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Sunday, 22 February 2015

Flash Fiction Roundup

It's the weeks end and we all go back to work tomorrow. But, before you do, how about a quick dive into some Flash Fiction (on time this week)?


The legend of Chris and Mike continues with another installment. I'll admit that, upon seeing the first and last word prompt, I was a little nervous. But then I caught sight of the picture and knew it would be okay. Enjoy the duo's most dangerous adventure yet.


 “Spring,” said Chris, sniffing the vapours. “That’s what it reminds me of.”

Exasperated, Mike glanced over. “Would you stop lighting incense and give me a hand?”

“You’re doing fine,” said Chris as he saw his friend keep the Lesser-Spotted Dragon at bay with several sluggish sword swings. “Remember, you’re the muscle.”

“Zombies, ghosts and robots, you said.” Mike stepped to the left and dodged the dragon’s lethal claws, “You never said we’d be fighting dragons!”

The attack ceased then, the Dragon coughing and spluttering before it collapsed at Mike’s feet.

“What the hell?”

“Whisper SticksTM,” said Chris. He held up a packet. “Picked them up last year at a festival.”


As with last weeks contest I thought the canyon between photo prompt and the required setting of 'the moon' would cause me problems. But, as with last week, I think it actually helped me create a much stronger story.



No way I’m gonna make it back to the ship on that, no way in hell. I start walking; maybe find somewhere comfortable to check out. Not much to see out here, just rocks and space and big old planet Earth. Not much to choose from until I see the street.


I don’t need the street sign to know where I am; Hope Street, where I grew up. Looks just like it did the day I left, ‘cept it’s on the moon. Some of the houses still have bunting on from the last street party.


Halfway down I stop. Number 23. Home. I check the pockets on my space suit but don’t seem to have the door key on me. I go to knock but the door slowly opens by itself. I can smell mums cooking calling me. I take a last look at planet Earth above and then head inside.


My space suit is cumbersome but I manage to lie down on my old bed. I squeeze Mr Bear tight and stare up at the glowing stars stuck to my bedroom ceiling. Ever since I could remember, I always wanted to be an astronaut.



The Hourglass prompt normally shows up Saturday afternoon for me. This contest is a little more roomy than the others with 36 hours to get something done so I tend to let the image sit over night. While out walking with the wife and mini-me on the Sunday, an idea popped into my head.

Back home it got typed up, chopped down, snipped here and there before I added a little twist at the end.



“Another day, another dollar,” says Frank.

“Same again tomorrow,” I say as I wipe down the counter.

He chuckles. “And so it goes.”

“I’ll rinse the ash trays and call it a night if that’s okay?”

“Of course, dear. And thanks again for helping out. Don’t know what I’d do without you.” He heads back out to the kitchen.

I wander out among the red and white chequered sea of tables and start collecting up ash trays. I think about which microwavable treat I’ll enjoy alone tonight when there’s a ding-a-ling from the bell announcing a visitor. Why does someone always drift in around closing?

“Sorry, kitchen’s closed,” I call out, “All I have is coffee and day old Danish.” I wonder if this is the man I dream about, the millionaire who’ll whisk me away from this hard life and treat me like a princess. I grab the last ashtray and turn only to find a scruffy looking drifter standing at the far end of the counter. He’s holding a gun.

“What do you want?” My chattering teeth match time with the clinking ashtrays in my hands.

“I’ll take one of those Danishes and all the money in your register.”

I nod vigorously, I’m not gonna argue down the barrel of a gun. Franks insured. I’m not. I dump the ashtrays and move back behind the counter. The drifter slides along so he’s right in front of me.

“Empty it,” he says.

I open the register and grab the notes, placing the day’s takings on the counter. That’s when Frank comes though the kitchen door.

“Did I hear another customer?”

The sound of the gunshot pummels my chest. I scream as Frank wheels back through the now blood stained door.

 The gunman grabs all the money and fills his jacket pockets. He raises the gun to my head as I say a prayer.

“My mother was called Maria,” he says, pointing to my name badge. “Your lucky day.” He turns and flees.

I look down at the badge that saved my life, Maria’s badge, the one I borrowed this morning because I’d lost mine.

My lucky day.

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