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.
Kitsch-End
I remember him like it was yesterday….but it was decades ago. He was a whirlwind kind of guy. Pumped up on too much caffeine first thing in the morning, wild hair, the frazzled frizzled kind, you know, that mad scientist look, and maybe a finger in the socket for effect as well, so I hope you get the picture…maniac, pure maniac, and really, all we wanted, his two pretty average roommates, was a quiet morning and maybe a slice of toast but no, not Frankie, he had to go Full Monty nutso, pumpkin omelette, he said, said it came to him in a dream, “I have a dream,” he yelled, stealing from Martin, totally out of context, but nutso, like I said, and we said, well, I said, NO, YOU DON’T, we don’t have a pumpkin, go for a walk, take a hike, Frankie, and maybe he considered it but Harry , the other roommate said, NO, HE CAN”T GO OUT IN PUBLIC, THAT WOULD BE, AND HE SAID IT , DANGEROUS, which was a good point, I thought.
So, Frankie rummaged around the fridge, found two not totally decomposed zucchinis, and said…THEY’LL DO, and so we had a Rotting Zucchini Omelette and that pacified him.
These days, he’s the big cheese author and Television Chef, Frank Forgetit, THE KITSCH-KITCHEN KING.
And to think I knew him when.
At least I knew him before he found medication…
Since then, I can’t stand zucchini anything.
Love pumpkin pie though.
Kitchen Bitchin’
“Those are the only ingredients to work with?” the contestant complained. “That bad-tempered celebrity chef will curse me on national TV. What is this, the vegan episode?”
The producer smiled, pointed at the fruits and vegetables, shrugged, and left the room. This aspiring chef stared at the five key ingredients. The rules stated all must be in the finished presentation, but you could use any other condiments found in the studio kitchen.
“OK, Siobhan, you gotta think like that evil, world famous, tantrum-throwing restaurateur to stand a chance.”
The combination of fruits rang a bell, and she immediately thought of compote. The mix of oranges, apples, and bananas made a choice combination in many standard recipes. But what would she do with the two vegetables? The young woman worked preparing the fruits. When the timer went off signaling the simmering concoction was ready, so did a lightbulb over her head.
“Ha, the bully said we must use all five ingredients, but not how much. I don’t need to use the entire pumpkin and squash.”
Siobhan steamed a tablespoon of the two odd ball items and blended it into her dish. This thickened the consistency, and she knew the fruits disguised the flavor. The judges cited too much pumpkin or squash in the other contestants’ dishes. The ignorant chef spat theirs out. All agreed Siobhan’s flavorful creation won, without a doubt.
“Good going, daughter,” the celebrity chef conceded. “You might have the smarts to fill your old man’s shoes.
Dreaming
I’m dreaming…
Of riding the rails, seeing the open skies, the great plains, the mountain walls…
I do not ride the train as others do: no ticket has been punched, no seat has been reserved. Instead, I ride on freight cars, feeling the wind in my hair, a sense of freedom, of exploring, like those who have come before…
There is the endless clickety-clack of wheels on rails, of train whistles, of smelling oil and dust, of seeing the blur of passing faces, hands waving, the rush of rounding the next turn…
It’s all so heady, for those young at heart. Everyone is ageless. For how can a hopeful heart ever grow old.
In the down time, when hunger pangs pay a visit, reminding me I still need food, I bend over a small burner, to cook my meal. It’s not much. I eat for adventure. Still, there are moments I recall being back home, in a warm kitchen, smelling bread baking, hearing a mother singing…
Memories can overwhelm you sometimes… when you think about them…
But, there’s always new stops, new faces…
The people you meet are strangers… for a while… but friendships form quickly… there’s a shared, unspoken bond. And they all have that look in their eyes: of excitement, of adventure, of creating a story few will ever know…
It can be lonely, and difficult at times, I’ll grant you that… but I wouldn’t trade a second of the experience, and that’s a fact…
I’m dreaming…
Solitary Confinement
Maggie is in her threes, hoping the last ace will pop up; the ace of hearts. The old cards sometimes stick together or to the worn oilcloth on her kitchen table.
When Albert was still alive, they often played solitaire together—each their own game, facing each other—the row of aces between them.
She sees it now; the ace is at the bottom of the cards in her hand. No other cards will play. With a sigh and good deal of effort, she pushes her chair back and rises, carrying her empty coffee mug to the sink.
As Maggie turns on the tap, she thinks she hears the mewling of a cat, but isn’t sure. Maybe the old pipe is just whining. Turning it off, she listens. She hears it now, but where is the sound coming from? Shuffling across the floor in her slippers, she opens the door to the cellar. There it is again, more clearly this time, a plaintive cry perhaps from a kitten.
Albert always meant to repair those rickety old wooden cellar steps and replace the burnt-out light bulb but never got around to it.
From the top of the stairs, Maggie peers down into the shadows but sees nothing. Gingerly, she tests the first step, then the second, cursing the lack of a railing to hold onto. The third step suddenly gives way and she tumbles forward, landing on the cement floor. The last sound she hears is the door above, softly closing.
The Kitchen
My smile swept across my face warming my soul. Becoming broader it threatened to explode. No, I had to avoid any explosions and implosions on this my first day at work in Inferno’s Kitchen. So proud to wear the white-the hat, jacket, apron and chequered trousers. The whites represented my influence and authority. Still beaming, I unpacked my Chef’s culinary items while giving my toque blanche a loving pat. With pridefulness I placed my gleaming knives, zesters, graters, timers, chopping boards, pots and pans on my workplace. The words “my workplace” had a magnificent sound, encouraging me to puff out my chest.
A flood of emotions threatened to flood over me. Riding Energetic Eggplant was Excitement followed by Blistering Banana ridden by Bliss, and in third place was Thankfulness riding Tearaway Toaster. I took some deep breaths attempting to compose my emotions.
It was necessary to remind myself that the kitchen was not mine, but belonged to Chef Pierre, otherwise known as Chef Hades. Chef Hades was a fitting name because by contrast, he made other tempestuous cooks look like newborn kittens. Like a volcano he was tumultuous, heated, strict and always on the verge of exploding. It was rumoured that his profanity would make a sailor blush. Despite a hot temper, his skills in the kitchen were world renowned.
Doors slammed and on a whirlwind of curses, Chef Pierre dramatically entered. His welcoming words in an artificial French accent were, “I ask for Chefs and they send me clowns!”
DAMEIN AND WALF… COOK
VOICEOVER:
AND NOW, WITH NO FURTHER ADO, WE BRING YOU DAMIAN AND WALT’S BACHELOR COOKING.
DAMIEN FACES THE CAMERA, A CARVING KNIFE IN HIS HAND.
GOOD EVENING, VIEWERS AND FRIENDS. I’M DAMIEN. TONIGHT, I’M GOING TO SHOW YOU HOW TO SPLIT YOUR GOURD.
HE WAVES THE BLADE DRAMATICALLY, NARROWLY MISSING THE LENS.
SOMEONE OFF-CAMERA SHOUTS, MEDIC. THE IMAGE FADES TO BLACK.
—–
THE DIRECTOR SHOUTS, ACTION: TAKE TWENTY-TWO.
DAMIEN FACES THE CAMERA, A PARING KNIFE IN HIS HAND.
GOOD EVENING, EVERYONE. WE’VE HAD A SMALL INCIDENT: THE CAMERAMAN HAD TO BE RUSHED TO HOSPITAL.
THE CAMERA LENS SLEWS UPWARD, INEXPERTLY FRAMING WALT’S FACE. HE’S WEARING A NURSE’S HAT. THERE’S BLOOD SPLATTERED ON THE CEILING.
THE CAMERAMAN WENT BYE-BYE. WE HOPE THEY CAN SAVE HIS HAND.
DAMIEN’S HAND APPEARS, REDIRECTING THE CAMERA, SO HE’S BACK IN SHOT.
SO, WALT KINDLY AGREED TO STAND IN FOR HIM.
THE CAMERA NODS, A SINGLE BLOODIED FINGER PARTIALLY OBSCURING THE LENS.
SO, BACK TO BUSINESS. SPLITTING THE GOURD.
DAMIEN THRUSTS THE KNIFE INTO THE PUMPKIN, DRIVING IT IN UNTIL THE BLADE DISAPPEARS. HE ATTEMPTS TO PUSH IT DOWN, HOPING IT WILL FALL INTO TWO HALVES. THE BLADE SNAPS AND THE HANDLE COMES FREE, REVEALING A JAGGED STUB OF METAL.
THE IMAGE FADES TO BLACK. WE HEAR DAMIEN SCREAM AND WALT SHOUTING FOR A MEDIC.
—–
THE DIRECTOR SHOUTS, ACTION: TAKE THIRTY-SEVEN.
WALT FACES THE CAMERA, BRANDISHING A SPOON.
IT’S THIS, OR IT’S NOTHING, THEY TELL ME – WHAT CAN YOU DO?
“Darrel, I’m done with this,” said Mavis as she hung up the dish towel and stood back to take in what she had accomplished. The silverware, weeks of it, and dirty dishes were washed and dried, ready to be transferred from dish rack to drawers. The fruit and vegetables (even a pumpkin from who knows when!) were collected and stacked, ready to be put where they belonged. Not on the counter.
Darrel, a slim, sensitive computer programmer, stood next to Mavis. “You’ve done a marvelous job,” he said, looking about the newly clean kitchen, wondering what was coming next. “And just in time.” He looked at his cell phone. No calls, but it told the time. “Just about dinner time.”
Mavis folded her arms across her more-than-ample bosom. “My point,” she said, a bit of acid leaking into her tone of voice. “I have a job just like you. It’s not washing dishes.”
Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his skinny jeans, Darrel nodded slowly as he looked about once more, uncertainty etched around his eyes. He decided he needed to be proactive.
“You know,” he began, “We could give ourselves a break and delay the dishwashing until every other Sunday. That would ease the stress so you could focus on your job.”
Mavis brusquely took off her apron and threw it onto a nearby kitchen stool. “I’ve got a better idea. You stay here and I’ll go home to my parents.”
Darrel looked up, relieved. “That might work.”
We were making butternut squash soup with a salad. Squash scooped and placed in the blender with butter and seasoning, just about to be blended when the smoke alarm next door went off. Neither of us was surprised. It was Wednesday night and Mr. Locke always burned his dinner when he was left to cook for himself. On Wednesday nights, Mrs. Locke went to the church for her meetings. After the first few times we experienced this occurrence, we invited Mr. Locke to have dinner with us, but he refused, saying he had to learn to care for himself because his wife said she had to go first so he needed to know how to cook for himself. At least once a month, he burned his dinner beyond anything edible and would knock on our door.
Tonight, the sound of the alarm was followed by a bang and a curse. I paused my finger hovering over the blender button to make sure there wasn’t anything truly wrong. Shortly came his voice, gruffly telling the alarm to stop it with its damn racket. I knew he had the stove up too high. I chuckled to myself as I pressed the button. “Sounds like he’s making steak tonight.”
“Last time he made steak, didn’t he chip his tooth?”
“No, that was the fried chicken. It was extra, extra, crispy.”
I walked through the quiet hallways, past one after another reminder what this place had been, and fought down the emotions welling up within me like a human Mt. St. Helens ready to blow. The whole point of bringing me up here among the redwood forests was to keep me safe. If I kept spraying emotions so strong every telepath from SeaTac to San Jose could pick them up, all that effort and sacrifice would just go to waste.
But I couldn’t shake my grief for what could’ve been, would’ve been, should’ve been. I’d seen glimpses of this place in moments of clairvoyance, homely activities of Resistance fighters in their hideout: Marshal Gruzinsky sitting in that chair, reading. Tamara the housekeeper pouring fresh water into the samovar on the sideboard. Connor with his laptop preparing an after-action report. Instead I would hide here alone among the memories, all because of my obstinate determination to let my boyfriend down easy before leaving home.
And then I turned the corner and walked into the kitchen. I recalled my grandmother’s advice: when you’re at loose ends, find a job for yourself to do, roll up your sleeves, and get to work.
If I was living here by myself, I’d need to eat. Which meant I’d better get to cooking now.