to be said, she knew, with reverence, clarity, and enough belief to make it fly.
“Help.” Nothing but a whisper, flat and timid. She blew out the candle.
A LIGHT IN THE WOODS
Analise carried the lantern in her trembling hands. She shivered. Was it the cold night air or her meeting with Erik that gave her goose-bumps? Her breath hung heavy in the still, silent woods, and her heart pounded.
She heard the crackle of broken branches on the frozen ground and then the thud of snow falling from a heavy-laden bough.
“Erik?” she called out.
“There you are,” Erik said, emerging before her eyes like a phantom, covered in snow. “Thank God you have that lantern. Black as coal it is tonight.”
Analise gazed fixedly at the lantern. The cut-outs cast a beautiful glow in this land of ice and snow. How could she ever leave this place?
“We have to hurry Ana. Our ship leaves for America in the morning.”
Analise stood like a statue, unable to move. She was just seventeen, but suddenly she felt so very old.
In the lantern light she could see tears shimmering in Erik’s eyes. Those pools of pain told her everything she needed to know. He would not leave without her.
“We must go.” she said.
It seemed to Analise that the forest was now ablaze with light, but it was only the flicker of a flame that led their way.
She breathed in the fragrance of the ancient fir trees. It was a scent she would remember always.
THE DEEP DARK
The pretty little lantern stains the wall with its light, scattering it so it’s like the puzzle pieces Moth flung across the basement floor. Her twisted hands with their missing fingers, her shattered mind with its broken off thoughts remind her that if she can’t solve something as simple as a puppy dog jigsaw puzzle, she’ll never be able to put together the jagged pieces of her memory.
Moth drags herself – her legs as useless as a mermaid’s broken tail – over to her mattress. Her shadow, her only companion, slides and stretches around her. She gathers the blankets, snuggles into her nest then sighs, the sound so small, so fragile.
Usually Moth shrieks and sobs, trapped inside the deep dark, trapped inside immeasurable terror, before Missus comes down and lights the lantern. Moth is positive it keeps the monsters – other than Mister – away. But tonight, Moth lit it herself, using Mister’s engraved silver lighter, the one he dropped the last time he visited her. It’s only a matter of time before he notices it’s missing. But she’ll keep it until he takes it away, just like he did with her fingers, her legs.
Now she fumbles it, drops it, picks it up again. Moth smiles. Everything looks so much nicer, softer in the flickering light. Mister’s scraggly beard, his greasy ponytail, will look better, too. She’ll just have to hold the flame close enough….
*****
Mercy
The storm pushed in quickly as they did out here in the woods. Eli rushed into the enclosed porch Sheila used as her studio. The lights flickered, then went out.
“It sounds bad, Mom.” A lightning flash outlined his eight-year-old body where he stood next to her easel.
“Time to light the candle,” she said. This wasn’t their first storm since moving here in the spring. She got to her knees and crawled to the latticework candleholder on the altar she had created at the other end of the room.
“Let me,” Eli said, coming up beside her. She handed him the matches and heard her mother’s disapproval as if she were in the room, one more reproach to add to the list of Sheila’s wrongs—getting pregnant, painting instead of keeping her job at the bank, moving to the middle of nowhere.
Eli lit the candle. A perforated shadow splashed on the wall. The scent of vanilla ascended.
“Looks like a church,” Eli said of the shadow.
Sheila embraced him around the waist and held tight to the one solid thing in her life. He patted her head.
“We’ll be fine,” he said.
The wind pummeled their little cabin. Rain smacked the porch windows. Branches raked the roof.
Then stillness. The storm had passed. The lights would be off for hours. Eli slept beside her. She drew up a blanket, then blew out the candle and resumed her nightly vigil until the mercy of sleep relieved her.
I think I may have been bitten by the flash fiction bug. Here’s my second story.
Lost Sailor
Angus watched his wife, Shona, light another candle and placed it on the stone window sill. The flame caused the shadows on her face to falter, but didn’t concealed the solitary tear. He wrapped his thick set arms around her from behind. She felt his whiskers followed by a comforting kiss.
“He’s gone, my bonny lass. It’s been too long.”
“I know, I know. It’s just to let him know we have nae forgotten him.”
She tipped her head backwards and he saw the same emptiness he had seen ever since their son, Glen, had gone missing at sea. He kissed her again before sitting down next to the open fire. Angus stared into the flames as he mourned the loss of his son, and missed his wife as she used to be.
He stood, and pulled on his pea coat.
“I’m goin’ out. I have a feelin’ you might not be needin’ that candle after tonight.”
Shona barely noticed him leaving until she saw him walking along the path towards the bay below. He disappeared from sight.
It was several hours before she heard the door open again.
“Where have you been, Angus? I’ve been worried.”
The sitting room door open and she gasped as Glen walked through it. She ran over and threw her arms around him.
“Glen, is it really you. Oh my bonny boy, where have you been?”
With a tear in his eye, he asked, “Where’s father?”
The door opened again and the candle blew out.
I totally misread the deadline and thought it was 7 p.m. instead of a.m. Oops. But I wrote it, so I’m posting it anyway, darn it. :) I’ll be more on the ball next time.
Carrie wiped her tears and blew out the candle. From her bedroom window, she could see the Millers’ barn, glowing in the distant darkness. It was the annual End of the Harvest gathering—a legendary night for young love, the night she and Emily had been dreaming and giggling about for months. Yes, love would blossom tonight, but not for Carrie.
Robert had been Carrie’s dream. Childhood friends, they’d drifted apart as they grew, but he still had her heart. He just didn’t know it. When Emily had proudly announced that Robert had asked her to dance at the gathering, Carrie found her heart on the ground at her feet, bleeding and broken.
Long after midnight, the barn’s glow faded. Across the field, the oak tree at the edge of the river beckoned. The river, too, sent an invitation on the breeze: “Come. I’ll heal your pain.” Hopeless and resolved, she scooped up her heart and went.
Unfortunately, the river had already claimed a heart that night. Emily’s funeral was held the following week.
“Carrie?” Robert’s sweet face inspired a fresh assault of pain and tears. Emily had stolen him—why did she have to steal Carrie’s only chance to escape the pain too?
He took her hand. “I’m so sorry. I–” His voice broke. “I should have followed her. I didn’t know she’d take it like that.”
She felt dizzy. “Take what?”
“I just– I told her I just wanted to dance with you!”
I know I’m too late. This is just for fun.
It sits on a shelf at the foot of the bed. If you pitch the blankets just right it looks to be floating, casting shadows like a temple; ornate arches, struts, and ovals vying with the flatness of the wall. I hear cow bells tinkling, bike bells ringing, car horns blaring as men lean from windows to shout. And the heat. The heat.
Outside, I am enveloped by activity. All in a rush. To where? To where?
Sun ablaze, blue sky cloud-dotted, the sights, the sounds, the scents – exotic. I walk to the lake – more a murky pool – to sit on the side watching the women dunk, rub, and scrub until the clothes dazzle in the light, and while children race in circles. Their dark, brown eyes don’t see me – a ghost in their world.
One woman knows, staring straight at me, her eyes mine, green, reflecting back the ovals and arches, the sweeps, and the curve defying shadows. She, in a different world, in a bed, a flickering light comforting her as she rests, at last, in unknown silence, limbs stretching out in the cool sheets of novelty.
A bang at the door. The woman starts.
‘Turn off that light.’
‘Right, Mum.’
‘And don’t be lighting no candles. You’ll burn us down one day.’
‘I won’t.’ I blow hard and the temple disappears in a puff of smoke which spreads out across the room as night drops its drape of heavy darkness.
‘Night, lady.’