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.
INVISIBLE
I stagger forward, absorbing the dry panorama as I go, wondering why there are no cars and the end of this bridge I cross never seems closer. The canyon below is sixty yards down, but the bridge’s end is a half mile off.
I cannot remember anything before or imagine anything after this. Scarcely conscious, the slow rhythm of my feet and sight of an iron railing gliding across my vision become my entire being. There is nothing reflective to show the state I am in. Invisible, maybe I only exist through pain and exhaustion.
I have no evidence of anything beyond, but my intuition is that somewhere, someone sits on a throne, creating my suffering to express his. If I am made in someone’s image, is he trying to please some even greater judge?
I am lost, but not alone, feeling dozens, maybe hundreds of unseen eyes watching me. Never helping, just watching. Pressing onward, I must reach the bridge’s end before I can rest.
I start recalling something vague from the past. It’s hazy, but I sense I have been in situations like this before and seem to recall that, if I survive, yet another trial will follow. How many more?
I try to believe there is a reason for my journey, that through it some point is being made.
I have to believe that. If nothing had any purpose, my story would end here.
Bridge
“This bridge gives us a wonderful view of the canyon, don’t you think, babe?”
“Yeah, but you’re not bungee or base jumping off it. I don’t care how safe the hotel brochure claims it is. Wade, we’re on vacation to relax, not to try high-risk activities for adrenaline rewards.”
“Right, and we’re just here to watch. This place has the highest safety rating in the state. Just look at the customer reviews. They provide a state-of-the-art parafoil and fifteen whole minutes of instruction before base jumping. They inspect the bungee ropes every week.”
“Right, but my web search said Canyon Bridge Thrillseeker Excursions provided the most nominees for the Darwin Awards in this five state area.”
“Jessie, just look at all the cars in the parking lot. Customers wouldn’t flock to this spot if it wasn’t a safe way to get your thrills. Besides, we’re just here to look.”
“Well, look at that, Mister Wise Guy. Three of the vehicles are ambulances and the EMTs have people strapped to those gurneys.”
The couple took in the whirlwind emergency services going on in the parking lot with wide eyes and opened mouths. They stared at each other with utter disbelief on their faces as Wade pulled a U turn in the opposite parking lot. Their SUV passed the sad sight again as both let out a sigh of relief.
The twosome noticed cosmic synchronicity as the radio began playing “Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen.
Bridging
“It’s a pretty over-used metaphor, Ainsley. You don’t seem to have put much thought into it.”
Sam stood there and left me hanging with my dangling bridge metaphorical effort. He’d asked for a theme, something that would resonate with both parties. The company and the union were miles apart and it was looking like gridlock would shut the plant down.
We produce widgets.
A million a year.
Except for the last couple of years.
Covid had bottomed out the widget express.
We’d adjusted.
Downsized the workforce.
Lost some good people.
Widget professionals through and through.
Best in the business…if we’d had any business.
We’d retooled the plant.
At no small cost.
Started making doohickies.
Personalized masks.
Two-layered.
Sold quite a few.
Kept us afloat.
Now, masks were passé.
Widgets were back in demand.
We needed to get rolling.
During the pandemic, the remaining staff unionized.
Made sense.
They’d survived the downsizing.
Didn’t quite trust the company the way we hoped they used to.
Bargaining was ferocious.
So I went with bridging.
Everyone likes bridges so I told Sam, the Manager, “Sam, everyone likes bridges. They get us over….canyons…waterways…and, I suggest, some bridging will get us a manageable contract. Let it play out.”
It was a hard sell. Sam’s old school. Hates metaphors. Similes send him into a fit.
Finally, he relented. We’d propose an interim contract.
A bridge from the past to the future.
It would all hinge on the widget market not collapsing.
Again.
The Man on the Other Side of the Bridge
There was a knock at the door.
“Yes?” asked Felix.
“The man on the other side of the bridge, sent me,” replied Hightop.
“It’s 2:00 am.”
“I know.”
“Odd. I just had a dream about him.” He paused. “Am I still dreaming?”
Hightop shrugged and stepped into the apartment. “What happened two nights ago?”
Felix thought for a moment. “I was watching television. Part way through a show, I developed a terrible itch on the bottom of my left foot.”
“Yeah? Sometimes I get an itch in my left hand.”
“No kidding? Anyway, I stood up and rubbed my foot on the carpet. That’s when it happened.”
“What?”
“Static electricity was created from rubbing my sock on the carpet. It was a signal.”
“For what?”
“For my little budgie, Peach, to start chirping.”
“What do you mean?”
“I got the bird a week ago,” explained Felix. “And I noticed whenever I rubbed my socks on the carpet, Peach would start chirping, like it was trying to tell me something. You know, in budgie speak. So, I decided to decipher its language. Got nearly twenty pages so far, but I don’t understand what it means. I’ll get them for you.”
Felix returned with the manuscript and dropped it on the table.
Hightop examined the budgie script. A few minutes later he looked up, visibly shaken.
“What did you find?” asked Felix.
“Don’t ever be alone with that budgie,” he gasped. “Its got fantasies… crazy fantasies… and you’re in them.”
Bridge
After the apocalypse, my mind not only wondered, but questioned, puzzled over and contained a mixture of light breezy and darkling thoughts concerning the future. Always, I worried that another apocalypse would blast us into near oblivion. Were we not a knife’s edge from oblivion?
Unconsciously, I rubbed Midnight’s coyote head to calm my mind. She sighed in blissful content. The mega yacht passed under a bridge which catapulted my mind into deeper thinking. The bridge was a conglomeration of many things but possessed order, organisation and orderliness. It was a thing of absolute beauty. Where did it lead? Where did it come from?
I believe it was Joseph Fort Newton, who was famously quoted as saying, “Men build too many walls and not enough bridges.” Would the apocalypse herald in less bigotry, hatred, culture-wars and racism? Would we witness more tolerance? Would this bridge lead to deeper understanding, empathy and compassion?
My mind was churning over too many unanswerable questions. I only hoped that the bridge, the apocalypse and everything else would herald in brighter days. Afterall, as Aberjhani said, “A bridge of silver wings stretches from the dead ashes of an unforgiving nightmare to the jewelled vision of a life started anew.”
Midnight smiled up at me, when I realised that the apocalypse would hail a much better tomorrow. No need for gloom and doom!
Dateline: Marrakesh
Multi-trillionaire and tragically inept designer/engineer/creative savant Delbert “D.I.”* Collins issued a press release stating that his long awaited project… the massive 1158 mile Trans-Sahara Bicycle Lane and Jogging Path that has been under construction since 2012, is nearing completion in Marakesh, Morocco. D.I. Collins is widely known for his other endeavors… notably his Antarctic World of Miniature Golf, and of course The Lake Erie Underwater Car Wash. The reclusive nitwit stated that the project, the supporting trestles of which he claims can be seen from outer space, would open to the public within the next few months.
*“Delirious Imbecile”
It has been suggested that the announcement was made to draw attention away from the recently disastrous finale of the initial run of D.I.’s “American Intercontinental Zip-Line”. Originating from Mt. Denali in Alaska, the ultra high-speed zip-line terminated in Miami, Florida. It is estimated that persons riding the zip-line (known as “Zappers”) could reach speeds of up to three hundred plus miles per hour. It has been reported that due to a construction flaw, the final “slow-down miles” of the line failed to engage and the initial four “Zappers” were cast approximately 2.6 miles into the Atlantic Ocean.
Rescue efforts are continuing.
ELIGIBLE FOR EDITORS CHOICE ONLY
“Sir, this bridge is clear of all traffic and pedestrians,” Billy, the most recent Park Ranger announced. He wanted to hold his nose, getting more than a whiff of the ten rounded-up dead carcass on the bed of the trailer.
“Great, that was good progress. The event starts at seven, plenty of time to arrange these poor animals.” the head Ranger announced and continued. “Pair up and each pair grab the bottom of a tarp and drag one of these numbered targets across the bridge to its designated spot.”
“Sir, why don’t we move the tractor and trailer to each spot?” Billy asked.
“Kid, obviously, you’re going to be leading this show some day. However, this is what our higher ups told us to do, so we’re going to do it their way.”
This was the first annual California Condor contest. Tickets were sold at fifty dollars apiece to pick which carcass the first Condor would attack.
They would work out any kinks in the process next year.
The money collected would go to support the local Navajo communities. So far, over $50,000 had been collected, but tickets were still being sold to the thousands of spectators. It’s a good thing the plans were to hold this event in October, as it was cloudy and, in the seventies, rather than over a hundred.
*.*.*
Next year, they would seek permission for alternative remain disposal. It was Billy’s suggestion after the mess of two feeding days.
I could see the mountains ahead of me, glowing red and orange with the afternoon sun. A cloud cast a shadow over one. Would we get rain? I hoped so. Lightning? I crossed my fingers no. I was running across country and had finally reached this crossroads into new terrain. I looked over the side. It was a good two hundred feet to the river. Without this bridge, I would have had a huge descent and climb. Better save the elevation and my quads for another day. Where was I? Arizona? Wyoming? How far had I gone? A hundred miles? A thousand? Just getting through the mountains had been tough and I still had thousands of miles to go, across farmlands and hills, through swamp and across forests. But first, a terribly long and incredibly hot desert.
A car blasted its horn at me. I had veered a little too close to the white line. Or had I? I was doing this to see the country, to see if what divided was as big as what united us. Many days this chasm felt too big, like the canyons ahead. The weather was brilliant when I left the coast, and I hoped I’d finish with another great day. If it stormed, well, hopefully I’d make it to shelter. I looked down at my sneakers, dirty from the long days, but not broken. I wouldn’t have to climb these mountains, just follow the bridge.
If only it could always be that easy.
Ahead the railroad trestle stretched into a distance of sandy-colored mesas that didn’t quite remind Leonid Gruzinsky of any place he’d ever been. It was just reminiscent enough of Afghanistan that he was surprised it didn’t bring back any PTSD issues.
On consideration, the light here was different enough that it wouldn’t summon forth those memories. Nor was this land similar enough to anywhere in the Middle East to recollect his various narrow escapes from armies that would’ve shot him on sight.
Including armies I by rights should’ve been commanding. The old bitterness welled up and he forced it back down. He was here on a mission, and couldn’t afford to waste time dwelling on past history.
However, his anger had been noticed by one of his men. “Hey, Spartan, what’s up? You look like the coyote waiting for the roadrunner to come by.”
Gruzinsky scowled at the other man. Although Connor Westin was a military veteran with combat experience, it was all Navy, which meant he had been sent as a political officer, a watchdog. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I forgot, you didn’t grow up watching Saturday morning cartoons. When we get back to base, I’ll have to show you some.”
Gruzinsky laughed, hoped it didn’t sound too forced. He was no stranger to cartoons, although he’d seen them at the cinema, and they had been far different from anything done by Disney or Warner Brothers.