Flash Fiction Challenge's Journal|
[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 13 most recent journal entries recorded in
Flash Fiction Challenge's LiveJournal:
|Saturday, January 10th, 2009|
If you want to join a micro/flash fiction community which has more recent updates, go to four2four, a community for stories 424 words or less (which otherwise has no other restrictions). Obviously, that's a bit longer than the aim here, but it's still shorter than other flash fiction and still just as fun and challenging!!
Current Mood: excited
|Tuesday, September 19th, 2006|
"I saw one!" she exclaimed.
"What did it look like?"
"It was round..."
"--you've been watching too many movies."
"--I think you're seeing what you WANT to."
"...and kind of hoovering in the air"
But when he thought she wasn't looking, he craned his neck to see.Another x-post to 50wordstory. Excpet this is NOT 50wordstory, so I didn't have to cut out the one word I'd originally included. It's a 51 word story instead ;)
|Monday, September 18th, 2006|
My Fondest memory is................
Of you pushing me on the rusty swing,
that creaked with every movement.
I can still fondly recall how I giggled softly at each push.
The scent of sweet jasmine filled the warm air, surrounding and
As we gazed upwards, to a starry sky,
I remember the amazement I felt
on seeing my first shooting star.
I gasped, you held my hand,
I smiled at you lovingly
"Make a wish darling! you said. Current Mood: creative
|Wednesday, September 13th, 2006|
The Influence of Music
*** Cross-posted in [Unknown LJ tag] Obviously if it's 50 words, it's also under 100 so it fit here too. ;)
Just before Christmas of 1993 I bought my first CD player. CD's become a top priority on my Christmas list that year.
In the morning I find a small, flat square package containing Nirvana's "Unplugged in New York."
The next day's trash is full of cassettes by yesterday's pop singers.
|Tuesday, June 13th, 2006|
Checkmate-- 55 words
For the briefest moments she considers ending it. But no, the thrill of the game is enough to reconsider. She stares long enough before her that the checkered black and white turns gray. Contemplating with cold calculating eyes she finally moves. Flick of wrist, slight of hand. She smiles, sighs and meets his gaze.
|Sunday, June 4th, 2006|
thinking of June
Sometimes, inside, there are times I die.
While walking down the boulevard I can feel the warmth of summer licking upon my flesh, yet with each step I take a piece of me breaks off and crashes upon the ground, smashing into a thousand million pieces that leave a trail that could have lead you back to me. Even when I am surrounded by a sea of faces I still feel bitterly alone, hollow….void.
When suns shine their best and warm breezes cut through the sky, there are still times that I cant help but cry….over the thought of you.
|Thursday, May 18th, 2006|
“Tell me how much it cost, and I might buy it. To tell the absolute and honest truth, I’ve always been a bit of a liar—making promises here, and there. Not one of them kept. Oh, I know I good little girl like you never lies…the perfect model. Don’t you shake your head! I know them when I see them. Good to the last drop of shampoo you use on your perfect hair. You’ve never lied.
Well, when I was a girl your age I was knee deep in lies. My perfect mother swore she didn’t know me. The way I pranced about made her sick. Took her to an early grave, I always believed. And, I came from a Christian home, perfect model. But me! I was the bad apple.
You know, never mind. I can't get that. I didn’t bring my checkbook with me.” Current Mood: artistic
|Wednesday, May 17th, 2006|
I know they giggle behind my back. They call me a trophy, thinking I don't accompany him for any other reason than to make his ex-wife envious.
The real reason is that I love him. He's 30 years older, balding, and I love him. I hope he loves me too, but even though I am not sure of that, I still got what I want.
I am my own person. If anything, he is my trophy, my lapdog, someone who loves me because without me he's lost. I love him, and he needs me. We're happy, does it matter how?
***Unrelated to the story: there are a few nice helps for writing at http://www.zokutou.co.uk/tools.html
|Tuesday, May 16th, 2006|
She clicks, turns the wheel, clicks again. The disposable camera bugged her until finally, she took it and shot the last two photos.
“Now you can get it developed.” She smiles at me, a big mischievous grin. I smile back weakly; I don't really want to see what is on there. Snapshots years apart, some of which I wanted to forget. The pictures will remind me of things I did wrong. A guilt trip over a stupid piece of plastic with low-quality film inside. I have memories enough of what is on there; why would I want pictures as well?
I didn't know Misty's real name. Once, I asked for it, when she walked out of my shower pink and perfect. She just smiled and tapped my nose: "Does it matter?" I guess it didn't.
We had fun, went to the sea, ate popsicles on the pier. With the popsicle dripping all over my left hand, I kissed her, just once.
The day was pink and perfect, like our watercolor popsicles. It couldn't last, I knew it would melt. I never threw away the little wooden popsicle-stick; my last tangible evidence of Misty I keep taped somewhere in my journal.
I never understood how to make green tea quite right. Sometimes I put too many leaves in the little basket that hangs in the pot, or I let it sit for too long, and the result would be bitter, murky, more brown than green.
Sometimes I put too few leaves in, or impatiently poured before the tea was done; the barely coloured concoction tasted of nothing but water.
I tried to understand a culture of which I couldn't even brew the tea. My kitchen drawers were stacked with souvenirs that I hadn't dared to use. Delicate teas beyond their dates.
Hi. I'm Kristin. I like this community. I wrote these as a flash assignment for a creative writing class a few months ago. They're more prose-poetry than flash fiction, I s'pose, but whatev.1.
His long, red hair, hair like a girl’s, shook when he laughed. Laughed like the calculation of two times pi times r. His laughter contaminated them and they laughed, too. Laughed until their faces were red and shaking like his hair. He turned away, looking for a drink. This will never end, he thought. This will never, ever end. He wished to be anyone but himself and anywhere but here.2.
His silver tongue glittered in the light of his lies. A stunning brunette stuck her tits out at him and tossed her long hair. He turned away, looking for a drink. This will never end, he thought. Thank God. Thank God. Thank God. This will never, ever end. Current Mood: busy
And since I have my nice cute little community all started, here's the story of mine that started the whole idea, just to get everyone going...
You never gave me a reason.
The anger was there. I could see it in your eyes and hear it in your voice. But the cause was in me and there's parts of yourself that are impossible to see, that can only be seen by reflection.
On the way home I drove under a bridge and saw a bird. It was soaring upward as though it had just been released from captivity, only to find it was trapped by the underside of the bridge, unaware that freedom was only a wingspan away.