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.
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.
“Who’s that out on the water? He’s fair ripping along. Looks like he’s on fire, the speed he’s doing!”
“You’d think so, though I guess he’d not burn for long. Water’s a natural flame-retardant. It’s a common misconception ‘round these parts…”
“Now, don’t you play the fool with me; you know I didn’t mean that. I was using a metaphor or a simile. One of those things writers use. I’ve an affinity for the written word; did you know there’s only twenty-six letters making up the whole of the world’s literature? It fair makes you think, that’s what I say.”
“And there’s not much ever makes you think, that’s what I’d say. And besides, what about the Greeks? They wrote plenty of classics. Herodotus and Sophocles, that Odessey File novel. Although, I think that was Forsyth. Or was it that Homer fellow?”
“I don’t right know. Although, wasn’t he that yellow-faced guy? The one with the wild eyes and the hands?”
“No. I’m sure you must be thinking of Jackie Chan. Besides, the point I was making was alphabets. All civilisations have their own. The Greeks, they used those trigonometrical ones. Pi, lambda, Euripides; they’re all different to ours. Symbolic, I think they’re called. It’s a wonder anyone knew what they meant. It’s like they were using a foreign language.”
“But that’s just you getting off the point, yet again. Who was that guy there, anyway?”
“Oh him? That’d be Lightning Bill. I think he’s got a prompt to chase.”
Smack Dab in the Middle
This baby’s humming, today.
Loving it. What a rush, skimming over the silky-smooth water like I’m a big fat sassy bird.
I AM a big fat sassy bird.
Makes me feel like I’ll never have to hit land again. And why would I want to? Those fools have closed the beaches down, nailed the parks tight, turned off the whole damned thing like it was a faucet, like they had the right to do it.
Out here, river skimming, well, all I can say it they can’t shut me down. Constitution says so. That old Amendment Fifteen joke, The Right of Citizens to Boat, comes to mind.
But this ain’t no joke.
Freedom’s never a joke.
I’ll do my bit. My way.
And this, this is it.
Freewheeling in the water.
While I can.
Cause, it ain’t no secret; It’s all gonna end.
At some point, rationing will rear its ugly deprived head. They don’t say so, but I know.
Nothin’ to do with the Corona.
Nah, that’s a bloody boondoggle.
They’ve been plotting this for years.
Too much freedom. The rest of the world can’t stand how much freedom we have.
The Mills brothers sang about it in the 1950’s.
Prophets they were.
Times were rich.
We had…”A lot of bread and gangs of meat, oodles of butter and somethin’ sweet, gallons of coffee to wash it down, bicarbonated soda by the pound.”
It’s a shame, really.
There just ain’t no middle no more.
Smiling Tink
His friends called him Tink. He was always doing something in the garage with odd parts.
When people put things on the curb for trash pickup, he would bring them home for some potential future project. The neighbors called him the Trash Kid.
This past winter was just like the last three – no snow! Maybe they were right about global warming. The potential of another no-snow winter next year made him think of his pile of stuff.
What good is a snow mobile if there is no snow? Why not he thought.
Three days and two late nights he had finished this year’s project. He thought it would skim across the water, but his biggest concern was when it stopped moving.
So, another full day’s work and he had replaced the five HP motor with a twenty-five. He would have used something smaller, but that is what he had.
Loading it on his make shift trailer was something he could do with the hoist in the garage, but getting it back on the trailer at the river was going to be something else. That’s a problem for another time.
He had it resting half on the shore and half in the water. When he started it up, everybody turned to see what made the loud roar.
Luckily, he had his life jacket on, as the contraption sprang off the shore onto the surface. With no speed control…the noise concealed his expletive, and the smile his fear.
Myrtle Island is an ideal spot to retire. It’s a short bike ride to the quaint village of Bluffton. Generally, Myrtle is a peaceful place, but there are drawbacks, of course. Oppressive summer heat and the abundance of no-see-ums can make it all uncomfortable without proper planning. Nevertheless, Selma and Mort had looked forward to their new digs on Beach Street, with its little inlet off the Maye River.
The summer heat had not yet begun to disturb daily routines when their first Memorial Day weekend on the Island rolled around. The couple sat on their Victorian verandah overlooking the river, sipping the last of their morning coffee and chatting about the day ahead.
Selma offered, “Perhaps the parade, then the farmer’s market?”
Suddenly, Mort turned to Selma as his ears perked up.
“What the heck is that, Selma? Do you hear it”?
“Some. It’s getting louder. Sounds like it’s coming upriver.”
Within minutes, the faint background rumble that grabbed Mort’s attention had become a roar of four-stroke gasoline engines as a flotilla of jet skis rounded a jetty and entered the cove, howling their arrival. After several loops in the cove, sending up high rooster tails, they all set about beaching their crafts on a sandy spit directly across from Selma and Mort. Beer coolers were off-loaded and their music blasted from amps.
“Today’s Centaurs, lustful and noisy,” observed Mort.
“Likely not a Chiron amongst them,” retorted Selma. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Mort.”
You see the craziest things at furry cons.
Like the time Scooter Rabbit took a Jet-Ski right across the Mississippi River at Mephit Furmeet. It’s been fifteen years now, but it still gets talked about every time furries get together.
The first thing you have to understand is that Scooter didn’t exactly have a rep as a daredevil. Sure, Memphis is part of the South, and Scooter came from redneck stock. But he wasn’t the sort to do the whole hold my beer, y’all watch this thing.
In fact, he was more the quiet bookish sort, which explains why his fursona was a rabbit. In mundane life he was an accountant, worked for some big firm in Birmingham.
So Scooter was about the last guy you’d think of putting on his ears and tail and going riding across the Mississippi right in front of everyone. So much so that most of us thought someone had stolen his fursuit.
Turned out his cousin had been wanting a Jet-Ski something fierce for ages. So whens someone bet Scooter a Jet-Ski he wouldn’t ride it across the river with his ears and tail on, he took them up on it.
And yeah, he won.
Jessie felt the air race through her hair as she gunned the jet ski. It was wonderful . . . The feeling didn’t last long.
The polar icecaps had melted submerging the continents, but enough land remained for civilization to continue. Communities formed on these islands but resources were limited. Scouts had to venture out to discover new communities.
But, as always, there are those who wish only to take. Marauders, crossing the seas like modern-day Vikings.
As Jessie approaches the cruise liner that has been her home for the past year she sees a band of marauders surrounding the ship.
Stopping her jet ski, she pulls a small bell from her backpack and rings it. A long antenna pops out of the water. Jessie whispers into its ear-like appendage, giving it a gentle stroke. The antenna shakes with excitement then disappears beneath the water.
Another change that occurred were mutations. Industrial chemicals swept up in the flood when factories were submerged spread across the oceans causing mutations. New species were born.
Among these species are Whallopies. Whale-like creatures resembling piranhas but act like faithful dogs once you befriend them. Jessie’s favorite was Sinbad. She often brought him on scouting missions.
As the marauders issue their last warning Sinbad leaps out of the water devouring a whole boat. The cruise liner crew open fire. The marauders scramble to escape.
Jessie watches the decimation thinking, “This is the world we live in . . . Can we ever hope for better?”
Gramps knew he was going to love riding the jet ski. No helmets or padding to restrict him, like that motorcycle. No hard work for his poor old legs, like the 10-speed. Just bounce along over the waves, free as a bird.
Only one thing missing. He hadn’t picked a song to sing while he rode. His favorite had been “Born to be Wild” but that was before he’d skidded the motorcycle sideways and slid under the semi. When that happened his kids had ganged up on him and made him give up the motorcycle. He’d thought about replacing it with a wheelchair, but even painted candy-apple red with chrome trim, it just wouldn’t have been him. Too tame.
Then he’s seen the jet ski. Just the name, Jet Ski, spoke to him. The kids finally caved and the jet ski was his. He was about to take it out for the first time. Probably once he was out on the water, the perfect song would come to him. Something gentle and restful. The kids would approve of that.
He started the engine. To his surprise, the ski shot out from under him with the roar of a wild beast. The tighter he clung to it, the faster it shot across the water. Gramps’ shirt flapped wildly in the wind. His hair stood on end. The only song that came to mind was “Off we go, into the wild blue yonder…..”
“Was he just stupid or stupid drunk?” asked Marcus, David’s older brother.
“Have a little respect,” said David’s best friend, Tim. “He’s not even cold in the ground yet. Think of it, forty-five years old and dead already.”
Tim and Marcus, dressed in their best black suits, strolled across the cemetery after the graveside service, the lush green grass speaking of springtime and youth not death and decay.
“Why weren’t you at the lake with everybody else?” asked Marcus. “You are—were—David’s best friend. Maybe you could’ve stopped him, knocked some sense into him.”
“Had to work,” said Tim, fiddling with the cuff links on his white shirt. “The way I heard it, he was just his usual self. Out for a good time. Having fun. Like back in high school.”
Marcus looked over at Tim. “For crying out loud, that was twenty-plus years ago. None of us are high school kids anymore. You got kids. I got kids. We’ve got wives. Girl friends on the side. Made-up excuses.” The two pall bearers laughed at each other, looked around guiltily, then sauntered on.
“Seriously,” said Marcus. “I still don’t know what happened. Do you?”
“The guys told me the jet ski was there at the dock,” said Tim. “He was goofing off. Just being David. He didn’t see that speedboat, plain and simple. I mean, you only go around once, so make it fun.”
“Maybe,” said Marcus. “Unless you die.”
“Well, there is that,” said Tim.
He is in the jet-ski race by the coast of Okinawa, when a thunderstorm started; up in the middle. Strangely, the ocean is completely still and the weather is giving a wonderful light show.There are no monster waves.
He is on his life time thrill, the kind once you experience ,you can’t unexperience it.
He is just 5 seconds behind Hill Dale, who was placed 8th overall back in 2019.
Now his speed is 87miles/hour with a quarter mile lead with Hill Dale.
With the finish line almost in sight suddenly, he begins to gulp rather than fuel ,not a good sight.But he springs back with the speed of bullet; his speed is steady but the sea is choppy.
He finally decides to take a plunge giving the sense of sinking, with the waterline disappearing into the same uniform grey.
Now he needs his horsepower to back up.He flicked the ski boat on high boost ,hits the smooth water and comes back up.Roaring with the dual boost selection option, he has his hands full even on the lowest setting.He found himself caught in glass walls of water, pulls a slight lead, leading up to about 20 mile marker, where a failed water propulsion of the jet ski entered his colon with 50 miles/hour .
He fell back off the jet-ski, sinking in the water.Next thing he remembers was pain all over his body in the hospital, but he didn’t know why.
It all happened on that Sunday we decided to picnic at the lake. It was Grandma Angelina Italiano’s 90th birthday. She would meet us at the lake. Our neighbors, the Goldbergs, came along for the celebration. Each member of both families decided to bring a potluck surprise.
We picked a spot on the far side of the lake and set our tables. In a matter of minutes, they were covered with our goodies. What a mouth-watering sight – bowls of Grandma’s ravioli covered with meatballs next to the Goldbergs’ Breaded Chicken Schnitzel, a tub of tomato and cucumber salad, roasted asparagus, trays of Cannoli and Banana Chocolate Chip Muffins, bottles of Chianti and Manischewitz Concord Grape, and much more.
After lunch Grandma went for a walk. Our family began crooning O Sole Mio harmonizing with the Goldbergs enchanting version of Hava Nagila.
The afternoon sun seemed to pull itself closer to the tree-filled horizon. A buzzing hummed from the far side of the lake. We saw a low flying plane towing a skiboard carrying someone bracing for lift-off. The plane soared higher. While gliding through the air, the skiboarder spun twice joyfully screaming,“Yahoo”, then splashed down at our feet. You guessed it! The pilot was Grandpa. He was pulling Grandma while she commandeered the skiboard birthday gift he bought for her.
We sang Happy Birthday as they zoomed their Harleys back to their 30-foot motor home. What a pair!
Oh, poor dears, how was your Sunday?
Captain Infinity and the Mind Machine (Episode 23)
(In last weeks’ episode Captain Infinity used his water jet to pursue Dr. Dread’s ship. In the ensuing struggle our hero was subdued and became a prisoner of the evil genius.)
Captain Infinity awoke to find himself tied to a chair.
“So, the great Captain Infinity has finally been captured.” Dr. Dread slapped the side of his boot with a riding crop, and laughed.
“You won’t get away with this,” retorted Captain Infinity. He struggled against the ropes that bound his will for freedom.
“No?” Dr. Dread sneered. “We shall see.” He snapped his fingers. “Lower the Mind Machine.” On his command, a large screen television was lowered to the floor.
“What do you intend to do?”
“I intend to subject you to watching the film, Sheldon Takes a Ride on an Ice-cream Truck, non-stop for the next two weeks.”
“No! I’ll never get that ice-cream truck music out of my mind!”
“Exactly,” exclaimed Dr. Dread, laughing. “At the end of the two weeks, when your mind has been turned to mush, the Mind Machine will then play an endless array of experts, graphs and statistics. All of this will brainwash you. As a result, you will believe anything I tell you.”
As the Mind Machine came to life, and as the film began to play, Captain Infinity turned to his captor. “Your evil cruelty knows no bounds.”
(Tune in next week for episode 24)
A Mirage
Through her apartment window, Donna can see the summer sparkle. On cirrostratus clouds of the morning. On cirrocumulus clouds of evening.
Leaving the Midwest and mountains, snow has receded, melted, given way to greenery, sprouting everywhere. On ground as grass. On branches of Oak, Maple, Birch and all that lost leaves past fall.
This is the time to go out. To start having picnics. To have outdoor parties. To surf in the ocean. To sail on a yacht in the bays along the oceans. To run water scutters on Lake Eerie, Lake Ontario, Lake Huron, Lake Superior and Lake Michigan.
Yet outdoor aspect of life has long been cornered by corona virus.
No one can go to out now. No one can have fun on ground, or on water bodies.
Even then Donna hears a calling. From far. That, too, of a water body. She feels the rush in every tendril of her muscles. Through every neuron in her nerves. She knows that she is willing to go out and do some activity. Alone. With friends.
Reality bites her. She must ignore the rushes, through her nerves and in her muscles.
Restrain brings strain and pain. Her eyes are now brimming with tears.
She finds herself on a water scooter, in the bay, of the clouds.
She felt cooler swimming through her own tears.