Use the photograph above as the inspiration for your flash fiction story. Write whatever comes to mind (no sexual, political, or religious stories, jokes, or commentary, please) and after you PROOFREAD it, submit it as your entry in the comments section below. There will be no written prompt.
Welcome to the Indies Unlimited Flash Fiction Challenge. In 250 words or less, write a story incorporating the elements in the picture at left. The 250 word limit will be strictly enforced.
Please keep language and subject matter to a PG-13 level.
Use the comment section below to submit your entry. Entries will be accepted until Tuesday at 5:00 PM Pacific Time. No political or religious entries, please. Need help getting started? Read this article on how to write flash fiction.
On Wednesday, we will open voting to the public with an online poll so they may choose the winner. Voting will be open until 5:00 PM Thursday. On Saturday morning, the winner will be recognized as we post the winning entry along with the picture as a feature.
Once a month, the admins will announce the Editors’ Choice winners. Those stories will be featured in an anthology like this one. Best of luck to you all in your writing!
Entries only in the comment section. Other comments will be deleted. See HERE for additional information and terms. Please note the rule changes for 2016.
ELIGIBLE FOR EDITORS’ CHOICE ONLY
Reynolds was depressed. A lifetime aversion to conflict, a dead end job, and despair over his future left him every day after work in a very dark place. He only found solace in his afternoon ride.
Alone and free to go where he wanted, he had the wind in his face and endorphins pulsing in his body from the intensity of the exercise. His spirit uplifted by the forward movement, he felt invincible.
Reynolds could ride his Schwinn for hours along those country roads. The best season was late summer or early fall as the temperature and humidity dropped and the late afternoon sun was at his back. Everything he passed he saw in the high relief of brilliant sunlight and he could at last see himself chasing his shadow and not having to suffer that dark part of him sulking behind.
The shadow seemed always to know Reynolds intent. Dodging and weaving from one side to the other along the gravel roadway. Shapeshifting and sidestepping with each change in the bike’s angle with the sun as if guilty of some offense and terrified that Reynolds would soon catch him.
This time of year he would return in the near dark, his shadow extinguished by the nearly set sun. His wife would ask him every night at dinner, “How was your day, Dear?” His answer was always the same,
“Only the shadow knows for sure.”
The Road Run Out
Sarah abandoned the car when the road ran out. She left the pink slip in the glove box with the registration and keys. “No longer my concern,” she thinks, and thinks about it no more.
The sun sinking casts mile-long shadows on the sere desert.
She walks until she comes to the twisted Joshua Tree where the horse stands waiting. She mounts, trusting the horse knows where to go.
The horse sets off, Sarah astride. The sun is set now. The stars trickle their pale illumination over the dead landscape. The night air hums. “Music of the spheres,” she thinks, not insect drones.
The horse clops along steadily, the air incensed with sage and cereus. Memories lose their sharp edges in the lapidary tumble of Sarah’s mind. Faces once dear fade, voices hush to whispers. The horse walks on.
The moon rises gibbous, her light augments the star shine. Sarah no longer Sarah settles into the heavy blanket between withers and hips, grips the horse’s mane. They climbed above the desert floor between sheer pale walls. Nothing grows here, all life is left below. No sounds but the spheres.
Atop the ridge a burning flame. A stone circle ringed with figures rocking, murmuring low. Sarah dismounts, finds her spot waiting for her by the fire.
Morning light rises on ash, smoke and a flight of Grosbeaks.
The horse turns and starts back down the trail to wait again for another Sarah.
“Why are we down here?” Walter kicked a rock and watched it skitter along the broken ground. Black shadows stretched over the brown earth and desiccated vegetation. Dust filled his nostrils and throat. He snatched his canteen, gave his horse a pat on the neck, and drank.
“To see something,” his father Jack told him. “To prove I’m not crazy.”
“See what?” Walter gazed up the sharp rise. The road passed along its crest fifteen feet above his head. They had led the horses down here at Jack’s insistence. Walter followed although with Jack seventy-three and he fifty, both were too old for such nonsense.
“Watch,” Jack insisted. “And keep quiet.” He squinted at the sun as its disk kissed the road. “Here.” He turned and pointed at the shadow of the rise creeping through the dust.
Walter shook his head but watched, hearing only an occasional whisper of wind. Minutes passed, then a faint crunch of gravel drifted by. He nearly turned to see who was on the road, but his father grabbed his arm.
“Watch!”
The shadow of a horse and rider passed by, slowly, painfully, weighed down by some incurable sadness. Within a minute, it vanished.
“Now!” Jack snapped, and they clambered up the rise to the road, leaving their horses behind. Walter looked, slack-jawed. The road stretched into the distance, empty.
“Well?” his father demanded.
Jack chewed his lip. “Well.”
“That’s just what I thought.”
“I think,” Jack said, “you’d be crazy not to.”
A white sun beat down from a white sky onto the alkali landscape of this part of Arizona Territory, where the only primary colors to be seen for miles were the dust-covered blue uniform and bright red face of 2nd Lieutenant Barrow Bigbee.
“Think they’ll have fresh horses for us at this Gonzalez Station, Zeiter?” Bigbee said to Mule Zeiter. The long-time Army scout had been tasked to guide Bigbee to his first posting since graduating eightieth in the West Point Class of 1872.
The alkali-coated Zeiter turned in his saddle, scanning 360 degrees of horizon, never taking his eyes off the bleached distance.
“They sure as hell better, Lieutenant Sonny Boy, or we’ll be hub-deep in the shit pile should some Cibecue Apache boys decide to have us for lunch with their afternoon tizwin,” Zeiter said.
“Am I to believe your magical Apache warriors can stalk and hide in ambush for us behind this stuff? Not even a shadow, save for our own,” Bigbee said with a laugh, pointing at the barren landscape, broken only by a wide scatter of creosote bushes and saguaro cactus.
In that instant, the purity of the scene was marred by the blood spattered from Lt. Bigbee’s head after a .50 caliber bullet from an unseen Cibecue’s Spencer carbine passed through it and into the shoulder of Mule Zeiter, who spurred his half-spent gelding for all he was worth.
“Yep, Sonny,” he grunted as he fired back at shadows.
Grandfather pulled a pipe from his pocket and lovingly handled it for a minute before putting tobacco into one end and lighting it. The pipe had belonged to his best friend who was killed in the Pacific War where they both had served as Code Talkers with the US Marines on Okinawa. His friend fell from a sniper’s bullet. Grandfather has a box full of medals which he keeps locked away somewhere, but he doesn’t talk much about them.
Grandfather proceeded to tell us a story about the old days; when fences did not choke the countryside and when the buffalo roamed free. He told us about a time when drought struck the land; when all the birds disappeared, the buffalo fled, and the women mourned. Even the mighty warriors of the tribe could not fight against the iron sky.
Then one day a stranger rode into the village. He looked tired and the pale horse he rode was sickly and weak. When he saw the sad faces of the women and children he took pity upon them. Sitting upon his horse he looked up at the sky and raised his hands over his head. The people could not understand the words he spoke, but he spoke them with great feeling. After he finished speaking he rode out of the village, but inexplicably his shadow remained.
Then it started to rain. The people rejoiced, the buffalo slowly returned to the plains, and the children played their games again.
Elephant Shadows
Bick Pitter was leaning against the fridge in Molly’s kitchen. His right arm was sprawled along the top of the appliance and he held a tall glass of happy juice in his left hand.
“I wasn’t expecting it, Gus.”
“Expecting what, Bicky?”
“Ah, man. I’m sinking in a great big hole.”
“Look’s like you’re getting’ some fine support from the old ice box. What’s eatin’ at you?”
“Gussy, ya know I went to that writer’s festival.”
“Yeah. Seemed outta character. I mean, I know you read but…have you been writin’ stuff too?”
He starts wobbling his head and I can hear the coins jingling.
“Nah. Nothing like that. It was just, well, they had this topic a bunch of writers at a conference were gonna natter on about. The State of the World, doncha know! It kinda hit home. So, I signed on.”
“So, how is the old world doin’?”
He scratches his alfalfa spot and says, “It was goin’ along swimmingly until this one poet lady, she hauled out a piece of paper and said, okay, time to get down and dirty. I’ve got a list of all the elephants in the room I can think of. Well, let me tell ya, my fragile heart started beating a mile a minute. She had it all. Migrants looking for countries; The homeless lookin’ for homes; Nuclear bombs lookin’ to blow somethin’ up.”
“Heavy doo-doo, Bick.”
“Yeah. Darn’d if all I saw was an elephant shadow in the desert.”
Frostburg once again pulled mid-day guard duty in the sweltering heat. He hated the heat, especially the kind that even made your shadow sweat. They were the only beings on this forsaken unnamed planet, but the captain insisted on someone standing guard under the two noonday suns. So, Frostburg stood there in the middle of nowhere with nothing of significance in sight, not even a lizard or snake, and no sign of any bugs either.
As he stared across the wasteland, he realized a shadow on the edge of his peripheral vision moved. He was taken aback because this planet was a dead world, lifeless, devoid of all life. Muttering to himself, “Maybe the captain was right.”
He woke from his stupor and his senses kicked in putting him on edge. Slowly he lifted his phaser from his holster and pointed it towards the vicinity, of the shadow, but the shadow was gone. His skin crawled with prickly sweat as he tried to comprehend what had just happened. Then he saw it again this time closer and sliding between the buildings. Trying to determine where it would show up again, he moaned, “Where did you go? Come out, come out, you little monster?”
He got his wish, but he froze at the sight of the disembodied shadow sliding over the ground towards him. At sunset, the captain came out to change the guard, but Frostburg was nowhere to be found as the long shadows of evening engulfed the base.
Instead of elation, Sophie felt like dying. She survived her captivity, but now she couldn’t go home!
***
All he saw was a shadow, before he rounded the brush. He thought the figure, on the horse, was a drunken cowboy. Surprisingly, it was a beautiful, young woman. Seeing the beaded moccasins, and her haunted look, he knew where she had come from, Indian Territory-a captive!
“Good day Miss,”tipping is Stetson.
“Oh, my. You startled me!”
Her cultured voice, gave away her fine upbringing.
“I don’t mean to alarm you, but we need to get to the next fort fast,”he said, looking around.
“Where am I?”
“Kansas, right on the border of Indian Territory!”
Then, he took her reins, and kicked the horses into a gallop.
After riding for 45 minutes, he started:
“… My father was a hemp farmer and preacher, even helped start a college. Then, he was killed preaching,to miners.”
“My family, were merchants, who followed the miners into Colorado, and then up to the Montana border.”
“Is that where it happened?”
“Yes, she said looking down.”
” Red Cloud…the Lakota…”he remarked. “Your family wants you back.”
“I will never marry…”
“Don’t think like that! If I wasn’t about to ask my love, of five years, to marry…”
***
Up ahead, he could see the quartermaster sending someone from the fort.
“I need to go before nightfall. You will be alright. Have faith.”
“Kind sir,…your name?”she called out.
“Jesse…Miss… Jesse Woodson James.”
Donovan was having trouble controlling the horse on this early summer morning. He figured the horse was just anxious to be galloping across the sagebrush ridges, the cool breeze brushing away the heat of this awful summer.
Donovan was raring to go as well.
“Please get down from there.”
Donovan looked behind him. There stood Birdie, his wife of too many years, a pink morning jacket flapping in the breeze.
“Howdy, pretty lady. You’re up awful early.”
“Come down from that horse,” she said. “This isn’t some western movie. You’re going to get hurt.”
Concentrating, Donovan strong-armed the horse to settle down.
“Why would I get hurt?” he asked. “I’ve been riding horses all my life. What’s the problem?”
“Your an old man,” she said. “You’ll get hurt. What happens if you get hurt?”
“Birdie, calm down,” he said. “I may be old but I’m not dead. At least not yet. And if I stop riding this horse, I’ll be that much closer to the big goodbye. You know that.”
Birdie backed away from the old man. “You’re a shadow of your former self.”
“What did you say?” asked Donovan.
“It’s time to act your age,” she said to her ornery husband of too many years.
“Like hell,” he said. With that he spurred the horse and sped down the road, racing his shadow across the hillside.
Birdie headed to the house. “Lost that battle,” she said, a smile creeping across her face.
“Oh for God’s sake! Sadie what the heck are you doing?” He yells at the back of his girlfriend as she disappears over the lip of a small rise of rocky dirt about 100 yards from the side of the road. The passenger door groans as he pushes it open with his foot. Like Sadie, Dave steps into a wall of heat not even bothering to shut the door. It makes no difference they don’t have air conditioning in the car. They were already melting in the tin can as they drove through the desert valley. Definitely a contributing factor to the severity of their argument.
Dave follows Sadie’s path cursing himself for wearing his flip flops as a stone kicks up and lodges in between his heel and the thin rubbery sole. He reaches the rise and squints as he tries to see his girlfriend of 8 years. He shades his eyes with his hand and finally sees her picking her way through some larger boulders. She doesn’t look back.
This trip was supposed to be fun. Both Sadie and Dave had wanted to travel without an agenda. A real old fashioned road trip but the weather was too hot, the car was a clunker, and the distances were greater than either had imagined. So far they were sweaty, tired, and had fought non stop.
Dave watches Sadie sit on a boulder. He fingers the box in his pocket, thinks well it’s now or never and walks towards her.
The Black Raven
Winona and Chaske slurped their sarsaparillas, picked up their text books, and headed for the Sioux reservation backlands. The orphaned twin brother and sister walked their usual path to school. The half-hour trek had become boring after a few years, so Chaske made up mysterious tales to entertain his sister. Inseparable, they always knew what the other was thinking or about to say.
“No, not that one,” Winona grinned. “Tell me about…”
“…Waheela?” Chaske finished. “Okay. I know how much you like the stories I made up about…
“…Waheela, the earthly spirit of the Black Raven,” Winona continued. “They’re my favorite stories.”
“One day,” Chaske began, “Black Raven swooped down from the sky and followed two children…”
“…on their way to school. Go on,”
“Hey,” Chaske snapped. “If you always know what I’m going to say, why should I…”
“…go on with it?” she chuckled. “Because your legends sound like the Waheela really exists, that’s why.”
“Well, Waheela wanted children of her own, so she brought them to her home in the heavens.”
As they trudged their path over boulders and shrubs, they could see their school in the distance. Suddenly, dark clouds blocked the Sun. A clap of thunder rolled across the countryside as an enormous black raven swooped down and carried the devoted twins to her home in the sky.
“Winona, I think we’ve finally found a happy…”
“…and truly loving home at last,” she breathed a sigh of relief, and squeezed Chaske’s hand.
Rider Shadow
As we age we are but a shadow of ourselves, but the most interesting thought is where are we when we die. My husband’s friend Frank Doerr who lived to be 93 often told us he didn’t believe in God.
Joe told him, “Then you can’t die. You have no place to go.”
Where will your shadow be?
ELIGIBLE FOR EDITORS’ CHOICE ONLY
Marianna Sartori Majeed had been planning her escape for weeks. Knowing Abdullah was away on business, she left before dawn, disguised as an Afghani salesman, laying fabrics on the camel.
She should never have married Abdullah. When they met in California, he treated her like a princess. It was all a sham. How could he be Taliban? Now, she was treated like a slave, beaten for not conceiving, although mostly, Abdullah slept with men.
A black dog followed closely behind her, who she had been feeding at the back door.
She had smeared ashes, mixed with water, on her face, as part of her disguise. If discovered by the Taliban as a runaway wife, a woman alone, dressed as a man, she would face some horrendous, archaic punishment ending in death.
Marianna was drawing closer to Kabul, to the security of the American embassy. A lone gunman emerged from a cave.
“What are you doing with our dog?” he asked in Arabic, “He’s been missing for months.”
“You’re American!” cried Marianna, ignoring his question, throwing off her keffiyeh. Others came out.
Weeping, she dismounted the camel. “My name is Marianna. I’m escaping my Taliban husband. I need to get to the embassy!” She threw her arms around the soldier.
The dog greeted him enthusiastically, “Corporal Thomas here. Thanks for taking care of Lincoln.” He rubbed down the dog. “Good boy! You’re a very, very good boy!”
“Come along, Marianna,” said Corporal Thomas, “You’re going home.”
LATE ENTRY
“I say it’s the shadow of a rider on a horse. That’s the horse’s front end to our left. The rider is in profile, facing left. The whole shadow is elongated and distorted, probably by the early morning or late afternoon sun,” Joe said confidently. “So, am I right?”
Scott smiled. “Not quite. Think about it. Think of where we are, in Nevada, in the desert. What are vast stretches of desert used for?”
“Nothing much, I guess. Maybe air force bases? I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“Something so obvious. When I tell you, you’ll have to laugh. First off, where is the horse that made the shadow? Where is the rider? ”
In spite of the desert heat, Joe felt a chill. How could there be the shadow of a horse without a horse?
“This shadow has been here for years. Since back in the days of atomic bomb testing. A cowboy was riding in the desert. He hadn’t got the warning. And BOOM. That’s all that’s left of him.”
A cowboy and his horse. Not their shadow.
Joe was not laughing