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 2018.
Gertie Loves Jack
Spiral sided gif-a-lump
porous centered stiff-a-pump
welcome to the shelter dump
your slimy innards in a lump
seedy moistened pile-a-gump
make now with hollow thump
all the faces of ill-tempered frump
cackle hoarding chip-a-chump
foisted on a case-o-mumps
contagious enough to play the trump
card of fear where kiddies stump
for treats, trick them ole yip-a-yump
decked out as judge or world series ump
grow some fangs to make kiddies jump
across the fields where the fairies bump
and grind beside the dread death swamp
where you, the Geezer, pitched camp
prior to billing yourself as a magic lamp
attracting ghouls just a blatant vamp
you’re nothing but a simply damp
letter to the homeless without a stamp
adopt troubling features of a simple drunk
with piercing eyes just a trendy Punk
ghost propelling mind boggling spunk
devouring night in bright candle chunks
sending kids fleeing in grand funk
stumbling to escape your baleful trunk
for zombies, I’m sure, you’re quite-a-hunk
living dead are drawn to your light’s shine
sitting lightly on their knotty coffins pine
for the annual conference of spooky time
you are the beacon by which they rhyme
puddled spirits of your hollow mind
where death by fear is not a crime
but truth, love lost is love sublime
There you are ole grill-o-grump
naked roundness your major tump
centered on your symbolic sump
no one ever forgets your plump
visage for yearly you tromp
escapee from dinner table’s pomp
you romp!
Jack Lanternski’s Wake
On Hallowe’en, two months after Jack Lanternski passed, a few of us from the block gathered in the Laternski back yard to hoist a few and remember our neighbour.
Fern Laternski, his widow, was still dressing in mourning black…nicely set off by a knitted orange wrap for the occasion, a gift from her Bridge partner, Sheila Skelton.
“He would love this,” Fern told the assembled. “You all know that All Hallow’s Eve was Jack’s favourite holiday.”
Our heads nodded in unison. “Duh, Fern…of course,” Monty Raymond slurred, somewhat sarcastically.
“Always the sensitive bonehead, eh Montgomery,” Fern fired back.
Humbled just enough, Monty offered an honest apology. “Sorry Fern…must have tossed back a few too many brewskis…I’m drinking for Jack too, you know.”
We all nodded. It was an open secret that Jack had consumed more than a dozen imported Canadian beer the night he tumbled into the grandkids wading pool and drowned in five inches of urine-laced water.
“Jack would appreciate your sacrifice, Monty,” Fern said,and then went over to the giant carved pumpkin to set it alight.
“Friends, my dear departed Jack discovered late in life by way of DNA testing that he wasn’t Irish, that his name wasn’t Jack O’Lantern, that he was Polish. He tried to embrace this revelation, changed his name as you know, but his Hallowe’en heart was always Irish. Burn bright, dear Jack.”
And so, the candle was lit, Jack glowed, his Polish Irish flame shone late into the night.
n.b. a slight edit
Jack Lanternski’s Wake
On Hallowe’en, two months after Jack Lanternski passed, a few of us from the block gathered in the Lanternski back yard to hoist a few and remember our neighbour.
Fern Lanternski, his widow, was still dressing in mourning black…nicely set off by a knitted orange wrap for the occasion, a gift from her Bridge partner, Sheila Skelton.
“He would love this,” Fern told the assembled. “You all know that All Hallow’s Eve was Jack’s favourite holiday.” Our heads nodded in unison. “Duh, Fern…of course,” Monty Raymond slurred, somewhat sarcastically.
“Always the sensitive bonehead, eh Montgomery,” Fern fired back.
Humbled just enough, Monty offered an honest apology. “Sorry Fern…must have tossed back a few too many brewskis…I’m drinking for Jack too, you know.”
We all nodded. It was an open secret that Jack had consumed more than a dozen imported Canadian beer the night he tumbled into the grandkids wading pool and drowned in five inches of urine-laced water.
“Jack would appreciate your sacrifice, Monty,” Fern said and then went over to the giant carved pumpkin to set it alight.
“Friends, my dear departed Jack discovered late in life by way of DNA testing that he wasn’t Irish, that his name wasn’t Jack O’Lantern, that he was Polish. He tried to embrace this revelation, changed his name as you know, but his Hallowe’en heart was always Irish. Burn bright, dear Jack.”
And so, the candle was lit, Jack glowed, his Polish Irish flame shone late into the night.
One Halloween evening Loopy was laughing as he stood in the hallway of his apartment building.
A neighbour opened his door and asked, “Loopy, why are you laughing?”
“Hahahaha. . . .” Loopy stopped laughing long enough to say, “I just listened to a six hour laugh track. . . .Hehehe.”
“Six hours? What show were you watching?”
“No show. . . .Just a six hour laugh track. . . .Hahahaha.”
Loopy’s laughter was contagious and the neighbour stepped into the hallway and started to laugh.
Other neighbours in the building heard the commotion. They came out to check on the noise and they too started to laugh. Soon, everyone in the building was laughing.
A police officer was called to investigate the matter. “What’s going on?” he asked Loopy.
“Hehehehee. . . .Nothing officer,” laughed Loopy. “We’re just laughing. . . .Hahaha.”
“This must stop,” insisted the officer. “There’s serious. . . .Hahahehe. . . .Stuff going on. . . .Hahaha.” Soon the police officer was laughing.
When the first police officer failed to answer his radio several more police officers were dispatched to the building. And when these backup officers could not be contacted even more officers were sent to investigate.
Eventually, two dozen police cars, several fire trucks, four ambulances and several unmarked cars were parked around Loopy’s building. Flashing lights were everywhere. Traffic was backed up for miles.
Everyone was laughing. Even the Jack-‘o-Lanterns joined the fun.
“Pretty neat pumpkin carving, right Grampa?” asked little Johnny.
“It’ll do,” Grampa answered. “I like the old kind better, the kind with creepy frowns and missing teeth, the kind guaranteed to scare the pants off you!”
“OOoo!” Johnny said. “Tell me again about the time you and your buddies sneaked into the old haunted house on Hallowe’en.”
Grampa told him.
“Where was your Mom?” Johnny asked. “How come she didn’t know about it?’
“Because she was home, having a few drinks with my old man and the neighbors, that’s why. Parents didn’t mess with kids much when I was a boy. They let us do whatever we wanted, and if we got ourselves into trouble, we could just get ourselves out too.”
“I wish I lived back then,” Johnny sighed. “How come things were always better when you were a kid, Grampa?”
“I don’t know, Johnny. They just were,” Grampa lied.
He remembered plenty of things about the old days that were not so wonderful. Tragic things he would never tell Johnny. Grampa especially remembered a little sister who had died before she was two years old of a simple disease that penicillin could have cured.
“Waddaya got for me, Michael?” asked Detective Lou Martelli, NYPD, as he stepped into the garden of a townhouse in the West Village early in the evening on Halloween, 2017.
“The usual,” deadpanned Deputy Coroner Michael Antonetti. He pulled a white sheet over the victim, closed his medical bag, stood, and faced the detective. “White male, about 40 years of age, medium build, sliced and diced like that jack-o’-lantern grinnin’ at you from over there.”
Martelli looked to his right, where the visage of a devilish face, this one celebrating the day when ghosts and witches are said to appear, seeming smiled at him. “Well, he sure looks like he knows something but ain’t talkin’,” replied Martelli, taking out his notebook. “So, any murder weapon?”
“Oh, yeah, we got a murder weapon, all right,” nodded the coroner, handing Martelli a sealed, tagged evidence bag. “Even better than that, we got the whole kit and caboodle; we got ourselves an entire set of murder weapons.”
“Waddaya mean, Michael?”
“What I mean is, we got ourselves a complete set of pumpkin carving sculpting tools. Whoever killed our John Doe, here, musta interrupted the guy while he was working on his pumpkin because the vic’s stomach looks like ol’ jack’s.”
“Well, it just confirms what we already know,” replied Martelli.
“What’s that?”
“Pumpkin carving is one of the most dangerous things a person can do! Remember, there’re almost 2000 pumpkin carving injuries nationwide every year during October and November?”
Scary Jackie
“Just one more week, Jackie. You can do this.”
“But Daddy, I’m scared out there by myself in the dark. Besides, nobody is ever scared of me. Everyone walks by and says, ‘What a cute jack-o-lantern’. I am not one bit scary, and jack-o-lanterns need to be scary.”
Daddy Jack-o-lantern looked at his son thoughtfully. “You have a point, Jackie. How about we do something about this. We’ll think of something that will scare the pants off the whole town this Halloween.”
Jackie’s eyes brightened. “Really Daddy? Can you think of something?”
“I’ll try. But you can try to think of something yourself.”
Halloween night arrived. The orange sky slowly became black, and the moon grinned evilly as witches swished by on their broomsticks. Trick-or-treaters tumbled from the houses swinging treat bags. When they knocked on Jackie’s door, he was ready. The children grabbed the chocolate bars from Jackie’s family, and turned to leave.
“OOOOO!” Jackie said. Flames shot from his eyes and mouth.
“Aaaah! That jack-o-lantern! It’s haunted!” screamed a tall boy dressed like Superman. “Run!”
The children raced down the street in terror. Treat bags went flying.
Bumpety, bump, bump.
“It’s chasing us! Run faster!”
But Superman couldn’t get away. The children were running and screaming. Parents came flying with weapons. Jackie kept bumping along behind Superman, laughing hysterically.
The next morning, Mr. Jack-o-lantern asked, “What’s your secret, Jackie?”.
“Simple. I tied string onto Superman’s cape, and held on. I can’t wait until next Halloween!”
Roy hated carving pumpkins and this year was no exception. Angrily, he stabbed out the nose and eyes, and went in for the kill. He sawed a ragged grin turning the pumpkin into a chopped up jack-o-lantern, and then intentionally dropped it on the step, and it cracked.
He grinned vengefully, “That’ll teach her to make me carve that stupid pumpkin.”
Turning to leave he heard a gravely sarcastic voice complain, “That’s not good enough! Do it again.”
He turned around only to discover the pumpkin on the step was somehow uncut and undamaged, grabbing it, he drop kicked it over the fence. “There no pumpkin, no problem!
Again he heard the voice, “Carve me right! You get one last chance or else!”
Roy spotted the pumpkin back on the step, good as new. Infuriated that anyone would dare play this sick prank on him, he reached for the pumpkin only to end up inside it. Trapped inside the pumpkin. He remembered his knife, but he dropped it when he got sucked in.
Mike, his brother, came out on to the porch. Roy heard him call his name. Roy screamed at him, but his brother could not hear Roy inside the pumpkin. Picking up Roy’s knife, Mike carved the pumpkin and with every knife twist Roy screamed in agony. Mike finished and place the jack-o-lantern on the step, “Not a bad job, if I dare say so myself. Odd, it kind of looks like Roy.”
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This Halloween, Theodosius decided he would pass out hot-dog water in recycled jelly jars.
“Trick or treat,” deadpanned little Mikey, who was dressed up like a Eskimo.
“Enjoy this hot-dog water I have prepared for you, varmint,” Theodosius chortled. “It is my finest handiwork.”
“Whaddya mean, hot-dog water?” little Mikey exhorted. “Whaddam I supposed to do with this? I’m a vegan! I know it doesn’t make sense because I am a Halloween Eskimo and Eskimos eat seal blubber and that’s not vegan. I know Eskimos don’t eat Twix or Kit Kat bars either, but that’s not holding me back.”
Theodosius was unmoved by Eskimo Mikey’s protestations. He doubled down.
“As another trick, you little beggar,” Theodosius proclamated, “I have prepared this hot-dog water not from beef hot dogs or even turkey dogs, but from veggie dogs. Enjoy drinking the blood of soy beans and turnip seeds, you small fur ball.”
“Veggie hot-dog water juice? Ha HA! The trick is now on YOU,” Eskimo Mikey triumphantly trumpeted. “I am very hot in this furry Eskimo costume and veggie hot-dog water is what they give us at the Montessori school instead of juice boxes. So your veggie hot-dog water is what I drink all the time anyway. You have played into my hands.”
Theodosius harrumphed and closed his door. Eskimo Mikey took a big swig of veggie hot-dog water and looked at Theodosius’s jack-o-lantern. “Pretty scary. I bet he will win the neighborhood pumpkin contest because this is delicious hot-dog water.”
ELIGIBLE FOR EDITORS CHOICE ONLY
The fetid-stench of the rotting pumpkin wafted up from the dilapidated-porch. The trick-or-treaters paused at the first step leading up to the derelict-house. Though their expressions were hidden behind visages of evil, their trepidation spoke volumes of what was really behind their masks.
“Let’s go back!” cried the smallest ghoul of the bunch. His half-full pillowcase of treasures seemed suddenly heavier than his arms were capable of carrying.
A medium-sized witch with a crooked nose and hairy mole chimed in. “He’s right. We have enough candy. This is stupid.”
“No Way! We are doing this! And that’s that!” exclaimed the large green troll. Slinging his bulging satchel over his humped-back, he hazarded a step upon the creaking wood.
As if a button had been depressed, the decomposing jack-o-lantern reversed its process and started to re-inflate its concave head. Tiny gnats were expelled from its black maw as Jack’s grin returned to its former glory. Drooping triangles suddenly stood at attention, self-aware and gleaming with a yellow flickering light.
Likewise, the house itself righted its broken structure. Snapped beams were reassembled and chipped paint received a much-needed touch-up. Disparate strands of straw and other fibers interwove and lay upon the doorstep.
The large troll dropped his sack of booty and turned-heel after his small band of followers. The wrought-iron gate clanged as the ensemble ran down the dark street.
Jack threw into a fit of cackling laughter that followed the trio for the rest of their lives.
Back Again
Sure, I’ve been an addict. I know it.
Been playing these darn slot machines every day since I retired. But I can control it; I can walk away anytime. Thing is…every time I’ve won a few bucks, I’ve just put it right back into the machines. Not much fun in that. But I can quit…I know I can.
Don’t blame the casino. It’s got hundreds of the things. All the bells and whistles are a siren song to me. Luring me back, time and again. But I can quit. I know I can.
Besides, the buffets have been tasty and cheap. Soothe me when I do lose; cheer me when I win.
But today’s the day. Last machine I’m gonna play!
Jason looked at the change in his cup, took out his last silver dollar, plopped it in the slot and pulled the handle.
Bells and sirens sounded.
“Well I’ll be damned!”
Jason had won the progressive jackpot—$127,500.00.
Wouldn’t ya know it: it’s Halloween. This is just a treat to trick me into putting it all back over time. Well, I’m not gonna! Not this time.
Jason took his winning voucher from the floor manager, turned and left.
Heading for the craps table…
First of all, I just don’t know what people are thinking of. They come up to the farm on a nice sunny day. Some of them bring their little kids along with them, and their parents don’t give a hoot how they run through the field kicking and poking the other pumpkins in my family. Finally, after they browse throughout the day, they choose a victim to gut and abuse.
Oy! That guy with the three brats is pointing at me. Here they come. He has a pocket knife. He’s going to cut my stem and….. Ouch! That hurts. What do they care. They’re dropping me into a bushel in back of their SUV. Goodbye, Mom, Pop, brothers, sisters and friends. Misery.
I’m sitting on a counter in the kitchen. Here come the inconsiderate brats’ mother. She’s reaching in a drawer. Good grief! Look at the size of that knife. No! No! She jabs into the top of my head and cuts a hole large enough for her to reach in and scoop out all my innards leaving just an empty shell. Oh, such pain. Such agony. I’ll hold out long as I can. Now she’s cutting holes in my outsides.
What? She’s sticking a lit candle into me. They’re taking me outside and sticking me in some bushes. Oof! The heat’s unbearable! What did I do to them? Why are they doing this to me? Don’t they realize I’m a living thing? Eek! I’m beginning to shrivel. Goodbye, world.
ELIGIBLE FOR EDITORS CHOICE ONLY
For Halloween, Mrs. Cornflower fashioned a scary jack-o-lantern, to frighten those youngsters who defaced her porch.
There was a knock! Oh, good. It was a policewoman with a tiny trick-or-treater dressed up as —
“What are you wearing, dear?”
“She’s a Barbie doll, Mrs. Cornflower. I’m Officer Murphy. You can call me Jane. This is my daughter Olivia.”
Olivia was wearing a skin-tone outfit, with a faux bikini. She had pigtails and a wide smile.
The elderly lady let Olivia pick from a bowl of pre-packaged candy bars, and invited them in for hot chocolate.
When there was a loud pounding on the door, Jane offered to answer. There appeared to be over a dozen youth, who were awestruck to see her. “And who are you?” asked Jane.
“We’re the mob that chases the Frankenstein monster!” said the biggest. They had electric torches, clubs, and flashlights, but also eggs and shaving cream.
Mrs. Cornflower joined Jane, timidly. “Jack didn’t scare you off?”
“Not this time!” cried a young upstart. “We want our treats!”
Jane stood firmly in the doorway. “Then form a line, and each one say ‘please.'”
“AND,” said Jane, “I appreciate that you brought Mrs. Cornflower those eggs. She doesn’t need the shaving cream, but they can use it, down at the homeless shelter.”
The teenagers filed past, handing the officer their contraband, muttering “please,” and collecting candy.
Mrs. Cornflower was tickled pink, and Jack went right on smiling.
Jack Spratt stood on his front porch a free man. It was October 31st. Three years since he’d been arrested for robbing Barth the Butcher. Three years since his wife Ethel had turned him in.
Ethel, that ungrateful shrew. He’d only stolen to satisfy her insatiable appetite for Kielbasa. Spratt wasn’t rich, but he’d spend his last dime to satisfy her craving for the spicy Polish sausage. Nothing else would make her happy. Spratt couldn’t stomach the stuff but, he loved that woman.
One year into his sentence he received divorce papers. Ethel had met someone. Another Jack, this one named Horner. Horner spent his days packing meat at Hillshire Farms and his nights in the corner sticking his thumb into pies and telling himself he was a good boy. Jack Horner was daffy. Ethel didn’t care where he stuck his thumb as long as he brought home the bacon.
Spratt rang the bell. He’d stolen a large pumpkin from his neighbor and stood with the gourd raised over his head. He’d brain Ethel; it’s what she deserved.
“Who’s there?” a voice behind the door asked.
“Trick or Treat!”, answered Spratt.
The door swung open. Spratt struck.
*
Detective Beaupeep stood over Horner’s pumpkin-splattered body taking the details from the weeping widow. She described her ex-husband: thin as a rail with an aversion to meat. Not much to go on. Beaupeep sent out an APB:
“Be on the look out for Jack Spratt, ex-con. Considered to be Vegan and dangerous.”
JACK IS BACK
It was his first Halloween to trick or treat. He was 28 months old, our oldest child born in 1961. He was curious, not excited.
We walked up the sidewalk to the first house and knocked on the door. They were waiting for us. As they handed Matthew a candy bar, his eyes got B I G. We took him by the hand and walked him to the front walk. He immdiately trotted over to the curb and sat down and ate the candy bar.
His dad and I laughed.
We walked to the next house and they gave him more candy. He looked amazed. As we walked to the sidewalk again, he ran to the curb and sat down and ate all of the candy.
We laughed again.
Then we walked to the third house where there was more candy. His dad and I looked at each other as he ran to the curb again to sit down to eat all of the candy.
We went back home.
Garrett shut the front door with a gentle click and stepped forward to lean against the front porch column. The cold autumn air felt foreign against his freshly shorn scalp, but he didn’t plan to be out here long enough to need a hat.
The street was empty, as usual. The few cars that remained on the block hadn’t moved in months, and his house was the only one with its lights on. The streetlight half a block down flickered, and Garrett could hear the whine of its lamp from where he stood.
Quiet. Always quiet.
He looked down at the pumpkin near his feet, pulled the old Zippo lighter from his pocket and leaned over to lift the carved top from the base. With a flick of his fingers, the jack-o-lantern cast a weak shadow across the stairs.
Garrett put the lid back.
Rhythmic steps echoed down the street. Garrett looked up, but he knew who it was. There were only three of them left in the neighborhood, and Mrs. Tolliver wouldn’t come out after sundown. Everyone else was dead, gone, or…something else entirely.
“Hi, Rhett,” Garrett said.
“Hey, Garrett.” Rhett looked at the pumpkin. “You expecting trick-or-treaters?”
Garrett sighed. “No candy.”
Rhett looked at him, then walked up the driveway and sat down on the steps. “You’re in luck.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two small chocolate candies.
They sat on the stairs without saying another word until the candle flickered and died.
LATE ENTRY
When the neighborhood kids saw the elaborately carved pumpkins, they knew Jack was back from college.
The kids in the neighborhood thought Jack was a cool guy.
Little did they know, there was a core of sadness – only the closest to him understood.
“Hey Jack !” Tommy from next door called.
“Hi Tommy! What are you going to be on Halloween?”
“A zombie – of course!”
“Oh of course…” Jack laughed.
“Jack will you pick up soda for the party?” His adopted mother asked.
“Only soda?” Jack said, facetiously.
At the party that Hallows Eve, He Saw Penny – one of his oldest friends – who was there during the tragedy that shaped him.
“That smile and freckles…” Jack thought.
cat costume she was wearing was a very sophisticated version, with sparkles in all the right places!
“Hi, Penny! Look at you!”
“It’s been too long Jack ,” she hugged him.
They ended up talking until almost dawn.
“I’m teaching 8th grade while getting my masters,” Penny said.
“Really…? So you’re working here in town?”
All week Jack and Penny were inseparable.
Towards the end of the week, Jacks’old high school instructor, who was a dean at the University, offered him a job.
“I’m sorry the money’s not here Jack.”
“Dean Myers, after losing my entire family in a plane crash, I know there is so much more to life…”
Dean Myers nodded in agreement.
Plus, now I have another reason to stay in town,he smiled- thinking of Penny