I woke up early to partake in some flash fiction contests. I haven’t actually written flash in a long time now, so no doubt I left a trail of rust from one story to the other.
Number one! This one needed to begin with the word Peace, and end with the word Prize. There was also a photo prompt of a little girl’s hand in an adults hand. I probably should have went warm/fuzzy, but I just didn’t.
“Peace won’t come, so long as you live,” tall-man says. He bends down to look her in the eye, frowning the way most big-people do.
“That’s a lie,” her brother says. He’s making sounds with his teeth, the sounds he makes when she looks out the window without her wrap on.
“That mark,” the man points to her cheek, the starry one, “reminds them of what we lost. You know that.” He pulls a needle from his jacket.
Brother’s growling now.
“Avi, kill him and we’ll get a prize,” he says to her. Her cheek burns bright and hot and the man screams, his clothes smoke.
Avi looks up. “Prize?”
And then the next one is from a place I used to visit all the time, Siobhan Muir’s blog. Thought I’d give it a go today! The prompt was that you had to use the phrase “You’re supposed to wear it” somewhere in your story. I have no idea what I was going for here. Like, none.
The girl held the bodice up by a strap. It was a lacy number, black and sheer. Her face told him everything.
“You’re supposed to wear it,” Shiloh said, hiding his smile.
She held it against her body. It contrasted nicely with her white t-shirt. Shiloh wondered if her skin was just as white. Red-heads were usually pale.
“Nothing with a zipper?” She plucked at the thin ribbon-like ties crisscrossing up the back of the bodice.
She sighed and looked up at him, her bright green eyes watery. She wasn’t on the verge of tears—must just be nerves.
“It’s alright, Sivi.” He cupped her chin and rubbed a thumb along the smooth line of her jaw. A flush crept into her cheeks, accentuating the spray of freckles dancing across the bridge of her nose.
“Will they like me?” She whispered
“They will love you, darling.” Shiloh smiled and helped her off the sofa, tugging at her t-shirt. She already wore the matching skirt, if it could be called that.
He helped lace up the bodice, careful to pull it tight enough so that the mounds of her small breasts pushed up prettily above the cups.
Lastly he knelt by her stocking-covered thighs and lifted up the skirt. The gun was strapped securely, and was already charged. No warming up to give her away at the last minute.
“Kill as many as you can. And when they take you and change you, I’ll take care of it, darling.”
And I think I’ve flashed enough for one day. Giggity.