Flash Fiction Voting

5 (38.5%)
The Fart
3 (23.1%)
Destroyer of Sins
4 (30.8%)
Send Error Report?
1 (7.7%)
Rum Calls
0 (0%)

Total Members Voted: 12

Voting closed: May 19, 2009, 10:58:38 PM

Author Topic: Flash Fiction #4 Voting  (Read 1480 times)

Offline King_London

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Flash Fiction #4 Voting
« on: May 12, 2009, 10:58:38 PM »

She gapes at the smoldering heap of rubble, the acrid smoke making her gag nearly as much as her DESOLATION. Tears wash rivulets down her blackened face.

"What are we going to do?" she falters, her shaking hand seeking his.

"We are going to start over," he says. "We've done it before."

"I didn't think it would end like this. Not again."

He gently takes her in his arms, tugging at the hair at the nape of her neck.

"We're going to be ok," he says. "But next time we have a fight, please don't burn down the house again."

The Fart

Alan sunk into his desk as the school bully, Kyle, sat down next to him.  Everyone was scared of Kyle. He was as tall as a TOWER, and fat too.  Ten year olds have enough to worry about, even without fatties stealing their lunch.

Kyle leaned over.  “Thanks for the sandwich, loser.”

His chair suddenly slipped out from under him and with a loud thud and a “pppffffftt” he hit the floor.  The class erupted into laughter as Kyle crapped himself.

Alan couldn’t help but wonder if it had anything to do with the laxatives he put into his sandwich.

Destroyer of Sins

Since the divorce he’d vowed never to experience such dishonor and pain again.
Fleeing his homeland, he’d brought sweet Aghanashini to the land of opportunity.

REFUGEES in this unknown world, they’d become devoted to one another, happy in their new life.

Now, his DESOLATION was total. There was nowhere to turn since the murder of his beloved daughter.
As he trudged along Fifth Avenue, thoughts of honor foremost in his mind, he entered the TOWERING building.

Climbing the 1856 steps, he trusted this was the way to heaven.
It would be his first leap of faith in a long time.

Send Error Report?  
The best word to describe the room is cocoon. One composed of wires, and steel boxes. The largest box is a network TOWER. It doubles as a coffee table. The only light, emanates from a computer screen. A man’s face is bathed in the light. He is hunched in the room’s only chair. He is still except for his fingers ,which move in measured bursts. His face portrays no emotion. Our glance turns to the computer screen. Numbers are scrolling across in an unusual way. They are replaced by words. These are “password accepted”. The man leans back and smiles.

Rum Calls

The station bar was empty except for Bones. The last REFUGEE left three hours ago. A sense of DESOLATION covered the scarred and battered floors. Some were off writing in their own personal ivory TOWERS; some had fled to vacation Meccas. The silence was deafening.

Tim dropped in and played a few tune. He left.

Fire-Fly came and couldn't tell what time of day it was. She left.

Gyppo stooped by and left a beautifully crafted wake up tale. He left.

Some unnamed person entered and yelled, "RUM!"

Ma100 showed up. She stayed and order a chaser of rum. Slurp.

Great stories and good luck everyone!
« Last Edit: June 29, 2009, 04:00:23 AM by fire-fly »