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.
Trees-on
“Ya know what it sounds like?”
“What IT are you yammering about?”
“COVID-19! You’ve heard of it, right?”
“You betcha rootie tooties, I have. Got those Homo Sapiens running ragged.”
“Yeah. That’s the one. So, it got me to thinkin’.”
“About DDT. That’s what.”
“What is it…this Dee Dee Tea?”
“Ah, I’m glad you asked. DDT is a product of human science. They created it to kill bugs.”
“Oooh, I hate bugs. They’re always landing on my leaves. Good for them.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“What point? Bugs eat trees. It’s a known fact.”
“Some insects eat trees. Many don’t. Moths and the Joshua Tree for example. A perfect union. But that’s go nothing to do with DDT.”
“Okay, smartie pants. Give me the skinny. I know you think I’m nothing but a fashion plate but I have feelings too.”
“Look my little Tri-Colored Beech, I’m not saying anything about your…functionality. With DDT, we’re all in the same…spray cannister. Here’s the story…in a nutshell. Some bugs spread disease. So, they invented this poison, this DDT, to spray on plants to kill the bugs that spread disease. Then they discovered, it kills plants. And possibly people.”
“So, I know I’m just a pretty face bark but what’s that got to do with the COVID?”
“You just wait. All these humans are itching to be outside. Safer for them. Pretty soon, they’ll be spraying their COVID antiseptics outside willy nilly. Then they’ll discover, oops, it’s DDT all over again.
Here’s a revised version…sorry for my sloppiness
Trees-on
“Ya know what it sounds like?”
“What IT are you yammering about?”
“COVID-19! You’ve heard of it, right?”
“You betcha rootie tooties, I have. Got those Homo Sapiens running ragged.”
“Yeah. That’s the one. So, it got me to thinkin’.”
“About what?”
“About DDT. That’s what.”
“What is it…this Dee Dee Tea?”
“Ah, I’m glad you asked. DDT is a product of human science. They created it to kill bugs.”
“Oooh, I hate bugs. They’re always landing on my leaves. Good for them.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“What point? Bugs eat trees. It’s a known fact.”
“Some insects eat trees. Many don’t. Moths and the Joshua Tree for example. A perfect union. But that’s go nothing to do with DDT.”
“Okay, smartie pants. Give me the skinny. I know you think I’m nothing but a fashion plate but I have feelings too.”
“Look my little Tri-Colored Beech, I’m not saying anything about your…functionality. With DDT, we’re all in the same…spray cannister. Here’s the story…in a nutshell. Some bugs spread disease. So, they invented this poison, this DDT, to spray on plants to kill the bugs that spread disease. Then they discovered, it kills plants. And possibly people.”
“So, I know I’m just a pretty face bark but what’s that got to do with the COVID?”
“You just wait. All these humans are itching to be outside. Safer for them. Pretty soon, they’ll be spraying their COVID antiseptics outside willy nilly. Then they’ll discover, oops, it’s DDT all over again.
Title: Things Happen for a Reason
We were just two strangers drawn to this park for our own reasons. It was a chance meeting that October day in 2001.
The country was recovering from 9/11, and I was somewhere I didn’t care for. My parents were visiting NYC and the Trade Towers had a special draw. My Grandfather helped build those towers. They were there on that fateful day, and I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.
I had been drawn to this park, but not to see the foliage. I remember I didn’t sleep well the night before and had a dream about this place. I was here once when I was a youngster. My parents laughed at how I reacted to the many things around the park grounds, and especially the leaves. It’s the special moments in life you don’t truly appreciate until they’re taken away.
“Honey, are you enjoying sitting all alone on that bench? I’ll give you a penny for your thoughts?”
Despite the cool breeze and the hint of moisture in the air, I felt her warm thigh as she sat down. “Marcy, do you realize what we would be missing if we didn’t find a reason to talk to each other that day?”
I perceived her studying me, and felt moisture on my cheek, which she wiped with her glove.
“We don’t have to look very far…Damon’s really enjoying rolling in the leaves.”
“I would like to believe; things happen for a reason.”
Dumped! Again! I crumpled the Dear John letter and flipped it into the trashcan. Women! I’ll never get involved with another one. I’m not going to let this ruin my enjoyment of the Halloween festivities tonight. At the stroke of twelve, everyone will unmask. I was going to have fun. Phooey on women! I slithered into my thong, pulled on my Hawaiian shorts, and adjusted my black bandit mask. Slinging my alto sax over my shoulder, I headed for the merriment, vowing, “No more women for me!”
Still dejected for being rejected, I decided to leave the party. Just then, the front door opened and tantalizing she walked in. As she brushed by, she winked at me with her hypnotizing violet eyes. I felt like I was put into a trance. She took my saxophone and brought the house down with a foot-stomping rendition of “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” then led me into the garden. She backed me into a tree trunk. Her body pressed into mine.
I heard the first stroke of twelve. She leaned forward, nibbled my earlobe, then whispered in my ear. My eyes rolled in delight. Could this really be happening to me? By the third stroke of twelve, she was kissing my neck. Suddenly, I felt exquisite pain as her fangs sunk into my throat. At the twelfth stroke, I opened my eyes in time to watch her unmask into a bloodsucking vampire bat, spread her flapping wings and fly into the night.
Dumped! Again!
Foliage
Once upon a time in Foliage.
As they say, “you can put lipstick on a pig-but it’s still a pig!”
The 50 people of Foliage knew their town was a big, fat pig. However, they were determined to make it up to look like something else. No matter the consequences.
The rusty steel and twisted wire cables that made up the high voltage power plant in the middle of town screamed “danger.” The signs all around the area clearly warned of danger.
So, despite those warnings of danger, the less than brilliant townsfolk of Foliage went to work making up their pig.
They planted trees, built benches and installed a BBQ grill. There was a zig-zagged wood fence created to frame a field of colorful, wild-flowers. A gravel walkway wound its way through the beauty and ended at the edge of the pig, and its live power line.
The 50 folks of Foliage gathered to admire their hard work. They grilled hot dogs and burgers. They ate and laughed and celebrated their beautiful pig.
Just as the homemade fireworks hit the power line, it began to rain. Then it began to pour. As the 50 people of Foliage ran down the gravel path for cover, the power line hissed and fell at their feet leaving only 25 people of Foliage.
The moral of this silly, but sad story is…danger means danger, and no matter what it’s made up to look like-a pig is still a pig!
The End.
I was eight when Granddad first took me fishing. The foliage was changing and the air was crisp as we settled into a spot by the river, tossing in our lines.
“This is my special fishing spot,” Granddad whispered, “I only bring family here.”
“What’s so special about it?” I whisper back.
“If you sit here long enough, and you listen hard enough, you’ll hear mother nature speak to you.”
“Really! What does she say?”
“You have to listen.”
So I sat there, fishing pole in hand, line in the water, and my face all scrunched up as I listened . . . and listened and listened. . . . Nothing. Just the river, birds, and wind. I remember wishing for all of them to shut up so I could listen.
“Granddad?”
“Yeah.”
“I can’t hear anything. Mother nature doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“Give her time, just give her time.”
Granddad sat quietly in his lawn chair watching the river flow. Seeing his peaceful demeanor made me relax. I decided to watch the river and not worry about listening.
Just then I felt a tug on my pole, then another, and another.
“Granddad! I got a bite!”
“That’s mother nature talking to you, ya better listen.”
Yanking the pole the fish takes off swimming. Granddad cheers me on as I fight the fish.
Finally, I pull it in, the first fish I ever caught. Granddad was so proud of me. It was a great day . . . until I had to clean the fish. Yuck!
Kickoff Time
It’s that time of year again, we all know it all too well. The air becomes crisp and cool, almost burning your lungs. It smells like football outside. No matter where you go, you feel it, it’s inescapable the nose holds the key to so many memories, the brain tries to hold them back but there is no escape, no refusing. You must follow into those moments of fall. Whether your team was winning big in the 4th quarter, or whether you were getting beaten so badly you just wanted to go home and lick your wounds. But, now decades later you step out of your car and just breathe in the smell, and you are 17 again the QB snaps the ball and bam – you are off and running with it, it’s just you, and you just need to beat the strong safety to score…in that moment you cut right, you dive, and you…wake up in your hammock. You notice it is almost dark now and time to go back inside. But you have changed, you are now wearing a smile so big on your face it cannot be erased, your chores before bed don’t seem so bad, you have an extra hitch in your step, your kids think your acting crazy and it’s because we all know you scored!
They meet once a week beneath the Jacaranda tree. He is from a wealthy family, she from the lowest class. An untouchable.
He shields his eyes from the early morning sun. She will come from the bustling city, her soft footsteps echoing along the park’s metalled road, her unsure smile seen fleetingly as she dips her head in practised submission.
It has been this way for a year, the clandestine meetings, the
clumsy kisses, his arm wrapped protectively around her food-starved waist. He will savour the smell of her, the bitter spices, her warm breath across his face like a comforting blanket. He takes out a handkerchief and wipes it across his glistening brow.
And then she is there. Hesitant hands clasp his face, slim fingers trace unseen lines down his sunken cheeks. He draws her to him, two as one.
“Today,” he whispers. Today we will tell them, say that no one can tear them apart. They will rage against it, threaten, cajole. His father will look down on her, spit into the dry, dusty earth ask his God to forgive his son for he knows not what he is doing.
Then it will be over, the two lovers cast aside like chaff in the wind.
The sun is setting now, shadows from the Jacaranda fall across the cooling park. A bird, hidden in the sweet smelling foliage, sings out it’s melodious tune, it’s voice drifting out beyond the park until it is lost in the city’s darkening sky.
Last night our lorekeeper performed the full moon ritual and spoke our history. She told the story of mankind’s fall from grace – how our ancestors decimated Mother Earth. She chanted the tales of parched earth and desert, of wildfires and monster storms, of floods and sunken islands.
We listened to the atrocities of the Water Wars and the Refugee Massacres. Only when there were so few humans that tribes no longer encountered each other did the devastation cease. By then, so many creatures had vanished that our ancestors barely scraped enough sustenance to survive.
This morning, I rise with the sun to feed our small flock of chickens. As I approach the coop, I notice the few trees near our compound. I drop my feed bucket in astonishment.
For the first time in my life I see colorful foliage. In the morning light, leaves glow red and orange and gold. They are not brown and shriveled like every previous year, when more and more trees cannot return to life at winter’s end.
I rush through the village, shouting my discovery. As we view the miracle foliage, our lorekeeper says, “This is the sign we’ve awaited – Mother Earth’s guarantee that life begins again. She has finally forgiven us.”
Then we all kneel and repeat our oath. We promise Mother Earth that we shall never again destroy her gracious bounty.
It’s weird living like this. One day you’re pumping suffocating air conditioning through your living room as the unit shimmies and shakes in the small window. Sweaty, sticky praying for some relief from the drought. And what next? You step outside for a moment, a breather and warm winds blow twisting and turning your hair and drying out your face. Sepia hues umbrella the changing Kentucky bluegrass, the aqua sky and the scattering amber leaves.
When did it all pass me by? Another season behind us and you’re still gone.
“Oscar! You’re doing it wrong again. Stick to the plan.”
“But this looks prettier.”
Gabby pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath.
“For the last time, tree leaves are green. Not red, or purple, or yellow. This isn’t a flower garden. Cover up this mess and make green trees like the Boss said.”
“Yes sir,” Oscar mumbled.
The tip of his brush turned a dull, grumpy green. One dab changed the entire mood of the landscape. Before he realized, dark rainclouds covered the sky. The trees began to sway. Maybe it was for the best to have the storm wash away all the colors.
A small bird fluttered into the image and began rooting under one of the colorful trees. Tears stung Oscar’s eyes. He couldn’t let the bird get drenched.
“Don’t worry little one. I’ll keep you safe, no matter what Mr. Green Only says.”
A daub of red hid the ugly green splotches. Next, he added Yellow-green leaves tipped with orange. With each stroke of color, the sky brightened to a cheerful blue. Other animals joined the bird. This was the kind of work Oscar loved to create, vivid, multihued.
“You’re being sent downstairs.”
Oscar dropped the paintbrush, throat tightening. He must have really screwed up. “To the underworld?”
Gabby smiled and shook his head. “The boss liked what you did for the animals. You’re going to earth as a human. Just try to be good to Claude and Louise Monet. They’re decent people.
While the autumn air was cool, to the creatures walking the path it felt like summer. The pores on their green skin opened wide to absorb reds and yellows from maple and aspen trees.
“It’s not quite as good as their summer,” said the elder, “but after that spell when the flowers faded, I was nervous. Did the residents tell you about the leaves?”
The younger one, rubbing his skin as the colors infused his body, nodded. “I used some persuasion, but they finally told me about the autumn.”
As the two moved along slowly, they savored the colors replenishing their reserves.
The older one bent down to pick up some fallen leaves. “What about these?”
The younger one examined the leaves. “They’ll all drop and fade soon.”
“What then?” asked the other. “What do we do for color? Did you ask them?”
“No, they were getting obstreperous. We dispatched them.”
“All of them?” The older one stood up, his hands trembling. “Who will show us the next source of color?”
“Maybe we re-attach leaves to the trees.”
“These are paper thin, colorless,” said the older one. “They’re used up.”
“Colors will return next autumn,” said the other. “And there’s next summer.”
“We can’t go that long without color,” snapped the older one. “You should’ve kept some humans around to help us. I don’t know what to do.”
“I thought you had the answers,” said the younger one, miffed.
“You thought wrong.”
The beauty of this moment was not lost on him. As the cool autumn breeze blows across his skin, he is reminded that winter is coming but for now, he will enjoy this moment.
His senses are almost overwhelmed by the sights, sounds and smells as the earth shows off her autumn splendour. The setting sun floods the scene before him in a soft golden glow as a flock of geese fly overhead honking encouragement to one another as they fly south for another season.
The air around him is filled with sound as the leaves crunch beneath the feet of hikers as they pass by. He pauses for one last moment to take in the rich golds and reds of the trees surrounding him before he spreads his sinewy wings. With a flash of razor-sharp teeth, he descends on the unsuspecting hiker below him. His needle-sharp talons easily rip through the tender skin of his victim. Exquisite warm blood gushes out of the body of his latest prize and blood spatters the leaves above him bathing the golden leaves in rich red. As he studies the world around him, he again is amazed by the scene unfolding before him. Yes, there is nothing quite as beautiful as the bold beautiful colours of autumn.
The trees on the Quadrangle had turned red and gold, bringing back memories of student days. Some times it seemed like yesterday that I walked these paths on a daily basis. At others it seemed like a lifetime ago.
Again and again over the years I’d planned to come back and visit, for Homecoming, for graduation, for the retirement of one or another professor I’d known. Every time, something would come up and I’d set those plans aside. There’d be another time later.
Now everything had changed. The political and economic upheavals of the past three years had laid waste to academia, and my alma mater had not escaped.
The trees might mask the physical scars, but I couldn’t forget the human cost. How many people had lost their jobs, their reputations, even their lives to the madness that overtook our country? Just maintaining ties with old mentors had been enough to draw suspicion, to cost my business some opportunities.
Now the country had come back to its senses, but nothing would ever be the same. The farther I walked, the more I knew I could never come back, and not just because my life had taken a different path from the one I’d planned in those days. The buildings remain, but the institution that I’d loved had died.