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.
Errol was a kick-ass attorney. Despite the receding hairline, his charisma could still sway and charm a jury or encourage a judge to render minimal penalties on his client when at fault. He was known to walk away from lawsuits promising a big payout when he sensed a potential client just desired to crush the opposition instead of seeking justice.
Yet somehow, despite this reputation amongst peers, Errol hankered for another form of recognition. One rooted deep in childhood before the lawyering took hold. Errol had a flair for wit and a quick sense of repartee regardless of occasion. While these qualities bolstered his chosen profession, it failed to provide the inner calm and satisfaction he sought.
In his earlier years during university breaks, he volunteered as a party clown, much to the chagrin of his father.
“Becoming a clown is unbecoming for a lawyer-to-be. What will people say?” That abruptly quashed it.
Then, an opportunity arose. He signed up for open mike stand-up at a club. Utilizing his case preparation techniques, Errol outlined his routines. He stood before a mirror, set his timer and ran through each, paying particular attention to his posture and delivery.
On the night of, as he waited his turn,
“Carson, Leno, Letterman and Kimmel, don’t fail me now.” Then he crossed himself and walked on stage.
The applause was thunderous. The comedy went beyond race, class or borders. Momentary stardom was achieved.
Errol returned to his day job sporting a devilish grin.
“Case closed.”
A Panther in Paradise
One evening, Jaydee was walking through the old neighbourhood, searching for a path home.
The streets were full of painful memories that pushed against the walls of his mind. And it became a struggle not to let those memories tear a hole in his soul.
As a rapper, he wanted to sing about those memories.
But life was short. And it was full of danger: the streets, the gangs, the scene. Even the sirens in the city seemed to echo a fate he was destined to meet.
The State’s an armed camp;
an upside down utopia.
Locks hide the fearful
and crime becomes a skill.
Young men everywhere,
but no time for school.
Too busy playing Capone . . .
inside a hamster wheel.
For Jaydee, danger stalked his life, and like a panther, he had to walk stealth-like through the urban jungle. . . .
And as he made his way home, he was confronted by a hunter lurking in the shadows.
“Give me your money, man,” the young man demanded. He was nervous and high and absently waved a gun in the air.
The panther froze.
Jaydee smiled and said softly, “You don’t have to do this, brother. We can talk.”
But bullets didn’t talk.
One day a man gets a gun,
and guns a man down,
a life cut short,
a rapper dies young,
sirens wail,
but nobody cries:
just another day
for
a panther in paradise.
“Unbelievable!! Will ya look at ’im, Stan! He has the crowd in the palm of his hand!”
“I know. And just two hours ago—”
“I never thought he’d pull this off. Yeah, it’s a great piece, but—”
“I thought you were going to say—”
“No, I really mean it! It was only a week ago I gave Dakota a draft of the song along with everything but the lyrics for the final refrain, but he blew me off and disappeared with Lilly for three days. God knows where they went. Man, I wish he’d lose her—”
“Tell me about it. That woman is bad news. I caught her going through the crew’s stuff a while back, obviously looking for money or things to pawn to feed her habit. Told her if I ever caught her doing that again, we’d dump her in the next town.”
“What’d she say?”
“She just threw her nose in the air and said if I even mentioned what I saw to Dakota, she’d see to it that it that he heard a few things about me, true or not, and that would be the end of my career.”
“So, what did ya do?”
“Told the crew to keep their stuff locked up and be on the look for her snoopin’ around. In any event, I’m surprised to see Dakota up there tonight?”
“Why?”
“Because not two hours ago I saw a cop pump two doses of Narcan into him.”
Today, Variety–the entertainment weekly–called him “the hottest new country star to come along in a decade.”
Two years ago, Richie Stevens sat alone in the deserted racetrack bleachers watching another day die, the horizon crowded with tall neon signs and lights that blinked and twinkled. On the other side of the highway, McDonald’s was cooking up a batch of burgers and fries. The odors drifting across the track were appealing but he wasn’t hungry. Not for food. Hungry for reassurance. Reassurance that what he was going to do was right.
Tomorrow he would leave for the Academy of Country Music in Nashville for an audition to see if they could teach him to be an entertainer.
Until crooked gamblers, dishonest trainers and professional thugs took over the sport of kings, Richie–small and agile–was one of the top jockeys on the state fair racing circuit. When his mother, in tears, pleaded with him to stop racing before he got hurt, he did.
Tonight, on the stage of Nashville’s Ryman Auditorium, he was ready to give the audience what they came for—until he saw his mom on the front row. In tears, he introduced the screaming, applauding audience to “my best friend, my mom.”
Pointing to her with his guitar, he said “This one’s for you!”
It was “Somebody’s Hero.”
Jennifer, whose house the garage belonged to, strummed her guitar quietly while Angie sat at the drums idly spinning her drumsticks and Tamara fingered the lead to the next song.
The three 12-year-olds let the sound die away in the double-car garage they used for band practice. Like most of the garages in the neighborhood, it was packed to the gills with everything but cars. It had taken the girls an hour to push out of the way all the unused sports equipment, furniture that had seen better days, and plastic bags full of old clothes so they had a place to play.
“Not bad for just starting out,” said Walt, Jennifer’s father. His face was unshaven and his hair long and pulled back in a ponytail. He knelt down beside his guitar case and reverently removed the Fender Stratocaster he hadn’t touched in twenty years.
“Back when I was playing,” he said as he plugged in his guitar, “I could bend the strings and make them cry. I’ll show you how and then you can try. How does that sound?”
The three girls looked at one another, uncomfortable with what might happen next. “Dad,” said Jennifer. “We sort of already know what we want to play.”
Walt stopped halfway up from the floor. “Of course,” he said, his face turning red. “Let me just get my guitar stuff and take it inside. It’s your turn to be the stars.”
‘Stardom isn’t a profession, it’s an accident.’ Everett had read that quote somewhere after his sudden rise to stardom as a singer. When his relationship to his girlfriend ended, he was afraid his success was going to ruin his life.
Everett walked through the door of his modest bungalow, and immediately put on his purple and black slippers. His mother called him every evening, asking if he had met a potential girlfriend.
“But Everett, you’re going to end up alone,” his mother cried.
“Don’t worry, I’ll know when I meet the right person.”
While waiting for food delivery, the doorbell rang. When Everett opened the door, there in front of him, stood the most beautiful brunette wearing dark rimmed glasses.
“Hi,” he said, at a loss for words.
She tried to hand him the insulated container,” Cute slippers.”
“What?”
“Are they from the Edgar Allan Poe gift shop?”
“Huh? I’m sorry…maybe; they were a gift.”
“My law school owns and manages the Edgar Allan Poe burial site and grounds.”
“Really? I love Poe…” he said, and decided to take a leap, ” how about lunch tomorrow?”
“Okay… I could show you around the grave site,” she laughed.
“I like it,” he said, also liking that she didn’t recognize him. Everett hoped it wouldn’t make a difference. He could hear the phone ringing in the background. He was glad he had something new to say to his mother. He was ready to get on with his normal life; stardom in tow.
Melody sat up at the piano bench, as her neck broke out in a thin layer of perspiration. She was very excited to share her new song with her loving, approving audience. She felt the baby grand piano keys move swiftly and responsively under her young fingers as she played the introduction to “Daddy’s Golden Girl.”
She took a deep breath of air and belted out the words, as her voice filled the room.
“You always showed me how to walk,
And even how to run,
I couldn’t see the path ahead,
But you were my shining sun.
“When others said, ‘There is no way,’
And I wanted to curl up and die,
You lifted me up like a soaring dove,
And said, ‘Kid, you’re gonna fly!’
“‘Cause I’m Daddy’s golden girl,
I’ve never been anything less,
When the world thought I would fail
You only saw success!”
She sang rest of the song confidently, as her small hands glided over the ivories and her audience sat spellbound across the room. She finished with a flourish of notes.
She faced her audience, who enthusiastically clapped with rowdy cheers. She felt for her dog, Beemer, who knew, as soon as she grabbed his harness, to guide her bounding into the arms of her parents.
Her three siblings surrounded them, forming a tight-knit group hug of seven, including the dog.
“Yes,” said her father, “I think you’re more than ready for your audition.”