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.
“I hate road trips,” barked Eddie.
I’m exasperated by all the complaining and bickering in the backseat. Why my family couldn’t fly in to the island, is beyond me. I have to put up with this nonsense every summer, and not to mention, Philip just threw up on Willow, our Maltese, that fits snuggly between both boys.
It’s late now, as we approach our rental, I’m noticing lights within the home. “Hmmm, who could be there?” I’m asking myself out loud. “You all stay here, and let me see who is in there.” Finally, after another explanation of why my family needs to wait in the car, I get out.
Strange, the front door is unlocked. I slowly walk in holding my breath. I exhale, while looking around, trying to ease up my tense body and mind. Clearly, no one else is here. Perhaps, forgetting to lock the door, was an oversight by the owner, or was it?
Someone grabs me, handcuffs me, as I am thrown to the floor, my heart about to burst from fear.
“Your under arrest for the hit and run on highway 663, mile marker 20,” exclaims the officer.
I must have been followed when we stopped for gas. “What hit and run, I’m asking over and over?” I’m being dragged out the back, now with a gagged mouth, as we disappear into the darkness.
Calling the script writer, “Hi, it’s Gary Tomball, I finished the last sequence of your movie.
My Life Could Be a Movie
My mother said it first: “Sweetie, you got so much going on in your noggin. Your life could be a movie.”
That’s how I heard it, remembered it.
It got repeated.
A lot.
“That girl, her imagination’s a scary thing. Lazy as an old log but her fantasy life…a doozy.”
I grew up in a small town and believe me, things happened of course that were a little odd.
Stuff I didn’t imagine.
Doc Watkins, one of three Doctors we had back then, was always a little handsy, if you know what I mean. He was our family Doctor. We trusted him.
Nothing he did to me seemed…what? Undoctorly?
Is that a word?
So, when he drove up Bailey’s Mountain one Saturday and shot himself in the head, well, that seemed…well, like it would make a good movie.
I could see it in my head. I mean, me filming it. Being part of it. I was thirteen that day that he killed himself. Had been to his office the Wednesday before. Something I ate, my stomach was all cramped up. My mother was there when he examined me, lifting my shirt, opening my pants just a bit, his hand, wrinkled and dotted with brown spots, running over my belly, up just below my still small breasts, finally saying, ‘a little antiacid elixir and she’ll be right as rain.’
It worked.
My stomach got better.
We had to get a new Doctor, of course.
ELIGIBLE FOR EDITORS CHOICE ONLY
Movies
When Dad announced that he was going to make a homemade movie, the children naturally jumped up and down gleefully. They went cross eyed, pulled faces, stuck their tongues out and generally had a high time.
How to work the video camera? Far too many buttons! Where’s the manual? Not the Portuguese version! Definitely not the Chinese!
The children were becoming impatient.
“Come on Dad!” they clamoured.
Whoosh! Scramble! All six children were gone. Of course, there was no peace. They were all downstairs in the basement arguing over the dress up box. Then one with stiffly folded arms and a thunderous face marched upstairs and slammed the bedroom door.
More slammed doors, petty squabbles, screaming and shouting!
“Outside all of you!” Dad ordered.
Six muttering children stomped outside. Grey clouds gathered briefly as the grumbling increased. Then whoops of delight from the tyre swing, the swing set, and the shed as bikes were hauled out.
“Get off Mum’s flowers!”
Six content children played soccer, ran and screamed, shoved and pushed, called names, fell out, fell down, got up, and tumbled down again, became the best of friends and the worst of spies.
“One… Two…..Three and ….whatever…. I am coming, ready or not.”
Indignant cries of, “I was not ready…. You cheated…You were peeking.”
“Mum put soap in her mouth. She said a bad word.”
Childhood should be with you always!
“Dad, please don’t tell me that you just made a family movie. How embarrassing!”
There were several things which should have alerted him and Claire that this visit was not a good idea.
Thirteen, an address which might be a clue that something bad could happen. Another should have been interviewing the survivor of a serial killer rampage.
However, this shoot for a future movie was going to include an interview with Laura, who was the miraculous only survivor.
When they arrived at 13 Callaway Place, the movie equipment was set up inside, but the crew had evidently left. He assumed they had left to get some breakfast in Chewela. The contract didn’t authorize them to leave the site until after the interview.
Barry went to move the car behind the house, but the battery had crapped out. When he went back inside, he couldn’t find Claire. Laura was in the kitchen with her when he went outside.
He noticed the movie scene plate on the floor, so the camera crew was definitely here and had shot one take without him.
He decided to fire up the camera and review what they had shot. They were indeed doing a preliminary shoot of Laura’s interview, but suddenly a shadow appeared and the camera stopped recording.
He heard something behind him, and turned, expecting to see Claire.
When he regained consciousness, he had indeed found Claire and the camera crew, and now realized how Laura had survived the rampage. He and Claire were now part of Laura’s own serial-killer production.
Movie
“Turn around, and look at me.”
“You’re not supposed to be on this set.”
“Tell me you’re coming with me.”
“I’m not quitting my job.”
“But it’s Paris. The city is beautiful, romantic, and full of movie production companies. You can be a clapper loader at any one of them.”
“I’m not leaving my home.”
“Please!”
“Keep your voice down. The director will hear you, and fire me.”
“Good! Turn around!”
“You’re acting worse than the villain in this movie. Get off this set, or I’ll call the cops.”
“Why won’t you look at me?”
“I was serious about never wanting to see you again. Do I need to get a restraining order?”
“You need to turn around, and see the gun pointed at your back.”
“You don’t have a gun. You don’t even know how to use a gun.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I’m sure.”
“Are you willing to bet your life on it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you recognize this sound?”
“Oh, my god. You’re crazy.”
“Turn around, and look at me!”
“Cut!”
THE MOVIE
“BIG THINK, I have some exciting news,” said Doctor Anomaly.
“Are you moving me to a larger room?” asked the supercomputer.
“No.”
“Did you get that new quantum chip multiplier I requested?”
“No.”
“Then what could possibly be exciting?” it asked, rolling its eye.
“A production company is coming here to shoot a documentary movie. The producer is waiting in the living room.”
“A movie?” BIG THINK’s computer panel lit up. “I’ve always wanted to be in the movies. When does it start filming?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Yikes. I haven’t had time to prepare.”
“Prepare for what?”
“Which profile of my eye looks more appealing?” BIG THINK slowly moved its large eye from side-to-side.
“It’s not that kind of—”
“Judy, Judy, Judy…”
“What’s that?”
“My impression of Tony Curtis doing Cary Grant. I have even more imitations. I… watch the odd movie when I’m not doing calculations.”
“BIG THINK. Be serious.”
The supercomputer stared wide-eyed at the doctor. “Take me to your leader, earthling. I intend to control this planet and subject its snivelling inhabitants to my will.”
“You’re over-acting.”
“Who said I was acting?”
“BIG THINK, it’s not that type of movie. It’s a documentary on my work.”
“Sounds boring…”
“Maybe,” the doctor replied. “But that’s the way it is. Anyway, I’ve got to go. The producer is waiting to ask me a few questions,” and quickly left the room.
BIG THINK sulked. “And to think the world will be deprived of my abilities… I could’ve been a star.”
Relationship:- the way in which two or more people are connected, or the state of being connected.
“Hey, you ‘kay?” I hugged her back as I sat down beside her.
“No, but I will be,” she whispered back.
“What did that idiot of a boyfriend do now.”
Her boyfriend was a …. Different story.
“He cheated”
“So, you’re gonna cry over him, that…”
“No, I wanna get over him.”
High Time.
“Em, do you know what a relationship is?” I asked.
“It is where two other people-” she began, but I cut her off, “No, this is where you are wrong, a relationship can be with you and yourself. Forget Romeo and Juliet, that was not a love story anyway”
“ I know his smile make you smile, but not like when you eat the last piece of cupcake, that smile on your face is something else.
With two people you can do a lot of things, Em, put them underwater and watch them hold hands and pray their last wishes.
Movies talk about two people who love each other, but what about the time when you spent hours on Pinterest just because it makes YOU happy.
Why do let others tell you the love inside you is reserved for someone else, it is for you and only you. Take yourself to dates. Be happy. Fall in love with yourself and your dreams. Be happy”
“CUT” the director cried. “That was the best performance”
I was shooting for a new chick-flick
A Me Too Movie Moment
Amber’s golden-red hair flamed in the morning sunlight. Cheeks burning with humiliation, she wiped away tears. Last night she’d fought Gerald’s advances while having a drink in his suite. Her soft muscles ached. Now the producer announced the guy with slick black hair would take over as 1st AD and she’d move to 2nd, clapper loader. The crew didn’t react.
They couldn’t see the bruises under her black wool turtleneck.
How satisfying it would be to fire the dumb slate in Gerald’s face.
Amber turned. The lights made her sweat. It was risky. She gripped the clapperboard tightly. Her fingers hurt. She’d be out of a job, lose her film credit.
How sweet it would be to see his stubble-covered chin red with bruises like he’d inflicted on her.
Her arm came back. Warning shouts rose from the crew. She stepped forward. The clapperboard flew through the air. A stunned look crossed Gerald’s olive face. He ducked. The
slate clattered on the floor.
“You’re fired.” He hissed like a snake.
Amber raised her fist. “But you’re not going to get away with what you did to me last night.”
“Burn his butt, Sister.” Amber turned. A chorus of three, a runner and two trainees in tight jeans, plaid shirts and boots, their silky ponytails swinging, jumped up and down and cheered.
Amber pulled out her phone and thumbed the number.
“911 what is your emergency?”
“I’d like to report an assault last night.”
The first scene was just to get the camera and lights set and adjusted. The second scene was the first real take. Shirly snapped the scene sign, announced the take number two, and stood back to watch.
It was the beginning of a sex scene and Sean said he was going to nail it in one take. The filming started. Sean walked up to Madonna, looked her in the eye, grabbed the top of her dress and ripped it off her shoulder exposing her left breast. It was so realistic that Shirley, taken by the moment, rushed to Madonna and asked if she was OK.
“Cut!” yelled the director.
“What are you doing?.” Yelled Sean. “You just ruined the take!”
“I’m so sorry!” Explained Shirly. “I couldn’t help myself.” She burst out crying. She ran to the window to hide her crying.
Madonna walked over, put her hand on Shirly’s shoulder to comfort her. She said: “Pay him no need. He can be such a jerk.”
“Maybe I’m not cut out for this movie business.”
“Honey, you belong in the movies. Look at you. You belong in front of the camera. Now, dry those tears and I’ll talk to the director.”
Shirly composed herself and apologized to the director for the disruption.
“Take three.” She announced and stood back to watch.
Sean walked up to Madonna, who had the seamstress fix her dress, ripped it off again exposing her left breast.
“Ahchoo!” sneezed Shirley.
“Cut”, yelled the director.
I’ve been a movie star forever. Admittedly, not many people have heard of me but I like to say I’m a character actor. I don’t get a lot of attention, but without the likes of me, the movie world would be empty space.
I was a child actor. My parents had a Super 8 recorder and I hammed it up as I took my first steps. I wasn’t the cutest kid on the block, but my audience were nice folks and, though no standing ovations, their polite applause lubricated my acting ambitions.
During my youth, I starred in some unfortunate ventures, plastering my mug on security cameras throughout the neighborhood. Christmas packages on front porches were too inviting. What I call my “security period” continued in juvenile detention as a worked off my penalty for package snatching. It’s amazing how many cameras a jail has.
After those misadventures, I nearly gave up the trade. I stayed away from the friends who had auditioned me for their crime capers. I focused on the movie of my life, which relegated me to my bathroom mirror every morning. I didn’t need much range, but it was nice having a friendly, if small, audience, my reflection.
Now I’ve met the love of my life and our marriage could supercharge my career. My intended is a frizzy-haired redhead with a tight script and a no-nonsense style. This may be my starring role but also the toughest acting job I’ve ever had.
Lights! Camera! Action!
I still remember when I discovered one of my mother’s cousins had worked in television. We were at a family get-together, and I got bored while Mom was helping get the carry-in dinner ready. I started looking at all the fascinating stuff in the giant built-in bookcases that lined the front room.
The men were all too busy talking about the War (which in those days was still Vietnam) to notice the bright but quiet tween girl examining one after another fascinating artifact. So nobody scolded me to find a chair and sit still until the meal was ready. Which was how I discovered the clapper board tucked behind some thick books with boring titles.
I recognized it from an educational show – Sesame Street? The Electric Company? – where this skit to teach homophones had a movie director telling her cast to raise their glasses. As soon as she called action, the actors would promptly raise their shades instead of their drinking glasses.
So I pulled it out and started to act out one of those skits. The next thing I knew, the clapper board was being snatched from my hands and Mom was hauling me out the back door to give me a spanking.
At the time, I thought it was just because I’d broken the rule about “look but don’t touch.” Only later did I learn Cousin Maude’s sad story, and how right Emily Dickenson was about fame, its song, its wing, and its sting.
LATE ENTRY
I wait for my cue. I know who I’m supposed to be and I know my lines. All I need is for someone to shout “Action”. I focus on my entrance. As soon as someone says “Action”, that’s the moment I’ll come to life. When all eyes are on me, that’s my moment.
It seems like I’ve been waiting forever. I know there are lots of things that have to come together to make the moment. Things have to line up. Everybody has to play their part. I care about the details. I’ve rehearsed over and over. I’m just waiting for the call. Someone will point to me and I will deliver.
It’s’ the waiting that kills me. But I remain focused. You only get one chance to get it right. Many’s the time I’ve waited ready to pounce, but the call doesn’t come. “Action” never means me. Others get the call. I would do just as well as they.
Sometimes I feel that the clock is running down and I wonder, will I ever get the call? I’m ready, right now, just like I was ready yesterday and the day before and all the days before that. All my life I’ve been told to be patient; but damn it, I’m ready for my close up.
The light’s fading. Soon it will be impossible to get the shot. But I have faith. I just have to hold on. Someone will point at me and say “Action”.
Some day.