Flash Club August Flash Club 2020

[Barbara]

Hi All,

Welcome to the August Flash Club.

This month we have two changes.

First change: Your entry will be anonymous. So take a risk and try something new.

To participate, use the writing prompt as well as the word limit given to write a piece of flash fiction, then either post below, or click here to make your entry.

We still need your votes. You can vote by clicking 'like' or 'love'. If a piece grabs you, please hit the 'like' button. If a piece sweeps you off your seat, please hit 'love'. At the end of the month, I will count up the votes. In a tie, 'Love' will trump 'like'. The entry with the most votes will be the winner. Please don't vote for your own. The Flash Club isn't about about winning. It's about trying something new. It's about grabbing readers with words, and gaging the response. Self-votes don't show if the writing works for the reader.

Second change this month: The most generous voter will get a mention. At the end of the month I will announce the most supportive Flash Voter who will get a special shout-out. The prize? Kudos. And please don't just hit every entry to ensure a win. That's not helping the author. The voting is designed to help writers gage the effects of their work.

The competition is open to all members. Feel free to enter more than one. The only rule here: we ask you not to critique.

Here is this month's prompt.

Prompt:




Word Count: 200

That's it. Any questions, PM me.

See you next month.

Barbara

 

[Litopian]

A Pain'tin for Gran

Says I, Me gran used t’paint but he says nawh’hin, only did a kinda grunt, y’know, like when yer in the middle o’sometin and y’make d’noise – well, dat’s wha’ he did. I knew I shud shurrup buh I cuh’hent so I says, She used d’same blue, so she did. An then he says, Can ya stop swingin yer legs, ye’ll knock me hat off.

Yeah! A-course I stopped! An so I told ‘im how you an Gran had comed here ev’ry year, but now Gran was in d’home for aul wans, an I says, Hey, mister, I was wonderin’ if I could buy dat pain’tin cos I’d like ’er to have sometin she knowed on ’er walls, y’know like?

An he says, I don’t tink so, young man, now piss off.

So anyways. I was standin’ aside d‘icecream van a while lay’her, an dere he was, off talkin’ to anodder wanker, so I just, y’know, nipped over. Only meant t’have a look, like, and, well… here i’tis. D’ya tink she’ll like it?

 

[Litopian]

Bella Blue

He paints as the shadows creep, and with them come the memories. This place, that day, and her. He'd never thought a girl like her would take him on, the girl in the bright blue dress; a cobalt summer blue, as hot a blue as cool could get. The blue he conjures every time he wears this shirt, every time he paints.

She stood behind him, watching as he worked

'Picasso?' she said, arching her eyebrows, a mischievous smile, a slim brown arm and a swish of the skirt.

He looked up, smiled, 'I hardly think so'.

'Great artist,' she said, 'but such an asshole'.

He paused, 'now you mention it, I'm not sure I can think of any artist who wasn't some kind of an asshole. The really great ones, I mean', he said and felt his face grown hot. Maybe she was letting him know she thought he was an asshole?

'Maybe it's the price of any very great talent,' he said.

'You've got talent,' she said, 'But you don't look like an asshole. Do you paint people too?'

I never did before he thought to himself but now I do.

The odd commission he said cautiously.

'Paint me one day?' she said, half teasing but maybe she was serious. He wasn't sure.

'I 'd love to,' he said, 'on condition you'll wear that dress.'

Later he painted her, wearing the dress.The second time, not wearing the dress. The third time, not wearing anything. The tenth time he had his Muse, his lady, his Bella Blue and he wanted none other.

But one day they took her away again, the jealous gods, and ripped holes in her canvas, leaching her out till she was thin as a brush and paler than paper. But still, he tells himself, he has those gods to thank for those twenty years together. And now everywhere he paints, whatever he paints, he wears the blue shirt he bought after she died, matched exactly to that old dress hanging in the closet.

Blue for his lovely, laughing Bella Blue. Blue for a broken heart, and the promise of the wide blue yonder.

 

[Litopian]

The Shapes of Life

Round is the hat that shades you from the sun, round the eyes with which you gauge your work. Round the wells into which you dip your brush. Round, the moon that sends the lapping tide.

Straight is the wall that presses against your back. Straight, the unyielding boundaries of your canvas. Straight the cobblestones—row on row—straight the tracks on which your easel stands. Straight, the brush with which you make your strokes. Straight, the bars the sun lays on your crown.

Curved are the fingers with which you hold your brush, curved your wrist and the movement of your arm. Curved, the ripples in your pastel sea. Curved, the trailing strands of horsehair that describe them.

These glorious sweeps and angles, these forms by which all vision is defined, these elements of creativity and chance—once harnessed, bring a static scene to life.

 

[Litopian]

Living in the past

He always painted the same place. Different angles and times of day but still the same place.

‘Why?’ I asked him.

‘Because it’s all my brushes will do.’

‘But it makes you sad. Why not paint what’s here?’

‘You can’t understand. Anyway, it sells.’

‘Places people might recognise would sell better. Then we could maybe…’ my voice trailed away.

‘This is how I remember it, before the bombing started, before our world went mad. This is how I capture her.’

‘We could go back, look for her.’ I regretted the words when I saw the pain crease his face.

‘We can never go back. I promised.’

‘But I didn’t.’

‘You know it was what she wanted. You read her letter.’

‘I’ve read it every day since I was able to, but I still don’t understand why she couldn’t come with us, how she could give me up.’

‘I’ve told you before. It was her country, her fight. All she could do was give you the freedom to live your life.’

But this isn’t living, I thought. Stuck with a father who does nothing but paint pictures of another country, another life, looking at everything with faraway eyes, even me.

 

[Litopian]

His Mind's Eye

Air Marshall Arthur Edwards stands at the strand and paints sandcastles by rote.

“Where are we today?” His nurse peers at the familiar shape on the canvas. Her name is Belle, and she has never travelled outside the Shire.

“Mont Saint-Michel at the turn of the tide.”

“Ooh, you’ve seen so many places!”

“More than I can paint,” confirms Arthur, his eyes cloudy with so much seeing.

The following day, they visit the Alamo. Two deft strokes plant a cross atop a turret while Belle claps and declares, “John Wayne’s finest moment.”

“The Great Pyramid, you say?” she exclaims one sunny afternoon, as gulls pluck plump mullet from the shallows and families play on the shore before them. “Tell me again about the camels.”

“With pleasure, and tomorrow I’ll take you to Conwy Castle.” But the rain comes early that day, and the sandcastle dissolves onto the tough buffalo grass beneath the easel before it is complete.

“Another time,” suggests Belle, shaking open an umbrella, “when it’s not so wet, you might show me the Belvedere. Until then, shall we retire for tea?”

Arthur nods, looks to the sky, and with Belle’s help finds his way back to the Home.

 

[Litopian]

Paint by number

He brushed his fingers against the thistle of the brush. Instead of bending back softly, they sprang up hard and unyielding.

Of course. They had given him natural brushes, instead of synthetic.

"Target is about to move."

The radio crackled at the edge his concentration. This was where it could all fall apart.

"Jackpot has two heavies. Twin Thompson submachines. Things might get kinetic."

It was time to put the second coat on. He had sat at this spot for endless weeks. At first the agency had wanted to give him an already completed canvass. But he knew better. First, listlessly, then with more and more interest, he had taken to painting, as the the person he was supposed to kill continued to not appear. Those blues...why hadn't he brought the egg tempura?!

"Gambler! Get ready to execute!"

He sighed. If he only had more time. Shaking his head, he put a hand under his shirt, and felt the pistol grip.

Oh well. He sighed again, aiming the barrel from underneath his shirt.

He didn't even get to apply the lowlight...

 

[Litopian]

Still Life

I’m a man’s man! I conquer, vanquish, dominate, and possess whatever I desire. I’m rich enough not to care twice and given money merely to exist. The corporate world has bowed to my wishes and my enemies are now obsequious minions or irrelevant. I played basketball, football, polo, judo, box, chess, and Julius Caesar. One accolade for each would’ve been too little, I’ve gained several!

I have the perfect wife who gave birth to my perfect children. Oh! And dozens of women under my belt; accomplished, younger, modern, bored, older, happy, shy—all beautiful! Putty in my firm hands. Even some men I’ve taken to bed, a change of taste when bored. Me on top, of course, because I’m a man’s man!

I was living the perfect life … except that now… the lighting is not right, and the window is crooked. Is that a shadow? The brushstrokes are bold, but they don’t work.

It was to be just one more victory, something to impress a lesser man or a woman, and it has been a decade. Every day I sit here, exposed, with a cheap straw hat that’s getting older. I keep going, but I can’t control the painting…

 

[Litopian]

Interrupted

He sits.
Brush poised in fingered motionless, he waits.
A lonely figure walks onto his stage; he starts to draw.
He paints; colours cry emotions in his hands,
creating swirling moods in every shade;
speak artist's eyes; strokes brushing in his veins

He stops.
He drops his brush.
He never finishes

 

[Litopian]

A Work of Art

Damn. Two hundred words. How can I enter the competition?

Everyone knows a picture tells a thousand words. I’d be disqualified with one brush stroke. My choice of palette, brush, how I hold and sweep it across the paper, or canvas, conveys so much. More than a single word in a book ever can.

Some famous decent artist used to say ‘Can you tell what it is yet?’ before his indecent infamy. Maybe you can from my first sweeping arc – a hint of a seascape adventure, a whiff of a vase of flowers, a portrait – a prologue, if not the whole story.

But one word?

Please.

What does one word say?

Don’t get me started.

Which is the problem I’ve got with writing. Two hours to write the first sentence. Two days the first paragraph. Two months the first page. And the rest.

It’s why I love watercolour. Wash on water, drop any colour and … splash! The spreading paint suggests a story. You have yourself a work of art.

Only trouble is, a picture tells a thousand words. So I won’t get any book deal. But I can do the covers and you know that they say about those.