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.
ELIGIBLE FOR EDITORS CHOICE ONLY
The Red Dress
Julia discovered an old camera in her late grandmother’s attic. She developed the film and found a series of photographs that were taken during World War II. One of the photographs showed a group of soldiers and a woman in a red dress, but one of the soldiers had his face obscured.
Using the other photos in the roll, Julia discovered that the soldier was her grandfather, who had disappeared during the war.
Intrigued, she wanted to learn more about her grandfather and the woman in the red dress. She discovered that the woman was a French Resistance fighter and that her grandfather had fallen in love with her while he was fighting in France.
Julia tracked down the woman’s family and found a diary written by her grandfather. In it, he detailed his love story and how he had planned to return to France to marry her after the war. But he had disappeared without a trace, and the woman had presumed he was dead.
Julia discovered that her grandfather had been captured by the Nazis and was held in a prison camp until the end of the war.
Later, Julia visited the grave of the woman in the red dress and found her grandfather’s name on a memorial.
She realized that the old camera was a way for her grandmother to hold onto her memories of her husband, and the photo was a reminder of the love he had for the woman in the red dress.
Vintage
They sent the picture of Charlie to the local police. There was an accompanying note. (Stay away. Camera boy didn’t. That’s on you all.)
The cops contacted us. Family. Our name was in the note. The cops didn’t really care about that. They wanted silence. They wanted it easy. The cops, I mean.
We had no idea who the hell “they” were.
Neither did the cops.
We assumed they had Charlie.
“They” being the unknown ones.
Charlie was nowhere to be found.
I suppose the cops wanted it to go away because they were easily bamboozled.
But they were the ones that received the picture.
Going away wasn’t in the cards for them.
At least that’s the way we thought.
It was their job, right!
Finding people.
People that other people had absconded with.
Absconded.
Sounds liker a term of love.
It ain’t.
We had to admit though that it was a neat looking photo. Caught Charlie in a reflective moment. Some neighbourhood I didn’t know.
The cops said, “We know that place. Don’t know the fellow, though.”
We said, “It’s Charlie.”
They said, “If you say so.”
We said, “Yeah, it’s so.
Didn’t seem to cut any ice with them.
They said, “It’s a vintage photograph. That camera, eh!. Must be forty years old.
We said, “He likes old stuff. Vintage cameras and the like.”
“Weirdo,” they said.
“What are you going to do?” we thought.
That was it though.
Charlie never did surface.
Strange doings, we thought.
Edited version:
Vintage
They sent the picture of Charlie to the local police. There was an accompanying note. (Stay away. Camera boy didn’t. That’s on you all.)
The cops contacted us. Family. Our name was in the note. The cops didn’t really care about that. They wanted silence. They wanted it easy. The cops, I mean.
We had no idea who the hell “they” were.
Neither did the cops.
We assumed they had Charlie.
“They” being the unknown ones.
Charlie was nowhere to be found.
I suppose the cops wanted it to go away because they were easily bamboozled.
But they were the ones that received the picture.
Going away wasn’t in the cards for them.
At least that’s the way we thought.
It was their job, right?
Finding people.
People that other people had absconded with.
Absconded.
Sounds like a term of love.
It ain’t.
We had to admit though that it was a neat looking photo. Caught Charlie in a reflective moment. Some neighbourhood we didn’t know.
The cops said, “We know that place. Don’t know the fellow, though.”
We said, “It’s Charlie.”
They said, “If you say so.”
We said, “Yeah, it’s so.
Didn’t seem to cut any ice with them.
They said, “It’s a vintage photograph. That camera, eh! Must be forty years old.
We said, “He likes old stuff. Vintage cameras and the like.”
“Weirdo,” they said.
“What are you going to do?” we asked.
That was it though.
Charlie never did surface.
Strange doings, we thought.
She couldn’t see my eyes looking at her, behind my sunglasses. If she were just a kid, a piece of candy would work as well as this vintage camera to a photographer. Now that I had her attention, I could get closer to her.
“Do you recognize this old camera?” I asked, walking close to her.
“Yes, I had one years ago. It looks like it’s in good condition.”
“I see you have your own camera equipment. Are you a photographer?”
“Yes, and I’m here for a photo shoot.”
“Interesting. Do you have a few minutes before your shoot to have a coffee with me?” Holding the camera like this, I could see her looking at my N I B tattoo. Just another one of my lures…sweetheart.
“No, I really shouldn’t…but, thanks.”
“I have something to share with you, but only if you can spare a few minutes.”
She knew she shouldn’t, but she did have an hour before the shoot. “What is it?”
“It’s about the camera, but never mind. You must be very busy.”
“Okay, but only for a few minutes. My name is Kat, what’s yours?”
“Kat, you can call me Joe.”
*.*.*
Fifteen minutes later, they were seated at a small corner coffee shop.
“So, Joe, you mentioned something you needed to share with me about the camera. You piqued my interest. What is it?”
He handed her the camera. “Check out the name on the bottom.”
‘KAT’
*.*.*
Detectives asking, “Has anyone seen this woman?”
VINTAGE:
“What’s that you got? A Mark IV? I love those guys.”
Jon lifted his gaze from the viewfinder’s hood, keen to meet another enthusiast. There were fewer each year, many of the old guard leaving the fraternity for one reason or another. It seemed like they were all dying out; the cameras, their users, even the filmstock they used. It would be the end of an era when they all disappeared.
“Yes, it’s a Cord; from ’54. One of the last they made. After that, there was just the Mark V, albeit with a handful of variants. Of course, through the lens cameras were the death of these – at least for most amateur photographers.”
Another thing that discouraged people from adopting them in those days was their aspect ratio. Their square format had its limitations. A rectangular image gave its user the choice of two orientations, matching the shape of the frame artists used for most of their paintings.
“I’ll give you a good price for that – in cash,” said the other. “Yours looks like it’s in good condition. And it’s the best time to sell – they lose a little more value each year as people continue to lose interest. Why buy a camera when you can use your phone? That’s what most folk think these days.”
“No, sir,” said Jon, shaking his head. “This was my father’s camera. Each time I look through it, I see what he saw. No mobile phone can give me that.”
Vintage- Vintage Proof
A fertiliser plant exploding rather than enemy bombing was welcome news. Yet, where was the proof? Chatter whipped round the room; people talked over each other. Each wanted to believe there were no enemies out there; we wanted to believe in a temperamental fertiliser plant.
Kay replied, “Oh, you want proof?”
With a hustle and bustle and a loud, “Hummpf!” Kay disappeared.
She returned declaring, “There’s your proof.” as she slammed a photo album open on the kitchen table.
A young man stared down intently at a vintage camera. He seemed to idolise it.
Kay too lingered over the photo in a passionate way, stroking and caressing it, “My husband loved his vintage camera. He fancied himself an amateur photographer. The very last photo he took was of the old fertiliser plant! He argued with the owners that the plant was in immediate danger of exploding.”
“Kay, where is the photo proving that the fertiliser plant could potentially explode?” The question was on everyone’s lips.
As though stating the obvious, Kay answered, “It is in the camera. Where is the vintage camera? It was stolen by those low down scum of fertiliser plant owners. The damning photo was in the camera, when it was stolen.”
Arms went up in despair! We were no nearer to the truth behind last night’s explosions!
A delighted female triumphantly waved a handwritten note, “This article indeed says that the fertiliser plant was under suspicion of being in a dangerous state!”
Everything old is new again.
I’m old enough to remember when taking pictures meant needing to have your camera with you, and you needed enough film in it. Once you took the pictures, you had to wait for the film to be developed before you could see your pictures.
These days I have a camera in my phone. If I see something interesting, I get out my phone and take a picture. I don’t even need to plug it into my computer to get the file. It goes straight to the cloud, easy-peasy, and there it is in the Photos app on my laptop.
So imagine my surprise when I see this hipster kid fiddling with an actual old-fashioned box camera. That phone in his pocket has a camera that can take better pictures, and no waiting. So why’s he wasting time with that antique?
And then I remember the Ansel Adams print over my sofa. Why would the master take pictures in black and white when there was Kodachrome?
It was a great old camera.
Looking down at the ground glass on top changes the way you look at the world. You do everything yourself, no batteries to go bad, no flashing lights and automatic settings to separate you from the image.
I walked around the old part of town, by the rusty railroad tracks looking for inspiration worthy of one of the very few photos I can take with a roll of 120 film. It was getting hard to find so I had to use it sparingly.
I had fallen into a habit of looking at the view finder rather than at the world, it was a wonder I hadn’t fallen literally. Somehow I only stumbled a couple of times but avoided actual face planting.
There on the glass was a vision of world as I saw it, not the filthy colour corrected reality of a throw away shot on a phone, no, it was the beauty of a rusted padlock, a broken bottle, a dried weed that had found a way out of the cracked pavement.
One shot left and the light was fading, I would have to hold the camera very still to get a good depth of field.
My last shot, the gun pointed at me, the mugger in sharp focus. He was more shocked than I when I asked him to hold still. The shutter was so slow we could hear it open and close. I thanked him and started to crank the handle to rewind.
He never said a word as I walked away.
The Perfect Shot
I try to ignore the chill in the air as I adjust the settings one last time. I resist checking my watch yet again. My source was off by at least 30 minutes. Reminding myself how long I’ve been waiting on this cool autumn day won’t make my target arrive any faster.
The sound of the side door opening sends joy through my tired bones and I make my final preparations. I will likely only have time for one or two shots of my favorite actress before her bodyguards spot me and chase me off. I need to make them count.
Knowing that the paparazzi has been positioned on the wrong side of the building for over an hour makes me smile. My stomach growls as the amazing smells from the bakery behind me remind me that I’ve missed lunch yet again. But if I get the photo I’m hoping for, it will have all been worth it. And with my trusty vintage camera, this just might work.
Hello, my name is Blad, Hasselblad. So many journalists used to use me. “My Hasselblad,” they would say proudly and I took pictures with a sharp clear outline, because I was a professionalist. My buddy Ray, he bought me from his second cousin Marvin, a retired journalist. Ray took me last summer to Crete where he was bumming around and decided to visit the caves of Matala. He didn’t have a clue how to use me. “Why did I get this old camera in the first place?” he said, ready to toss me. But when climbing up to the caves he dropped me, he cried out how much money he had paid for me. Didn’t care I was hurt. Fortunately it wasn’t fatal. He wanted great pictures to submit to a travel photo contest. Got it into his head he deserved real quality the way cameras used to be, even before digitals, and I was the photo king. Now they’ve made me digital so I’m like the others. I popped open my lens to help Ray, but he couldn’t figure me out at first. What do you expect from someone who hangs around beaches outside LA and in Crete. Come on Ray buddy! He laughed bitterly but he started getting the hang of me and took some pretty good shots. He sent in a photo of southern Crete and won 3rd prize in the contest. I’m thrilled, Ray, just waiting for a kind word to your old proud Hasselblad.
“Be quick. It’s gonna rain.”
Detective Suarez wasn’t worried about Ned’s jacket or unkempt hair getting wet. He was worried about evidence being washed away. The people milling about, the flashing lights, set an absurdly cheery atmosphere, as if the parking lot were a pop-up disco and the woman slumped against the building had just sat down to rest. Police radios chattered. The sky rumbled.
Ned had photographed crime scenes before, but this was his first body. He acted his part like it was routine, but as he approached the spot he felt chilled; sounds became muffled. He focused: camera out, lens cap off, aperture, f-stop…
“What the hell is that?” Suarez was looking at him in distain. No—was looking at Ned’s camera.
“It’s my camera.”
“Well I’m not blind, my man. But what the hell? Please tell me you have another from this century.”
The camera had belonged to Ned’s father. Its photos had won awards, had sustained a successful career. “It’s a great camera. Don’t worry.”
The detective stepped close and looked down on Ned from many inches above.
“Look at her.” He jerked his chin.
Ned had to look.
“That woman needs you to help us find her killer. I know about your father. Yeah, that’s right. I know who you are. This ain’t no Pulitzer prize opportunity. She needs justice and that old piece you’re using better help bring it. Now hurry up. You know what to do.”
Ned took a breath and stepped forward.