Christian Yorke

At the beginning of September the search was on to find a winning piece of flash fiction. The subject matter was left open, the only limitation being the author’s imagination and a maximum word count of 300. There were almost seventy entries by close of play on Friday 2nd October, which far exceeded my expectations.

The quality was extremely high. The stories covered nightmares, sporting disasters, sunbathing (with a twist), horror and romance; and all in just 300 words! Before announcing the winner I would like to give a special mention to two excellent entries.

Andrew Rossiter (www.coffeepercolator.wordpress.com) submitted “The Call”. It used short, punchy sentence structure to inject pace and tension. The result was an edgy and dramatic story that I enjoyed enormously.

With a story of hide and seek, Poites (www.poietes.wordpress.com) submitted “Child’s Play” that used a mixture of dialogue and action to great effect. There was a sense of ambiguity throughout, and the twist at the end leaves the reader fearing the worst.

However, it is time to unveil the winner. It is “Her Winning Smile” written by Dawna Rand (The Writer’s Saga). Be warned, the story deals with an adult theme so if you are of a timid disposition, look away. For the rest of you, the story is a snapshot of a working woman. She seems to be in control. She sounds tough. But then again, what price is she paying? Read on, and enjoy…

HER WINNING SMILE BY DAWNA RAND 

She smiled winningly, hoping the darkness concealed her boredom. She leaned towards him.  “Wanna dance?” she chirped over the din.

            He nodded briefly, avoiding her eyes.

Fuck yeah. Just gimme money, asshole.

                The song’s throbbing onslaught began, rattling the barstool on which she thrust her 6-inch heel. She wriggled out of her dress. He’d agreed – so why act sexy now?

                She wadded the dress into a handful. She plopped in his lap and ground industriously against an unimpressive boner.

                The bass pounded. She shifted.  Her eyes scanned the faceless crowd. Another one. Dressed nice. Drinking alone. He’ll spend.

                She turned so only her left cheek was working.. Asshole gripped her hips, focusing on her gyrations. She yawned and propped herself against the mirrored wall. Still grinding, she preened. Yeah, I’m still hot. Not as young as some bitches, though…

Need another wig soon. This one’s ratty. Assholes grabbing it…

Rent… car… babysitter…

 Lazy-ass husband…now the wig…

Shit. Always something…

She continued her calculations, equations interrupted only by a fading song. Or screeching DJ. That bastard makes a thousand a night. Doesn’t have to fight handsy assholes, either. Fucker.

“Do you work after hours?” Asshole rasped to her tits.

Fuck off. You don’t even have money for dances. She shook out her dress. “I only work here.”  She wriggled into the abbreviated spandex.

He nodded, still avoiding her eyes. Which suited her fine. He handed her a crumpled bill.

She glanced down. Yeah, a twenty. Better not stiff me, asshole.

“Thanks, baby,” she called, forgetting him. She strode off. Her feet were killing her. But she had to keep hustling. Because you really do get what you pay for.

Only… who paid? And for what? In rare, quiet moments she wondered. She targeted the next loser . And she smiled winningly.

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.