The Word Cloud

Attributed to Hemingway is a short story: For sale, baby shoes, never worn.

This month, while we catch our breath it's flash fiction, a story (with a beginning, a middle and an end) from any genre; maximum 50 words.

The above is a sad piece, but please feel free to post upbeat sories as well - happy stories are welcome as well as sad ones. Let's get your creative juices running - best of luck peeps.

It is one of the saddest pieces of flash. Off to have a think about this - I'll be back.

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Mum placed the advert in the paper as she always said she would when I won my Paralympics gold, it was our deal.

‘My God!’ She exclaimed when I opened the door to the buyer.

‘I knew you would do fine without me, just wanted to say congratulations.’ he smiled.

I have never done flash fiction before, and as this is such a sad title, I wanted to make something positive out of the title instead.

Sorry, it always posts that gibberish at the start, even if I delete it, and I can't seem to go back and edit it, if anyone else could that would be great!

Sorry, it always posts that gibberish at the start, even if I delete it, and I can't seem to go back and edit it, if anyone else could that would be great!

Tena, it's the formatting stuff that comes with your text when you key it into Word. If you copy your text and paste it into the body of a plain text email, it ditches all the rubbish, then you can copy back out and paste here in a more streamlined stylie.

I dump my text into Quark and it does the same job.

Apologies for littering the competition.

Peter

Tena and Barb. Please feel free to post happy pieces as well - all are welcome...

I was saying Hemingway's was sad - not that they had to be for this contest. Sorry if that took anyone down the wrong path.

Jim sniffed. 'Smell the sweetness?'

'Yes, lovely,' Sam said, 'I like these ones that have just fallen.' He studied the plump morsel, the nectar inside straining against its skin. 'A true peach.'

Jim took a bite and licked his muzzle. 'Werewolf heaven, all these humans dying from sun stroke.'

Tide flowed towards the beach where footprints led to the edge of the sea. Water sucked and gurgled around the footprints and then the tide ebbed away. Only sand remained.

Oh some lovely pieces. I am captivated by the talent here on WW. Keep them rolling in guys...

Time to go.

The alarm wrenched me into consciousness.
Looking at the flashing digital display, I knew it was time for the next stage of my journey.
Rising, easier than expected, I permitted myself a backward glance.
I felt a pang of mischief as the crash team tried their damnedest to resuscitate me.

Tena and Barb. Please feel free to post happy pieces as well - all are welcome...

I thought mine was quite happy?

Sol 1 had sunk behind The Brekons thirty minutes ago and Sol 2 was already tingeing the low clouds with blue, against a perfect lemon sky. Bovus units grazing in old Thomas Jones' purple meadow cast lengthening shadows in the failing light. The aging pioneer sat on his stoop savouring an evening glass of what passed for whiskey on Sat 3. He was re-reading his naturalisation papers that had finally come through. Ten years. It was hard to believe. And now, here he was. For good. And he was thinking that fine malt wasn't the only thing he missed from the old days. The fiery liquid coursed through him as he fondly remembered the green, green grass of home.

There is a 50 word maximum to this challenge, Tony!

‘Time?’ asked the groom.

‘An hour late.’

Doors of a car slammed shut. Heads rose in enquiry.

The latch on the 18^th century Oak door clanked with anxiety.

‘Err…Hello,’ the boy spoke into breathless silence. ‘T-t-telegram for a Mr Gold’

The groom marched the wrong way up the aisle, ‘Here!’

A Matter of Love and Death

I’ve escalated, dead.

Court is in session and the galleries sit in celestial and virtual clouds.

‘Who testifies for Love?’ the clerk enquires.

I stand. Proud.

‘I shall be calling Mr David Niven, Alfred Lord Tennyson and…’

I make them wait.

‘…Giacomo Puccini.’

‘Drink?’ the girl asked.

‘It’s kind, but no thank you.’

‘But I bought a leather jacket and everything.’

‘I’m a vampire Lucy, not from The Matrix.’

‘Alright, don’t bite my head off!’

‘And I first heard that one in seventeen-thirty.’

Lucy winked. ‘I do like the older man.’

The end of the Affair

The flicker of eyes from across the room; a blush and a polite smile. A flash of recognition; silent elation and a racing pulse. Anticipation; eyes connect. A mouthed ‘Hi’ cuts the tension; a cautious wave. A flash of gold; a wedding ring. My wedding ring. I drop my hand.

Oh some brilliant pieces. What stars we have here on WW. This is going to be so damn difficult to judge. Okay, I am a national Fuchsia and Pelargonium judge - honest - but you guys have raised the bar. Keep them rolling in...

Thomas replaced the telephone. "That was...my ex-wife is dead."

"Oh."

"God. Oh, God."

"But, she was your ex, right? So it's not as bad as it might be. Right?"

Thomas studied his secretary. So young, unaccustomed to tact. "It's how she died."

"How?"

"Some kind of disease. An STD, apparently."

Charles stared in awe as bits of flesh rained down around him, his metal detector lifeless at his side. Birds scattered in the wake of the explosion, webbed feet scuttling over the field, flippers straining for balance.

“You're a fucking genius!”

Garry laughed. “Yup. Penguins – God's minesweepers!”

“Look at that!” Says Bandylegs
“I know. Children don’t believe anymore and now the grownups are melting us down and squeezing us into those!” Pinknose says pointing to the bottle.
“And look, they’ve even put our names in plain view!”

Next to the sink, is a bottle of Fairy Liquid.

Evacuation of Auschitz, January 1945

A pall of frozen breath hung over the column; a human millipede with sixty-six thousand pairs of legs shuffled across white desolation in the bitter dawn. Ahead lay Wodzislaw Śląski, and the border, where we’d be loaded into open boxcars and taken away to hide the scale of the atrocity.

“In closing, we must stop destroying our environment. Learn from the civilization before us who perished from their own greed.'

The president brought his flippers together in front of him and bowed his bottle nose. With a final glance at the assembled school, he swam into the depths.

I got the idea that one had to write a story with the Hemmingway quote as the title, however, as I have never written flash before, I actually found the self imposed restriction helpful; and now I have realized that it makes more sense of the other entries!