FLASH FICTION AND A COMPETITION
Flash fiction is a short story of extreme brevity. It is said to have been around since Aesop’s Fables, and Anton Chekhov and Franz Kafka were both practitioners. Read on for an example of this fine art, called Procession to Eternity. I will be very impressed if anyone can guess who the story is about, particularly as you may need to consult your history books.
I am also very interested in reading your flash fiction, so please take this as an invitation to enter a marvellous competition. You can write about any subject, the only rule being that your story should not exceed 300 words. To enter you can either post your entry as a comment or send it to cy@christian-yorke.com. The closing date is later this month and the winner will be published in full on this twisted website.
I hope that you take part and enjoy the challenge.
Procession To Eternity
My view improved when the youngest guard lifted me above his head and displayed me to the armed multitude. Time was limited. I worked my muscles into a defiant grin and concentrated on my eyelids, determined to keep them open to the last possible moment.
I felt no sadness as I tried to recite the psalms that I had read from Henry Edgeworth’s breviary during the two hour coach ride to the Place de Louis XV. My tongue moved, but in my newly diminished form I generated no sound. The horsemen, who had numbered twelve hundred as they escorted my carriage to this place, had joined the pack. Beyond the scaffold I saw the cannons and drummers, and everywhere people waving their pikes and guns, their innocent faces fierce, some seemingly in a state of rapture. And I realised that my perception of the beating drums and barbarous cries, that moments earlier had been so terrifying, were now a moist rumble.
The young guard lowered me so as to be level with his eyes. His tongue protruded. He stared at me making the most atrocious and indecent gestures. I was powerless to avoid the the jet of saliva that he fired into my face and then his fingers gouged my scalp as he raised my head to the grey sky. I sensed that I had but seconds left as I felt, or imagined, cold January rain striking me.
Marie and my my children were in my thoughts as the guard turned so that I faced my remains. I was still on all fours, blood spraying from the thick stump between my shoulders. My blood dripped from the axe that had been raised into the scaffold. I was no longer master of my eyes, my smile rigid. I thought once more of the psalms, sensing a new beginning.
So, now it’s your turn to show me what you can do. Watch that word count discipline and hit me with your best shot. Come on, don’t be shy, get writing and share it with the world right here at the Writer’s Twisted Web.
Hi Christian. Thanks for your feedback on my latest work on my blog. I’ve decided to offer an entry for your competiton. Hope you like it. It’s original, written today, specifically for you. btw, love the Louis VXI story. It is about him, right? Marie Antoinette’s husband?
Cheers,
Bobby (Godlessmonkey)
Indigestion
Rounding the corner I very nearly lost my footing and could almost swear I felt it’s hot breath at my back, spurring me on. I ran for all I was worth, feeling as though my lungs would burst, the sulphurous air permeating my blood faster and faster with every painful lung full.
The street was a minefield of putrid meat and the cast off debris of miserable lives wasted in this hell hole that I had come to unbidden and clueless, only to find myself pursued by a nameless horror of unspeakable ugliness gnashing it’s misshapen mouth of hideous fangs dripping with acid saliva, it’s savage howls torturing my ears.
In vain I searched for a door or something to hide behind every time I had put enough distance between myself and my pursuer, only to see it appear again forcing me to take flight once more, my legs screaming in protest.
I looked up at the sky as I ran and then looked down and away from the blood red swirls of smoke that formed themselves into grotesque scenes of vile depravity too horrible to contemplate. On I ran, never daring to wonder how I had come to this desperate predicament or how it would end.
Suddenly a lamppost appeared in my path and as I swerved to avoid it I tripped on an unseen object and went facedown in the vile muck on the sidewalk. I heard the beast chortle with glee and closed my eyes against its inevitable approach.
I sat bolt upright in bed, cold sweat permeating my nightwear. As I lay back down and tried to go back to sleep I made a mental note that anchovy pizza and late night reruns of Twilight Zone were probably a bad idea.
Bobby,
Many thanks for your comments and excellent entry. You scored top marks for guessing that the hero in my sad story was Louis XVI-well done!
I also greatly enjoyed Indigestion. Your opening line was a nice hook. I must say I’ve had many similar nightmares! Nice twist at the end with a hit of humour. As they say, anchovy and horror is always likely to have repercussions…
CY
Hey Christian,
Thanks for the invite to participate in your contest. In fact I had explored your site and noted the contest and thought I just might do so!
Stay tuned.
Keep up the good work.
Regards,
Jen Morrison
Oops – left wrong website link!
Hi Christian,
thanks for the invite – here’s my first try at flash fiction!! Hope you like it.
Cheers,
Andrew
The Call
There is a man. He is alone. It is night, and he stands. No, he slumps. Against a wall. He is cold. And shivers, occasionally. There is no rain. But his face is wet. He draws heavily on a cigarette. He is bereft.
Look around. There is a street. There are cars. They rush past, oblivious. There is a yellow street lamp. It lights the way. His face is pale. And unhealthy. He ignores the light. And remains slumped against the wall. He does not care.
His breath fogs the air. His trousers are creased. They are not soiled. He wears only a shirt. It is white. It is cold.
A telephone rings. No, it trills. It is a mobile phone. He grabs at his pocket. And pulls out the trilling phone. There is a beetle. It crawls across the pavement. Oblivious to our drama.
There is a room. In a city. The room is styled. And modern. It is high. It has large windows. And overlooks a river. A cat sits on the window sill. Staring. It is watching a woman. She is lying on a long sofa. And is laughing.
A man appears. Behind her. His hand strokes her hair. His arm is bare. And well muscled. She runs her lips along it. She is smiling, contented. The cat looks on, amused.
She stops smiling. Her eyes bulge. Her mouth opens, wide. It utters nothing. Her legs kick, frantically. The cat spits. And runs away. The man touches her cheek. And takes out a phone.
The end.
© andrew rossiter 2009
http://coffeepercolator.wordpress.com
Andrew,
Is that really your first flash fiction? You’ve done a great job. Nice style-punchy sentences, tension and a moody atmosphere. Really enjoyed reading it!
CY
Louis XVI.
Thanks for the invite. I’ll give it some thought.
Louis-yes! that old rascal…
Look forward to hearing from you again.
CY
THANKS for the pingback. Much appreciated!!
CY
well, I’m a bit late to the party, but hello and thank you for visiting my blog.
You asked for a link to a sample of my writing–this is the only think I have posted online at the moment–be warned that it is –ah, graphic, and not casual reading. Especially for guys. :/
It’s an excerpt from my WIP.
http://whistlingfire.com/2009/02/25/blacksheepsings/
Stacy,
Thanks for joining in!
That’s a very descriptive piece by the way-I am still shaking. My wife is 81/2 months pregnant so I’ll keep it from her for now.
The most important thing is that you tell it like it is with vivid images, cut with softer memories. There is a nice balance that I enjoyed.
I look forward to reading more!
CY
Okay. Here is my first attempt at flash fiction:
Sun Bathing
The sun was beating on my back, giving me glorious warmth. Nearby, I heard a bird singing. I could have fallen asleep then if it weren’t for the fly on my nose. Hate flies, especially those big black ones. I remember the day I caught one on my tongue, nasty taste in my mouth for hours. I know better now, so I just push the fly off my nose and close my eyes again.
Dreaming about the field again, how it stretches on in every direction, no end in sight. So many happy times in that field: running full out, warm breezes, no worries. Then after, a cool drink of water and a nap.
Then came the time after the field, when nothing was green, just cold and wet. I hated to venture outside because I knew that my black hair would get soaked, and there would be no sun to warm me. I longed for the warmth again, but each day brought only more gloom, more cold, so I spent my time curled up on the couch, occasionally calling out warnings when I heard sounds of danger outside.
Eventually, the days began to warm; there were new smells on the air: It smelled green. That’s the only way I can describe it: green. New sounds, too—birds, frogs. And I began to hear that loud roaring sound—the one that came from the metal monster that ate grass. I attacked one once, tried to make it be silent. I was banished to the inside until my human was finished battling the monster. Now I know to leave them alone. I wait until the roar is silent before I run outside and lie down next to my favorite bush, the sun beating on my back, flies buzzing my floppy ears.
Lola,
So glad you gave it a go-loved the point of view…was it a labrador or jack russell??
Great work!
CY
The black lab, Tillie
CY,
Decided to try another one.
Child’s Play
“No. Not this time. It’s not going to be me,” Jules said to herself. The darkness made it hard to find her way through the building, but she was fairly certain that the doors to the auditorium were down this hallway.
If she could only get inside, she knew where she could hide. Only a few people knew about the trapdoor that Jules had found when she was working on the set for “Streetcar.” She prayed the auditorium doors would be unlocked.
Just a few more steps. There were the doors, and they were unlocked. Jules knew she had to be very quiet because the doors squeaked. Don’t let them slam shut. Now down the aisle to the stage and the stairs that led to the wings.
Jules tried to calm herself, deep breaths. In. Out. Her breathing sounded too loud in her ears. She moved to the right, behind the stack of folding chairs. There it was—the spiral staircase. Its black metal risers blended in with the dark curtains. Jules climbed the stairs carefully.
Jules remembered how surprised she had been when she bumped her head on the ceiling and a panel moved. She had been at the top of the stairs working on a backlight. She was certain no one had noticed the moving panel, but Jules knew that it was there. She just had to reach it in time and she would be home free.
She paused. Was that movement in the aisle? She couldn’t tell. She just needed a few seconds. It was movement, an indistinct shape, coming towards the stage. Jules pushed up on the panel slowly and felt it move; there it was—safety. Jules prepared to pull herself up through the opening just as something grabbed her ankle.
“Tag. You’re it, Jules.”
Hey, you’re spoiling us!
Child’s play indeed. Nice back story-why the auditorium, what is Jules (an actress, producer, cleaner??), what time is it, why are they there playing games and who else is in on the game? I sensed that things could easily be about to turn nasty; maybe Jules falls down some stairs sustaining a life altering injury, or a violent intruder bursts in with dark consequences. Or maybe that’s just me…
The story certainly stands on its own, but could easily be developed as the opening of a novel. Well done!
Please note that the contest closes on 30-09-09 in case you want to enter another piece of excellent flashy fiction…
CY
You know, after I finished my 300 words, I realized that it could turn very nasty indeed. The hiding place actually comes from a recurring dream of this chute behind a stage. I dream about it at least once a year.
Thanks for giving me an impetus. Maybe I’ll get off my butt and write more.