Flash Club April Flash Club Contest

[Emily]

April has arrived at last, and with it, a new challenge

This month, I'd like a piece of flash fiction, no more than 500 words, something a bit dark.


The entry with the most votes on the 30th of April, 2023, will be the winner of an extraordinary hand-crafted (!!) virtual trophy. And, more importantly: some of our very prized, and internationally-renowned, virtual Litopi-cake.


***NOTE!***
A thumbs up/like = 1 vote
"heart-eyes" and a "laughing face" emoji vote = 2 VOTES.



The competition is open to all members. Feel free to enter more than once.


-The main rules here are:

We ask you not to critique

AND

Please make your entry anonymous by clicking the anonymous button, but if you forget, don't worry, that's okay too. (Note: Guardians can see who posts.)


Best of luck!

 

[Anonymous]

How did I finish up sharing a tent with Veronica? She’d done nothing but whine in that high-pitched fake voice of hers since we arrived.

I suspect everyone else had a better idea of what she was like – I only knew her as Ollie’s rather flashy girlfriend – so steered well clear. And she’d ‘bagged’ what she thought of as the more comfortable, flatter square of ground on which we’d now pitched the tent, leaving me with a section that seemed studded with small rocks.

And we were both bone-chillingly damp. Not quite soaked through, but wet enough to be very cold and very uncomfortable. The only thing we’d agreed on, probably the only one we would ever see eye to eye about, was how much we wished the boys were here, too. Instead of ‘working on an urgent term paper’ (Greg) and in hospital in Aspen after a ski collision with a badly-behaved tree (Ollie).

Veronica and I had co-operated to the extent that we had managed to take down and re-pitch the tent when we'd realised that once the rain started water had begun running in a small torrent right under and through it. The great spot with the lovely view was quickly revealed as the Tent Site From Hell.

We’d been forced to move closer to the dismal ruin and further from where the others were pitched. The derelict house was far from welcoming, but the ground around it was good and flat. We’d thought we might shelter under a corner of the remaining roof, but only till we’d seen the wreckage of the gutters was funnelling a stream of rainwater right where we would have wanted to go.

At least Veronica’s ‘knock-‘em-dead at five yards’ designer perfume was fading in my nostrils now we’d settled in our sleeping bags, replaced with a strong mustiness and a hint of trampled grass.

Then there was something else, something wrong... stale sweat.

That wasn’t Veronica. I was just assessing whether it could be me – surely not! – when the noises began. Just outside the tent, heavy, dragging footsteps.

I reached across to Veronica, hoping for comfort. A small hand closed around my fingers. Jesus, she was cold, and designer bony. Those long, acrylic nails! Digging right into me.

“Could you not hold my hand so tight, Veronica?”

“You’re so stupid, Janine!” I opened my eyes and turned towards the voice. Suddenly, came the flash of the light on her mobile, shining on her face.

“Look, I’m over here. HOW COULD I BE HOLDING YOUR HAND?’

 

[Anonymous]

“Hey there Litopians....”

Eh? Who said that?

I’m alone in the kitchen, about to make coffee (I’m alone in the house in fact), and yet …

I turn around. Slowly. There’s nobody here, but … I’m sure I heard a voice; a female voice ...

I listen.

Nothing.

Oh, well, I must have imagined it.

Coffee granules. Two spoons; I might as well be awake while I’m alone. I add three sugars and pour hot water. Damn, no biscuits left.

“Hey, Litopian."

Shit. What …?

"I'm so lonely, entry-less and feeling like a Flash Club dud. Please give me some love and attention!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! … In grateful hope, April Flash Club XOXO”

Again. The voice. Definitely female. Irish accent. I KNEW I heard something, and she said she’s lonely. Where .... why …?

“Steven?”

She knows my name.

I listen again.

Nothing. Again.

I shake it from my mind. No, there’s nobody in the house. I must have imagined it.

Back to my coffee. I add milk.

“The flash club thread has become sentient.” Now another voice. This time the voice is male and blue (who said voices can’t be blue). “Take that, ChatGPT!”

What the …? It’s coming from the study. I run to the study, but nobody is here. How come? I’m sure I heard two voices. Is someone hiding under the desk?

Nope.

Behind me?

Nope.

“Steeeeeve.” The laptop flickers, but I haven’t turned it on yet.

A website pops up on the screen. At the top of the site, a blue ribbon, white writing. It reads: Litopia. Underneath: Writers Need Writers.

Do they? I didn’t know that. I sign up. I’m a writer.

The little envelop in the top right corner tells me I have a message.

I click on it. A message opens. The message reads:

Hey there, Steven. How nice to see you. I am the Flash Club and I want love and attention!

She sounds needy.

I’ll answer. That’ll make her feel better.

Sorry to hear you’ve been lonely. Anything I can do?

I click ‘post’. An answer comes back straight away.

Write an entry for this month’s Flash Club. It’ll make me feel looooooooooooved.

Sounds easy enough. Anything for a cute Irish.

Sure, I type back. What do you want me to write about? Something romantic?

I click the ‘post’ button again.

Three hours go by during which I make four coffees, answer five emails and do a chest workout. Then her response ... Oh, and I also watered the plants.

No. You must write something dark. 500 words long. But I must warn you, it’d better be good.

Great, first she’s needy, now she’s fussy.

Don’t worry, Sweetcakes, I’ll write something grand. BTW what’s up for grabs? The prize, I mean.

No response.

I sip my coffee. I wait. I’m not doing this for nothing.

Then her answer:

Nothing. You get nothing.

Then why should I bother?

Because the Blue are coming, and if you don’t do this, they will kill you.

 

[Bloo]

I did not write this, but I wish I had

 

[Anonymous]

469 words



Charon Calling

My vision clears and now we see it coming. Me and the others; the anxious milling dead. The boat with the square black sails, looming through the mist of last breaths. No crew in sight. Only that dark forbidding figure at the helm as the boat comes gliding in to the jetty, smoothly, impossibly silent.

It moors- no hands on deck and then – how did he do that? - you never saw him disembark, he's right there on the quay sizing up the queue.

Charon the Ferryman, the son of Nyx and Erebus, the son of Night and Shadow.

No chatting in this queue, and no pushing in as he glides along the line, and one by one the dead poke out their tongues, displaying their pennies for the crossing. Charon has a mean reputation. Harsh. Even cruel. But the nod is courteous, moving along until he stops in front of a baby bundled on a woman’s arm. Tickles it under the chin. The baby crows- well, I wasn’t expecting that- and he turns to the mother as if to say, ‘OK, the baby’s got the fare. What about you?’

She sticks out her own tongue, displays the penny for her own crossing. Another courteous inclination of the shadowed head, and he gliding on down the line. The mother's barely more than a girl. A dark girl. So young and thin. But now she is smiling, holding the swaddled head against her cheek, humming as she rocks the baby, some sweet little faraway tune. Happy they are crossing together.


Who put the coin under her tongue, the baby’s tongue? A broken man, the baby’s father? The last thing he could do for them, his love, his child- making sure they would land safely together on the farthest shore? Or the girl's parents, her mother bending to kiss the pale dead faces, her father grimly standing sentry duty, remembering all the things they had hoped for their daughter when she was born? Only for this.

But what if she didn’t have the penny, or the baby didn’t? What then? Would the Ferryman really separate them for eternity?

Why wouldn’t he just jab his thumb-bone, looking the other way, gesturing the penniless ones aboard, and take them as catch-weight? Why wouldn’t he just do that? Who is going to argue with the Ferryman? But he wasn’t known for bending the rules. F*cking jobsworth. I used to wonder who wrote the rules, anyway, and what he did with all those pennies.

He wouldn’t really have left them behind, would he? That girl and her baby? He wouldn't leave behind a frightened little boy? He'd never just abandon my little brother?

We never even found his body.

How do I pay?

Where do I find the penny?

 

[Anonymous]

Remember, don't forget to lock the back door before you go to bed.
John had to remind himself of chores his wife had set him. Sometimes, he forgot to do them once he started gaming and they'd remain undone until it got round to 1am. Then he was too tired.
"I should probably put the dishwasher on too," he grumbled.
Sue had gone out of town for a few days. Her father had died several weeks ago and it was up to her to sort out his estate. She had brothers but they were... Well, she'd compared their usefulness to a chocolate teapot.
Don't forget to lock the front door.
"Yes, and put the bins out," sighed John. Seriously, how could a man on his own for three days use up so much crockery?

He turned off his xbox and went into the kitchen to lock the back door. He glanced at the washing up and the overflowing bin.
"It'll keep till morning."
Dont forget to switch off the lights.
John switched off the kitchen lights and went upstairs. The bathroom light was still on from his shower earlier.
He brushed his teeth and went into the bedroom.
The lights, John.
He sighed and went back to the bathroom. He switched off the light.
A cold shiver ran down his spine.
Excellent. Now, i can show you exactly what I think of my daughter's supposed husband.

 

[Anonymous]

A monster was born to my mother. A lovechild. I killed him. With my wits, a skein of thread and a foreign hero. Why, you ask?
My half-brother was conceived as a curse. I only knew him from whispers behind beringed hands. A glimpse of obscene graffiti dripping blood. I was 7 when I saw the Labyrinth's door bolted behind the young Athenian strangers. Surrounded by immortals I did not guess their fate. Not then. No cry or bellow ever escaped those tunnels beneath the palace. The first time 14 teenagers arrived to be feasted at dinner and then be the feast of the Minotaur I danced with joy.
It was that same year a nightmare woke me. Distant noises drifted into my nursery window. Curious, I stole past palace guards, nurses, watchdogs as if a shining thread led me to the beach. The moon lit the silhouette of a broken ship. Its wrecked sails writhed like the wings of a dying Roc. The final shouts of dying men had pulled me from sleep.
A boy clung to the broken mast calling,"Mama! Don't let me die..." As if not the gods on Olympus, but only she who had rocked him to sleep could save him. The water roiled as silent leviathans moved beneath the waves. Soon he'd join shipmates already ferrying across the rank Styx. My destiny was spun that night.
Seven years later Athenian ships arrived draped in mourning. As my kingly father welcomed Prince Theseus, black sails flapped crookedly above them.
At the sight a long-ago shriek echoed in my ears. Like a blow it came to me these strangers were fodder for the hungry secret beneath the palace. Athens lost a war to Crete. Its children were forfeit. I was no love-sick Medea. My thoughts were treason. At that moment I hated my tyrant father, my invincible mother, my bloodthirsty country.
Kohl-eyed Theseus smiled down at me as he passed, sure he could not lose any fight. But I knew he had no chance in the Labyrinth. Dung mixed with undigested broken bones fertilised Crete's vegetable gardens.
It was that moment I swore this handsome stranger wouldn't be torn apart, eaten by a monster while still alive. Not like that other boy. That summer night when under eternal stars I learned what death was.

 

[Anonymous]

They say that only the good die young, and on balance, the young dude was one of the good ones. He went straight to heaven.

“Welcome,” Saint Peter enthused in a fatherly manner.

He was allocated a harp and briefed about the conventions and regulations of the kingdom of heaven.

“The important rule is that you must always keep your harp with you,” Saint Peter intoned. “No musical limitations, but it must never leave your possession. Your very soul depends on it.”

“I understand,” the young dude acquiesced.

Saint Peter said grandly, “Let it be so.”

He quickly settled into his new home. Having a natural flair, he soon became adept with the instrument. His rendition of Led Zeppelin’s, ‘Whole Lotta Love’ was a highlight of the musical calendar. He was very charismatic and young female angels flocked to his side. Everybody loved him.

After a span of aeons, Saint Peter returned with an amazing annunciation. “You are the most popular young man in heaven. I have a treat to bestow.”

“Wow!” the young dude expostulated as he leapt in the ether, punching his fist triumphantly into the exosphere.

“You may take your past human form,” Saint Peter continued, “and revisit Earth for one night only. Where would you like to go?”

“Cosmicology,” the awe-struck reply. “Let me think… I’d like to go to a disco.”

Saint Peter spoke gravely. “There are lurking demons: denizens from Hades beyond the realisation of men and angels. Be on high alert or they will seduce you and steal your harp. If you lose it, you will be denied re-entry to heaven and condemned to the torment of hell.”

“Thanks for the warning, big Pete. I’ll be on my guard. No freakin’ denizen from Hades will get my harp off me.”

Saint Peter said grandly, “Let it be so.”

In a flash, the young dude was back on Earth in a contemporary disco. His harp was strapped to his back as he rocked to the beat, chatted to the girls, enjoyed the craic with the bad boys and tried to drink the bar dry. He was conscious of Saint Peter’s dire words, but nothing untoward happened… then a shapely blond caught his eye. He girded his loins and hoisted his harp as she strode to his side.

“Hey, dude?” she enquired.

“Hey, babe!” he replied.

Furtive exchanges… hurried exit… cheap hotel… cries of ecstasy… snores of contentment.

He awoke with a start... the afterglow of passion gone. Glancing around the room… the blond had left. He arose and quickly dressed. Reaching for his harp, he froze as the realisation hit him… it was gone!

Exiting the room… hurtling the corridor… hurdling the stairs… confronting the desk clerk.

“The shapely blond… did you see her leave?”

“No sir. No one has left the hotel tonight.”

“Please check the register. What was her name?”

Maniacal laughter rang in his ears and icy darkness clasped his soul as he heard the reply… “Lucy Farr.”

 

[Anonymous]

April Dark as Daffodils
Her cheeks so wet gave me no thrills
A pretty girl in
The yellow dress of death



After cherries bloom and apples send water shoots toward the sky, the bulbs come next. Brilliant daffodils and hyacinth. And thorny fingers of rose rise to the sky, but will not bloom for weeks. Yet, melting snow soaks the ground, and the garden is mud under his clogs. And he is weak.

“It’s the virus. It’s not me. I’ll recover. I’ll thrive, and the virus will die.”

The mud remained silent. Gray clouds chilled him with life-giving spring rain. Bulbs need separating and replanting, but roses need pruning just above clusters of five leaves to keep the blossoms coming.

“Dad! You’re getting soaked. Come in and warm up. The plants can wait.” The husky voice of a sensible daughter, all grown up and raising her army of his genetic material.

He coughed and spat blood onto bare earth. He would defile neither blossom nor leaf. “Coming!”



In the kitchen by the fire, the girl lay in her bed, the bed he had carried downstairs from the children's room after she fell ill and the virus took her father.

“My name is April, and I want my yellow dress.”

Her mother, his daughter, sat by the bed. “It’s a sundress, and April is a month for sweaters and warm coats.”

“My name is April, and I want my yellow dress.” She glared at the olive green blankets covering her. “I’m a daffodil. This is my time to bloom.”

A moment later, she coughed, and with the blood came her life. His daughter shrieked. He collapsed. Not the virus, but the grief. Dead from it all.

 

[Emily]

Congratulations @mickleinapickle (HERE) and @Katie-Ellen (HERE) for your well deserved joint April Flash Club win

 

[Barbara]

May I ask who wrote which? Both are fab entries.

 

[Emily]

If you click on the highlighted text above, it should take you to the entry (that was my intention anyway!!!!)

 

[Barbara]

Ah, dimwit me. You'd think I'd know by know how this works.

 

[mickleinapickle]

Congratulations @mickleinapickle (HERE) and @Katie-Ellen (HERE) for your well deserved joint April Flash Club win

Blimey! Thanks to everyone who voted. I enjoyed taking part and reading all the entries. Can't wait for the next challenge.

 

[Pamela Jo]

Congrats to both. They were both so well done.