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.
Sorry this is so late, folks, things have been busy!
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 Home Front
Meeting June had been fatiguing. Danny would help her if he could. He would gather and shape as much information about her obstreperous ex-husband to be as he could. Ultimately though, it would be up to the Judicial System as to whether a caring but less -financially well-positioned woman could keep her children rather than have them go to live with a flush but vindictive father.
As he drove home, he wondered at the call of his own home fire. Five years of war had interrupted the old course of his life. He had been unable to go back to what once was. In fact, he had abandoned that life even before the war.
He had been a coward.
But then came five years of war.
So much life lost.
So much living vanished.
His war experience had been in part one long journey into the European wilderness. He had lost track of the number of meals, rations, how much cold gristled meat and mouldy bread he and his buddies had eaten on the fly, in the woods, in gullies, hilltop and trenches, ever vigilant of pending attack, of imminent death.
Occasionally they were permitted fire to warm their bodies and their food.
Moments exceedingly rare.
He didn’t begrudge those years.
War had been the only option.
He supposed others might disagree.
Now he had a home, children, a wife, and hot meals.
The family even went camping.
It was easy enough to do in peacetime.
Dinner
Wringing an old towel, Kay lamented, “I have no clue what to cook for dinner!”
We all looked at her blankly. Kay was the epitome of organised and in charge. If she was clueless, what hope was there for the rest of us? Surprisingly, The Twins swung blackened grills over the fire surrounded by aged bricks. They placed a large kettle of water and as it began to simmer added a stone. We looked at them with astonishment. Yet, wordlessly one after another we dropped a favourite vegetable in. It was definitely a remake of “Stone Soup.” Well this version was “Stone Soup after the Apocalypse!” In no particular order, chopped carrots, diced onions, cubed potatoes, grated zucchini, peeled ginger and whole tomatoes were added. Someone carelessly tossed in scraggy lamb bits splashing water over the sides. Bouillon cubes were added for flavouring. A liberal amount of garlic was tossed in with pepper and salt. So the moral of this meal was the value of sharing. Sharing not only food, but work too. A huge paddle was used to smell this aromatic soup. At any moment, I thought Kay would rush in , grab the paddle and give The Twins a drubbing for past troubles. The smell rose, welcoming and delicious, awakening memories of campfire days.
As the soup was liberally dished out, Kay appeared with heavenly smelling bread. Once again, she had not disappointed. In fact, she brought us more together in sharing food, work and memories.
A savory scent rose from the Dutch oven at the side of the fire pit. Basil’s mouth started to water and he realized he’d been working so hard all morning, he didn’t even realize he’d become hungry.
Back at the ranch house, meals tended to be a bit more formal than at Sparta Point. There was no coming and going, not even by the hired men, and the serving dishes were not set on the sideboard for buffet service. Everyone sat down together around the long table that might well date back to the first settlers in these parts, and the serving dishes were passed hand to hand.
How would things work at this makeshift kitchen on the open range?
ELIGIBLE FOR EDITORS’ CHOICE ONLY
I was Invited to Dinner by a Zombie
It’s true.
It all started when I was invited to a dinner party being given by the new folks in town.
On the night of the party, I knocked at the front door, and was greeted by a rather grotesque host. He bid me to enter and led me to the living-room.
Once there, I noticed the other “guests” were rather odd looking. They shuffled when they moved, and emitted low groaning noises when they bumped into each other.
They all looked like… zombies.
But then I remembered it was Halloween. Right, I thought, they’re all dressed and acting like zombies. I chuckled quietly and breathed a sigh of relief.
I wasn’t wearing a costume. I came as myself: a hungry neighbour.
As the night wore on though, I began to have second thoughts. Firstly, the guests weren’t very talkative. They just moaned. Secondly, every once in a while one of them would lose an appendage: a finger, an ear, or a nose would just fall off. Finally, every guest walked up to me, sniffed, and mumbled something about “brains”.
I thought it was remarkable that all the guests could stay in character for so long. But I was getting hungry. So, I asked out loud, “What’s for dinner?”
Without hesitation, they all looked at me, pointed, and shouted, “You!”
I was never a very good athlete in school, but I guarantee you, that night, when I dashed out the door, I broke the record for the 100-yard dash.
Title: Senior Dinner
One thing about Clancy…you couldn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know.
We continued to let him accompany us on our camping trips, but his memory wasn’t what it used to be. We had painfully learned it was safer to have him with us and not have him home alone.
He had packed everything we would need, and honestly, he does a good job…usually.
We all learned an hour into his latest endeavor, that nobody is perfect. He forgot the potholders.
“No big deal,” he said. We watched his expression as he contemplated his dilemma. Not a good look!
When we asked what he was cooking under the upside-down frypan, he didn’t remember if it was pork chops or hot dogs.
Regardless, from the looks of the smoke, if we were eating anything it would be mostly charcoal.
Five minutes later, he slapped his thighs and started walking in the direction of the river.
“Where are you going?” Wilma asked.
“Going to find a piece of driftwood or a stick.”
“Clancy, the river is a half hour away. What about what’s cooking?”
“Not to worry.”
“He’ll be gone over an hour, providing he doesn’t get lost. I suggest we pack more jars of peanut butter next time.”
“I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but I suggest we make and eat the sandwiches now before he returns. We also need to take a picture of this catastrophe, as he will deny he messed up dinner.”
ELIGIBLE FOR EDITORS’ CHOICE ONLY
Dinner
Kettle: “You’re not a pot, you look like two frying pans, one upside on top of the other.”
Pot: “Well, I’m functioning like a pot and that’s all that counts. On the other hand, why do you call yourself a ‘kettle’, when you look like a ‘pot’ from where I’m sitting?”
Kettle: “Hey, I have water in me; that makes me a ‘Kettle’, and, I’ll add, my lid was made to fit, whereas yours looks makeshift, at best.”
Pot: “I’m functioning fine with my lid, at least I’m cooking something worthwhile. You’re just sitting there, fat, black, and full of water, and it’s probably not even hot anymore.”
Kettle: “Oh Yeah, just what do you have in you? Stew? Soup? Oatmeal? Also, in case you haven’t noticed, you are also black and you have a flat top.”
Pot: “Lookie you! A Kettle calling the pot black. I’ll have you know I cooking chicken pot pie. So, we’re different, you have a problem with that?”
Kettle: “No, I believe being different is better. I boil water better with my tight lid and you cook chicken pot pie better since you can be turned upside down to cook both top and bottom. I can’t do that.”
Pot:” “Hum, I see. Maybe being different is good. I’m getting to like you, Kettle”
Kettle: “You’re kinda growing on me too, Pot. When you are done, They will use the water in me to clean you up.”
Kettle: “Guess that is called teamwork.”