Friday, July 19, 2013

FFM Highlights

Well, I have somehow magically stayed true to the flash fiction month challenge to write a story per day. Yes, I may have missed the midnight deadline once or twice, and okaaayy some of my stories are shorter than your average index finger... but I've been keeping up. So there's that.

I wouldn't exactly call these two stories highlights because that would imply that they're actually good... but here are some short stories that I particularly enjoyed writing.

Story 1:
Work Hazards 

“Honestly, I’m a bit insulted that you didn’t even consider me for the position.”

Oh Jesus, Frank was being a pouty little fart face again. And what was Jon supposed to do? Console him over a decision he had very little part in making?

“Sorry, bud. Maybe next time, yeh?”

“Yeh, yeh. You told me that last year, jackass.”

So… he was going to be hostile about it, then? This wasn’t going to end well. Jon gave Frank a cautious look.

“Don’t do anythin’ stupid, now.”

“Somethin’ stupid? You think I’m stupid enough to do something stupid? Is that what you think of me? Is it?!”

“Now, now, calm down-“

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” 

Frank’s pout had morphed into a grotesque mask of rashness and anger. Jon lifted up the walkie-talkie, taking a few steps away from Frank.

“We got ourselves a fried egg. Gon’ need some security on floor three right away.”


Hunched over, Frank pulled at his hair with both hands, perspiration rolling down the back of his neck. Fallen pray to a work hazard. That’s what the papers would say when they got wind of Frank’s death. Nothin’ more. It was all in the contract of course. A risk associated with their particular… profession. Frank knew this could happen.

“Hey Frank… just take a few breaths, okay? Just a few deep-“

“NO.” Spit flew from his snarling, red face. 

Without warning, Frank pounced. Nails out, he pinned Jon to the ground and sank his teeth deep into his neck. Blood spurted on to the floor. Jon knew the risks too. 

A work hazard.

Story 2:

“Hush little darling, don’t say a word…”

Twenty-nine seconds.

“Momma’s gonna buy you a mock-ing bird.”

Twenty-five. It wasn’t enough. Not even close.

“And if that mock-ing bird don’t sing…”

The door burst open. Jasmine dropped the baby. Crying, crying, crying. Hush now, hush. Ten seconds.

“Momma’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.”

Her vocals trembled. The baby whimpered.

“I’ll pray for you.”

Time. The men stepped forward. They took the boy and placed him in the arena. Oh, the arena. Kept in the shade by a sea of screaming fanatics, it was the perfect place for such a spectacle.

Jasmine’s fingers coiled around the bars by her window.

“Hush little darling, don’t say a word…”

Then came the savages, so starved of meat they’d begun to tear into their own flesh. Stones, they were armed with. Mere stones.

“Momma’s gonna buy you-“

The hushed melody suffocated in a steady stream of desperation. Not her baby. She could not look away.


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