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.
The Pier
Curious how some words conjure up numerous memories. The word “pier” accomplished that taking me back over the Atlantic, to England, to the coastline and to my childhood. The very word filled me with a longing, a nostalgia to return to my English roots. An acute hiraeth gripped me; it was a yearning for the British beach and all its treasures from the pier to fish and chips. Cromer Pier traditionally represented a typical British seaside holiday. As a family we walked along the beach and gazed at the aged rugged supports coated in barnacles and seaweed. The pier creaked but welcomed us. Salt spray refreshingly whipped. The wind was vibrant with salt, beckoning us on to the delights of a very British pier. Hand in hand, my sister and I giggled past bad tempered fishermen. We teasingly dared each other to look into their buckets, perhaps hoping to see a gory catch.
Other smells enticed us. The sweet sickly scent of candy floss mixed with the noxious odour of dead fish. We delighted in the experience of an old ratty arcane which held a tinge of sin. Longingly, we watched pennies tumble hoping for a windfall of coins. With optimism and childish strength we pulled the one-armed bandit. Knowing that we were taking too long, but stolen time away from parental supervision was tantalising. Rich with enchanted childhood, we swung past the Old Time Theatre.
Nostalgia and hiraeth cosily wrapped around the word “pier”.
ELIGIBLE FOR EDITORS’ CHOICE ONLY
Piering
There are two of them. Six or seven years old, I suppose. A boy and a girl, or perhaps two boys, or even two girls. From where I stand at the end of the pier, it is hard to tell their sex. It doesn’t matter really. I am an old man at the end of a public pier, my eyes peering out to the horizon, scanning the shore, listening to slight waves slapping the edge of the darkening land.
The two children bend over a tidepool, reach down, pull an innocent sea creature up, fondle it.
I am too far away to know what species they are manhandling…child handling.
Just then a dog runs up a mid-sized dog, leashless, jumps on one of the children, the one holding whatever organism they have found in its now spoiled habitat. The startled child throws its hands up and drops whatever it is holding.
The other child squeals, shouts, “Sparky…down…”
Sparky or Spotty or Barky….
Distance and a plane flying over keep me in the hearing gloom.
The dog runs off.
On the road two adults, their parents I imagine, are leaning against a camper, keeping an eye on the two children and the dog.
The woman shouts something.
“Sparky…come here.”
Then she shouts much more loudly.
“SPARKY!”
Then the man adds, “TIME TO GO. THE CONVOY’S LEAVING.”
Such a beautiful evening, I think.
Bright sun.
Cold air.
The country is at odds.
Chaos is close at hand.
The night wind stirs.
Meant to Be
Every morning for two weeks I’ve come to this pier and spotted a yellow Labrador sitting looking out to sea. In the process, we’ve become friends. Of course, she now expects treats.
Her tag reads ‘Khloe.’
I don’t have enough time to wait and see if anyone comes to retrieve her, as I have to get to work by seven.
I have this Sunday off and I’m going to wait on the pier to see if someone is in charge of her.
*.*.*
Walking down the pier, Khloe spotted me and came running. She did her dance, sat, and gave me her paw, obviously looking for her treat. I looked around and there wasn’t anyone paying attention to us.
I decided to sit on the edge of the pier and wait. She laid down and put her head on my lap.
This new friendship has been a godsend as it has taken my mind off my boyfriend’s car accident. Had I been with him, I would have been killed too. Khloe’s tail thumping interrupted my thoughts. Khloe turned to look at the person headed toward us, but she didn’t get up.
“That’s the first time she hasn’t charged to greet me. I think she has found what she has been missing.”
I shaded my eyes from the sun. “She’s a love. Hello, my name’s Katy”
“Hi, I’m Jake. That was my sister’s name, and Khloe was hers.”
I thought to myself…all this was meant to be!
Pier Pressure
“Do what?”
“I’m telling you this is safe. We did it all the time as kids.”
“Hey, that was then. This is now, and those clearly posted signs say no jumping from the pier.”
I pointed to the weather-beaten board nailed to the railing. This reinforced my point, but sometimes you can’t reason with people once they set their minds on something.
“That sign is older than us, dude. They never, ever enforce it, and there’s nobody around but us.”
“Yeah, but it still makes sense. The waves can batter you against the pilings, and you don’t know how deep it is down there. The currents shift the sands and it could be too shallow to jump. Besides, fish are down there, and I don’t want to think about that.”
“Look, I did this when I was a kid, so I know it’s OK. I’m calling a double, no, a triple dog dare, chicken.”
“You really know how to push my buttons. I’m going to take a long walk off this short pier right now. If I had a beer, I’d ask you to hold it.”
“I’ll wait for you down on the beach. You’ll love it.”
I went all in and accepted the dare. As I balanced on the edge, I looked down and saw the toothy smile of a great white shark swimming a few feet below the surface. All that echoed in my head was Roy Scheider’s voice.
“You’re gonna need a bigger boat.”
Neon Display
“Ack, ack.”
Gaff, the 3-foot tall alien, grumbled as he setup his transmitter. He had decided to ignore BIG THINK, the supercomputer, and try to contact Earth’s authorities directly. To do this, he connected his transmitter via wires to the nearest communications box. It was a rather crude setup, but he felt it would work.
BIG THINK, always on the lookout for trespassers, especially visitors from outer space, spotted Gaff in the distance. It knew what the little alien was up to, and decided to block Gaff’s transmission.
As the alien began speak to the world, BIG THINK intercepted his broadcast. Rather than seeing the alien’s face or hearing his voice, Earth’s inhabitants saw only a photograph of a ‘pier at sunset’, accompanied by soft elevator music.
♫ Music playing ♫
Upon seeing the photograph and hearing the music, Gaff lost it, and shook his tiny fist in frustration.
Thinking he had wired his transmitter incorrectly, Gaff checked the communications box. There was a nest of blue, green and yellow wires all entangled in an incomprehensible Gordian knot. Not being familiar with human technology or wiring codes, the alien tugged at dozens of wires. Finally, after pulling free two wires of different colours, he felt sure he had solved his technical problems.
Feeling confident, Gaff let loose with an evil laugh and grabbed both ends of the exposed wires…
Zaaaaaaaaaaap… Zaaaaaaaaaaap… Zaaaaaaaaaaap… Zaaaaaaaaaaap…
… and lit up like a dazzling neon display…
“Ack, ack…”
The setting sun casts a golden glow across the water. Rob squeezes my hand as we stroll through the damp sand. Gentle waves lap against our bare feet. In the distance I notice a long wooden jetty.
“I don’t remember that pier,” I say.
Rob answers, “I was sure the ’37 tsunami destroyed it.”
“They must have rebuilt it.” I clap my hands together. “Let’s walk out on it.”
As we near the structure, it appears ancient and rickety. We can see rotted, sagging beams. It’s definitely not a rebuild.
I look at Rob. “Do we dare walk on it?”
He grasps both my hands. “Why not? What have we got to lose?”
I don’t understand his attitude and tilt my head puzzled.
“You can’t remember, can you, Jen?” he asks.
I shake my head.
Rob speaks quietly. “The boat accident. I was running too fast. The wave flipped us. You went under.”
Suddenly, sensations consume me. Salt water choking me. Struggling to swim. A blow to my head. Then later, seeing my body in a coffin.
“Rob – what?”
“I couldn’t go on, Honey. It was all my fault.” He hesitates. “I tried, but life was so empty without you.”
Then he steps onto the pier. “So here we are, together again.”
I smile at my handsome husband. Then we walk hand-in-hand to the end of the ghost pier. He wraps his arms around me as we sit watching the gorgeous sunset.
It felt good to be retired. The old man walked down the pier, relishing the sea breeze tugging at his hair, the salt spray tickling his nose. After having given the best years of his life to the Navy and NASA, he could finally take it easy, spend a day fishing without worrying about schedules or responsibility.
How good it felt to sit on those weather-beaten planks and cast his line, to watch the bobber as he waited for something to take the bait. Or just look out at the distant horizon, the seagulls swooping and calling to one another. So the fish weren’t biting much today? He was in no hurry to catch his limit.
Footsteps on wood interrupted his reverie. A red-faced young man called out, “Admiral Chaffee?”
“I am he.”
“There’s been an accident. We’ve got a Shuttle down, and they want you to help recover it.”
In that moment, everything changed. There could be no question of refusing. His whole life was defined by that one moment, that narrow escape that had left its indelible mark upon body and mind. If he’d had any question of how badly it could’ve gone, his recent experience on Mars had confirmed it, when he made mental contact with another version of himself, one who hadn’t escaped, who’d spent almost a century dead until the greatest computer programmer of his time plucked him from the quantum hologram to live again as a machine intelligence.
“Let’s get going.”