Flash Club December Flash Club 2020

[Barbara]

Hello All,

I hope everyone is well and writing.

December's Flash Club is now open, and we have a festive prompt.

To participate, use the writing prompt as well as the word limit given to write a piece of flash fiction, then post below to make your entry. Please make your entry anonymous by clicking the anonymous button, but if you forget, don't worry. (Note: only Guardians can see who posts.) So take a risk and try something new.

To make the Flash Club the special place it is, we 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.

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.

And please keep to the word count. Writing to a specific brief is good practice. I'll be strict be strict

when it comes to word count. Those entries which go over the set limit won't be in the running for the top spot. They will be left up, but they can't win. You don't have to use up the full limit. If you want to say something in only 10 words, that's perfectly fine.

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

This month's wordcount is: 350

Here is this your prompt:

She pushed the bowl of muesli to the side untouched, and placed the advent calendar on the placemat in front of her. Her dad had given her the calendar on 30th of November, the day of his departure. 'Each day, when you open a door, know that you're one day closer to the day I come home. When you open number twenty four, I'll be home.' Today was day thirteen. Adults and their stupid jobs. She stared at door thirteen, still closed, a promise lying behind it, and wiped a lonely tear from her cheek. December hadn't been great so far. No snow yet. Her brother annoyed her; stupid bike. Mum annoyed her; stupid curtains. Everyone else acted like turkeys running around the farm knowing it's Christmas. Only her, as well as Tiddles-Cat, seemed to have any kind of logical sense in this house. She sighed. Maybe the chocolate inside would sweeten the morning. It had to by default. It contained sugar. She pierced open the cardboard door number thirteen, but what happened next, she could never have imagined .....

Happy December.

 

[Anonymous]

There was a screen where Jo’s chocolate should have been. It flickered into life and then she was looking at an alpine scene. As the image zoomed in on a log cabin, she felt herself being pulled in with it, the scenery becoming three dimensional, until it was all around her and it was everything.

She was sucked, down the chimney, into the cabin. Dad was there too, coming out of the kitchen with two glasses of orange stuff.

‘Dad!’ Jo said, but he didn’t respond. In fact, his shoulder went right through her, as if she was a ghost.

‘Darling?’ somebody said.

‘Yes, Sweetums?’ Jo’s dad said.

“Sweetums?!” Jo though.

A woman came out of the bedroom wearing a delicate, lacey thing that Jo thought was immaterial.

The woman wrapped her arms, and one of her legs around Jo’s dad.

He handed her a glass of buck’s fizz. ‘Merry Christmas, my love,’ he said.

The woman downed it in one, and handed the glass back to Dad. ‘Thanks. Shame it’s not actually Christmas, though, isn’t it?’

Jo’s dad pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Not this again. It’ll be different next year, if we follow the plan. I’ll serve her with the papers in the new year, but if anybody gets wind of us, you can forget you’re champagne, your skiing, and your Mercedes Sl.’

‘And then we’ll be free?’ the woman said.

‘Yes; of all it’ Jo’s dad said.

‘What about your kids?’

He shrugged. ‘We can have them at Easter.’

Somebody was calling Jo, Jo, Jo. She felt the sting of the back her mother’s hand on her cheek, and she was wretched back to the breakfast bar in Ashby-de-la-Zouch.

‘Are you alright, my love?’ her mother said.

‘Just daydreaming,’ Jo said.

‘How much of that orange juice have you had?’

‘I don’t know. A mouthful?’

‘And you feel okay?’

Jo shrugged. ‘Yeah. Why?’

Jo’s mum swapped her glass of juice with her daughter’s. ‘No worries. I accidently gave you mine with mummy’s vitamins in it. I’ll be having a rest for an hour or so.’