I’ll update this post with new stories throughout the day. But be warned, some of them might be a lot less polished than my usual work. Continue reading
I need your help. I stumbled across Damon Wakes’ Flash Fiction Day earlier and couldn’t resist signing up for it (Doesn’t it look fun? You can still sign up, too, if you fancy it).
I don’t know how many stories I’ll manage to write. I’d like to write at least twelve. None of them longer than 100 words (obviously), but it’s still a lot. I’ll need plenty of inspiration. From you. A single word, a starting line, photo prompts, a (fictional) response to a recent post of yours – anything you’d like to see me use during my story marathon, pop it in the comments, please.
I am not going to promise I’ll use every prompt. But I’ll try.
They click from the get-go. He says all the right things, he’s good-looking. It’s logical to see if their online chemistry translates.
‘Careful with the mousse.’
His voice has gone squeaky. She should tell him she’ll say yes.
‘You have such a charmed life,’ her sister says at their silver wedding anniversary.
Their first serious argument comes over where to retire to: Spain or France. Both stand their ground until he admits France is better.
At his funeral, a shrivelled man with hair standing up in hornlike tufts gives her a cheery wave. Her charmed life comes at a price.
Writing a story in snapshots when you only have one hundred words to play with – challenging. Did I pull it off?
Everybody smells them first – the aroma of bread fresh from the oven never leaves them. It’s weird everybody calls us the triplets. I don’t look anything like them; I don’t smell the way they do.
I’d love to be their sister, bread-scented, bag stuffed with baked goods. Unlike the twins, though, I like spending time in the bakery. I help their mother clean after school, when the last of the day’s rolls have gone into the shop. Not that rolls make me smell like them – rolls aren’t real bread.
But it’s okay, I’m used to making do with second best.
I do remember; every crappy little thing and how they’ve gained critical mass to come to define me. Everybody thinks I’m the jerk who created this situation. They’re not wrong.
The accident was an accident. I didn’t look for that kind of cop-out. But I’m good at grasping an opportunity when one presents itself.
The therapist shows me a picture of my wife.
‘She looks nice. Do I know her?’
‘Doesn’t she trigger anything?’
Late-night shouting matches, the ultimatum I thought was a scare tactic, her filing for divorce.
I do remember everything.
I just make everybody believe otherwise.
She’s so vanilla,
yet she has ambitions to
become more chilli.
The moment they look at each other they know they’ve met The One. In disbelief, they laugh.
‘Now? What a bloody joke.’
They kiss goodbye before – holding hands – they face the firing squad.
I was a bit uninspired today, but as it’s Writing Prompt Wednesday, I plucked a writing prompt from the reader: goodbye (okay, I only used half of it).
‘How was date night with the hubby?’
You flinch. You didn’t tell him about dinner and a movie that isn’t an animation and drinks in a trendy bar. Did you? Is he trying to rattle you again? Or has he taken up stalking you online?
‘It was a lovely evening, thank you,’ you say, hiding your anger. His face is contorted into a grimace that masks all of his attractive features. You don’t like where the thought is leading.
He doesn’t take it well when you leave early.
From welcome change to
Yet another person to please,
Ugly and green-eyed.
Written for Day Three of Lynn’s Love Nudge competition.