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
It seemed long ago on a cold frosty evening I was walking across the fields in England. Gloaming was such a serene, sweet, soft time. The trees stood stock still like sentinels on duty. Each one upright, a carbon copy of each other and proud in their uniform of leaves. Guarding what? Earth’s secrets? The meaning of life? Nature?
The snow had a satisfying crunch under my stout winter boots. The temperature was falling so it was turning to ice after being churned and trod by the farmer’s sheep. I crunched on as the icy air tingled against my cheeks. Doubtless making them a lively rosy colour. Thank goodness for thick sheep mittens. Sorry sheep. My knees were beginning to feel the chill. Obviously, my school uniform was impractical. A skirt over tights was no force against a cold winter. Well, at least the school colours wrapped numerous times around my throat and face were effective. Some foolish students knowing it would be a blister of a freezing day, still came to high school wearing only a blazer. What some would do to attract the opposite sex! Me, I had to keep warm. Mum was Portuguese so my blood needed heat. Hot natural heat provided by a sun, not the nasty dry stuff pumped out by a heat source in the home. I should have been born on some hot island sitting majestically on the equator. Home. Home to a hot bowl of soup. Now the day was complete.
Joey lost Bubba on our tractor ride yesterday. He cried all night. I had to find Bubba.
I left the house early. I found Bubba two miles into the corn rows. Bubba stared at me with its one eye. Its one ear flapped with the cold breeze. I looked forward to the happy reunion and a nap.
Then it came, a winter hurricane like none I’d ever seen. I couldn’t see.
My snot froze before it reached my mouth. My fingers and toes were numb. At least the snow wasn’t deep.
There was no sun to guide me, just dense clouds of ice, snow and fog. It formed a translucent window inches from my eyes.
I walked in a single direction. Eventually I’d hit something, unless I went west. West went on forever.
Hunched down in my coat collar, I trudged. Every few feet I’d glance up.
Nothing.
I trudged for at least five hundred miles before I saw something.
It was the trees that lined the path leading to our back door. Their leafless branches, silhouetted by the damp, gray air, danced in the wind. Were they waving to me or, laughing?
I smiled. My lips cracked. I was sorry for the fuss I made about planting them. Bridgette had good reasons, but at the time, all I could think of was that they were in the way.
But today, on what could have been the last day of my life, I thanked Bridgette and her dam trees.
The remembrance hawthorns circle our home, three hundred and fifty-nine individuals spaced out so they’re an equal distance apart. There’s a gap to the south-west where the trail once lead through but other than that the ring is unbroken, every one that fell marking out a degree of an arc, each immortalised with a tribute, an homage to each in turn.
We had the cruellest summer last year and it steadily got worse. The walkers came among us, sharing stories of contamination and wars, their eyes haunted by what they’d seen. We were cautious but still caring, our humanity more often to the fore, most of us offering them shelter, knowing what it is to be lost and alone. We were all strangers once: we couldn’t turn them away. We were good men, both good men and women.
And yet…
We were wrong in what we did. We soon began to fall, victims of our own hospitality. Men and women, husbands and mothers; there was no staying it when it took hold. The eldest were the first to go, then it was the frail; the weakest among us brought low. And then I started digging, planting trees, not knowing how many holes I’d need.
And now I’m alone. I wake up every morning, take my temperature and spit, looking for an indication, a sign of an ending. I’ve dug my own hole ready, and I’ve a live round that shares my name.
I pray for courage and a speedy resolution.
The Nature of War
It wasn’t like I paid a ton of attention to them in the city. They were just there. On manicured boulevards. In parks. Cared for by city employees. Gardeners, I guess. Stylists of a sort, who cropped them, trimmed them, made them look presentable.
And street sweepers who cleaned up their leaf droppings.
They were sort of messy. Like horses on city streets back in the day.
Not my day, you know, but you get my drift.
The trees were just there.
Not something a normal guy would give a second thought to.
Or even a first thought in my case.
There were some on private property as well. They provided shade to the pampered rich folk. And a sense of privacy. Couldn’t have the hoi polloi snooping on the well to do. Couldn’t have that.
There were billions of them out in the forests, right. Oh, we chopped them down pretty regularly. Good living for thousands of men of the woods. Loggers.
And then, once we had massacred them, construction crews came and erected homes aplenty. I mean, we all needed homes. Human beings can’t live outdoors, can we? I know, some do. Luck of the draw. But in the main, you get my point.
Then the earth started to freeze up. Really get bitterly cold.
That’s when it happened.
Took us all by surprise.
They suddenly came alive.
Mobile.
Started marching…like soldiers.
Wooden freakin’ soldiers.
Their branches were deadly.
We didn’t stand a chance.
Title: Life Together
I didn’t plan my life, someone thought it was important though.
Year after year, I feel the seasons come and go.
I stand side by side with my friends, and never complain.
I owe it to my friends to keep my piece of the mission.
A missing friend, would spoil the picture, and create some concern.
Alone we would be a sickly sight, but together we make a statement.
We communicate and reinforce one another in a very subtle way.
Sometimes, when the breeze is just right, I’m rewarded with a neighbor’s gentle touch.
My favorite season is when leaves join us, and sing their unique melody.
Winter is a lonesome time, but every once in a while, there is someone visiting.
A real reward is when they see our beauty, and preserve it with a photo.
I wonder if they ever realize that we stand just a little taller in that moment.
Maybe if they look real closely, they will understand our joy.
There are some moments when one of us is not up to par.
Collectively, we share more nutrients with our friend.
We’ve heard what they say about us, but we’re strong and can take it.
As the seasons and years pass, we grow even closer together.
We really have a purpose, and those who look closer, will certainly recognize it.
I’m sure I’m not alone when I feel this wonderful accomplishment.
My promise is not to be the first to go.
Trees. Trees as far as the eye can see. Young ones. Saplings reaching their tiny arms to the sky, breathing in the sunlight, breathing out life-saving oxygen.
Years ago my sister and I would have had to wear heavy oxygen tanks on our backs to make the walk across the parched ground from our oxygen-pump supplied home to our greenhouse.
Now, I make the same trek on my own, the soft breeze blowing through my air, unencumbered by the bulky space helmet.
My father used to meet me at the greenhouse door and help me shed the burdensome astronaut suit. He used to say that one day I would be able to enjoy the Earth the way our forefathers did. He had wanted more than anything to walk bare-footed on the grass.
Now I run my bare toes through the silky green blades that carpet the sprawling, sapling covered field. Alone.
My Mother used to tell me stories of the colors of the sky, colors that it had before the oxygen-stripped atmosphere swallowed everything and left it a cold, steely gray.
The sun is setting over the fields, the sky melting into a gold-rimmed lake, pink swirls twirling lazily behind the black silhouette of a million trees.
My Mother and Father, My sister, countless more, buried in the ground with a seed from our greenhouse. Each life-giving sapling a monument to a life; each life rejuvenating the Earth.
I walk alone under the clear sky and breathe in deeply.
Little Billy was bored. He was so bored he couldn’t stand it. In the summer it was okay. He could run across the fields way beyond the row of trees to Sammy’s house and they would think of a million things to do. What Billy liked best was playing bank robbers and bandits. He, fearless Ranger Bill, was of course the law of the land. It was up to him to sneak silently through the trees and get the drop on those villains.
Then the bitter cold came and ruined everything. No more running across the prairie after Sam the Fearless Outlaw, nothing but boredom. Ranger Bill sat at the window and looked out at the long row of naked trees, their arms stretched toward the sky, just like “hands up!” Exactly like hands up! So that was it. The outlaws had cleverly disguised themselves as trees!
Billy rushed to the door. “I know what you’re doing!” he hollered. “I’ll get you yet!”
“Shut that door!” his mother called from the kitchen.
Billy dashed to his room and began practicing with his blue and red sharp shooter. First he worked on his draw while the trees waited patiently. Flat on the floor, behind a chair. Shooting was next.
But before that came the spring. Beautiful glorious spring. The trees donned their green spring clothing and became hiding places for Sam and his bandits again. Boredom was gone and forgotten. But there was always next winter.
A hazy glow from the moon shone over an endless icy field, no stars, no wind, no sounds could be heard except the crunching of footsteps running over ice crested snow. Two figures emerged running desperately to reach a long line of distant trees.
The smaller figure fell down gasping, “Henri, I can’t run anymore!”
“Yes you can Leah,” Henri panted, “that old woman said we have to reach the barrier to safety.”
Pulling her up by her arm he grasped her hand tugging her behind him in an effort to keep running.
“The trees have to be the barrier,” he said, then looking behind them he saw black shadows swiftly following.
“Hurry Leah!’ he shouted, “we’re almost there!”
Leah nodded then tripped and fell again, “I’m O.K. she said getting up and pulling her hand away from him, “keep going, I’m right behind you!”
They raced towards the trees knowing the shadows were getting closer and as they neared them Henri stumbled, rolling over in the snow he stood up and saw he had cleared the treeline. But not Leah. Frantically he called her name and tried to retrace his steps but it was like hitting a wall and he couldn’t break through.
The field was empty with no sign of Leah, sinking to his knees in tears he shouted out, “I will find you Leah! I promise I will find you no matter how long it takes!”
Rubbing his eyes he stood up and began walking slowly towards some distant lights.
I
Sam and Jessie argued daily since they moved to the cabin. Sam believed she was a spoiled city girl. Jessie considered him a barbarian.
“The rabbits were wrecking our garden,” Sam shouted.
“You could have built a better fence,” Jessie answered. “You didn’t have to poison them.”
“And,” she added, “there was no reason to shoot that fox. The henhouse is secure.”
Last week Jessie made the craziest comment ever. “Those trees are closer to the cabin.”
Sam stared at the skeletal line of trees. They were all dead anyway since they should have leaves by now. He sneered, “Trees can’t just move.”
But she continued to insist that the trees had inched closer. Sam grew weary of her constant nagging. Finally, he shut her up with a hard slap.
This morning Jessie is gone. Still angry, Sam attacks one of the trees with his ax. By the time he’s hacked a great hole in its trunk, Sam has calmed down. He’ll finish making firewood tomorrow.
By nightfall the wind is howling through every chink in the cabin. As Sam lies in bed he hears scratching at the window. Certain that Jessie has returned, he lights a lantern and looks out to see a tree branch tapping the glass.
Sam nearly chokes. No trees grow near the cabin. “Trees can’t move,” he shouts to no one.
A limb pushes open the cabin door and snakes inside, reaching toward him.
Only the trees and wind can hear Sam’s screams.
Janis sat at her desk, and her eyes grew wide as the needle on the seismograph jumped off the page. Her heart raced as her fingers flew over her keyboard. The room shook, her monitor crashed to the floor. A wave of lava vaporized the compound leaving no survivors. Ash bursts into the sky, the delicate flakes floated on the air current, blanketing the surrounding area, and piling up underneath the trees that lined the 5-mile driveway into town.
Mark stood in his cabin, pulled back the curtain in his living room, scratching his head. The forecast called for sunny skies and a high of 65 degrees, not clouds and snow. He switched shifts with Janis to enjoy the sun, not build a snowman. He slid open his door and stuck his hand out. The particles didn’t melt as they rested on his flesh. A tremor buckled and cracked the boards of his deck, knocking him down. He shielded his eyes as the horizon burned red. He scrambled to his feet as sirens blared a fruitless warning. Fire and brimstone tumbled down the slopes erasing any traces of civilization.
The Eleven
It was a stormy night and the wind was rattling the window in the living-room. It shook the window, making a banging sound, as though someone in the darkness was playing with it.
Pavel heard the thunder outside and glanced at the window. It shook again.
Then he returned to the story he was reading. “Hans was fascinated… no… obsessed… with some trees he had seen just a few days previously. They seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. They stood in a straight line, surrounded by a white… or was it a silver… landscape. There were eleven trees in all. They were silent, cryptic, mysterious.”
The wind rattled the window again and Pavel looked up. He laughed nervously.
He looked down and turned the page: “One day Hans noted that the trees he had seen were no longer standing in the field. They had disappeared. Sometime later, he heard banging at his door and scratching at his windows. He shouted, ‘Who’s there?’ There was no answer. He cried out again, ‘Who are you?’ Then came the reply, ‘We are the Eleven. And we have come for you.’”
At that moment Pavel heard the clock on his mantle strike eleven o’clock. He looked up and stared at the time piece.
Then he heard banging at the door and scratching at the windows.
“Who’s there?” he yelled.
A mysterious voice cried out: “We are the Eleven. And we have come for you.”
It’s not like looking at snow always feels good. It reminds me of how brutal snow can be. While driving towards the mountain top, we saw numerous trees lined up; all of them had been stripped of their leaves—standing there just in bare bones.
“Mom, look at these miserable trees! They look so barren and sad,” my five-years-old daughter said, pouting. “I can’t even climb on these trees. Mom, are they sick?”
“That’s the way it is sweetheart! A tree’s life also goes through ups and downs, just like us. Sometimes they are sad and sometimes happy.”
“Will the leaves ever come back, Mom?”
“Yes dear, once the snow melts, the trees get all their leaves back, looking lush green again,” I said with a smile.
My daughter felt a little relieved. How trivial things can make children sad. Unlike us, their sensories are more active. They can see sadness even in trees.
Four months of winter passed. Summer almost knocked at the door. There was no snow anywhere anymore.
“Mom, can we drive up to that mountain top? I want to see if those trees are happy now; if they got their leaves back.”
We drove up, and I had never seen my girl this exhilarated when she saw the lush green trees lined-up again.
Looking to the trees, even now, gave her hope.
It was the edge of home, of safety, and seeing them gave her the strength to continue.
And the second wind was much needed at this point, and the snow soon proved no obstacle. Until recently, she hadn’t known many things, one of which was how much she loved this land, this place.
She hadn’t known he hadn’t known her secret, thought it was obvious.
She hadn’t known she would want so badly to keep the child growing inside her that was quite the unexpected shock to both of them.
She hadn’t known his hatred of her kind. She knew it now, as he was hot on her heels.
There was something else he hadn’t known, that she wished he’d listen to.
That she loved him.
But there was no telling him that. So she leaned on the secret that she had to.
As she faded into the snow. As he walked right past, right through, right out of her life.
The wind howled outside, a relentless presence, almost physical. The worst gusts made the whole house shake. Alice wondered how many shingles would go missing.
She pulled back the curtain and peered into the wall of whiteness, seeking the row of trees behind the barnyard. Just yesterday, when her folks left for a second honeymoon, the news had forecast just a dusting of snow. Nothing to worry about.
No accumulation became two to four inches, then six to eight, and finally in excess of twelve inches, with high winds and bitter cold temperatures. MnDOT had closed the roads, so there was no question of their folks coming home early. That overnight trip could turn into a long weekend.
“At least we’ve got electricity.”
Alice glared at her next-younger brother. “Don’t jinx it, Tommy.”
Even as Tommy blew her a raspberry, the lights flickered, then went out. Now look what you just did. Alice bit the words back, realizing they would do no good, especially with the little kids yelling, on the verge of panic.
You’re the adult here. Think.
“OK, kids, I need you to help me. I’m going to start the oil stove so we have some heat. All of you need to bring pillows and bedding down here so we can close off the rest of the house. Tommy, you call the electric cooperative and let them know we’ve lost power. Then I’ll find something we can fix on the heating stove so we’ll have some supper.”
Tommy and Jennifer arrived by horseback on the ridge, at the boundary of Mr. McCready’s farm.
Jennifer admired the young Chestnut trees that partially lined the top of the ridge. “I wonder what the trees would look like full grown.”
“It takes at least 10 years to harvest a worthwhile amount of nuts. I don’t know why, an old man, would plant these,”Tommy said.
“He didn’t plant them, my Daddy says Mr. McCready thinks the government is trying to take his land, or play a trick on him.”
“Well, what a practical joke!”
***
After a late night, football bonfire; Tommy drove his car, without headlights, halfway down the access road of McCready’s farm. He and Jennifer sat and talked in the moonlight.
The way Jennifer was sitting, sideways in her seat, facing Tommy, she didn’t see them arrive at the ridgeline. Tommy froze. There were at least 10 small men; grayish, hairless heads; huge eyes, and a glowing orb that seemed to come from within.
“What’s wrong Tommy?” Jennifer asked.
“Don’t move, I’m going to drift backwards, and get us out of here,” he said, his voice cracking.
Back on the main road, Tommy sped away from their houses.
“Tommy, what’s wrong and where are we going?”
“Over to Josh’s house. His father is in military intelligence, and he has the most sophisticated, encrypted computer in the country.”
“Why… What do you need to know?”
“Everything about Chestnut trees. And the safest place to hide from aliens!”
Esther looked out across the field at the row of trees. Her grandson had just been visiting her at Fair Havens Nursing Home, and he left his spyglass behind. The trees looked so pretty as she looked through Benny’s spyglass. It was like a winter wonderland out there.
“Mrs. Kendall, you still haven’t taken your medication,” said the plump little nurse.
“I don’t need it, Kathy!” called Esther, “There’s nothing wrong with my mind.”
She took another look at the trees. Trees… or soldiers lined up for battle? The enemy could deceive people like that. Weren’t they swaying, just a little? Getting closer?
The nurse was still there. “Esther, I think we’re being invaded. Take a look through this spyglass.”
“Oh, you have Benny’s binoculars! He might be calling here to look for them. Who do you think would invade Connecticut, Mrs. Kendall?” asked Kathy.
“Well, China, of course!” replied Mrs. Kendall, “Don’t they look Chinese to you?”
Kathy left the room for a moment, then returned with a doctor. Kathy looked through the binoculars, while the doctor gave Esther a shot.
“What are you doing, Doctor?” objected Esther, “I don’t need any vitamin shot. I eat plenty of vegetables.”
“Not exactly Chinese,” said Kathy, “But I’d say we’re all lucky to have made it here, in this weather. You’ll be feeling better, very soon, Mrs. Kendall.”
“But I feel fine, Kathy! Never felt better in my life! Make sure you’ve got the White House on speed dial.”