Flash Club December Flash Club Contest

[Emily]

Happy December

Thank you @RG Worsey for the inspiration for December's Flash Club contest. It's a toughie!!!!

This month, let me introduce The Drabble (dun-dun duuuuuunnnnn)

• The THEME is seasonal: winter/Christmas/holidays

The Rules:

• Drabbles should be precisely 100 words. (Because I so liked @RG Worsey ‘s explanation, I have to repeat her words verbatim here: "Basically, anyone who doesn't write EXACTLY 100 words (not including title) is DISQUALIFIED and THROWN OUT ON THEIR SORRY ARSE, so it's an exercise in precision." Couldn't have articulated it more clearly myself!)
• Word counts vary depending on the word processing program you use. Hand count if you’re unsure. The sticking points seem to be hyphens, dashes, and ellipses. In order to achieve and true word count, we’ll follow these guidelines:
• Hyphens (-): words that are typically hyphenated, such as mind-bender or t-shirt, will count as one word. when hyphens are used to connect a string of words, such as the-best-thing-in-the-world, each word will be counted separately.
• Dashes, such as an m dash (—): these need to be connected to one— and only one— of the words they sit between and there should be a space on the other side (see what I did there?). If the m dash is connected to both words, some programs will count only one word. If the m dash isn’t connected to either word, it will be counted as its own separate word.
• Ellipses (…): These work the same way that m dashes do. Connect them to one of the words that they separate, and your word count should be fine.

Make sense?

Easy?

Of course not! Can you hear me chuckle with a festive flavour from this wee, damp bit of sod in the middle of the Atlantic? Ho ho ho.

VOTING:
The entry with the most votes on the 31st December 2021 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.


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

-The main rule here: we ask you not to critique.

Good luck!!​

 

[J Babo]

Quick question. In English contractions become only 1 word, right?

As in: 'It Is' - 2 words ; 'It's - 1 word'

This sounds like fun.

Cheers

 

[RK Wallis]

Basically, anyone who doesn't write EXACTLY 100 words (not including title) is DISQUALIFIED and THROWN OUT ON THEIR SORRY ARSE, so it's an exercise in precision."

Sounds a fun idea @RG Worsey

 

[Dorm Ant]

Quick question. In English contractions become only 1 word, right?

As in: 'It Is' - 2 words ; 'It's - 1 word'

This sounds like fun.

Cheers

Yes. Also, some words can either be correctly written as one or two words, so it would depend on how the writer chooses to do it (e.g. lamppost or lamp post.) Some words can be written with a hyphen in common usage, even if the dictionary doesn't like it (e.g. step-dad instead of stepdad) and they still count as one word. If you decide to write step dad, to get an extra word in, that's OK, though blatant splitting of words in non-standard ways, to get extras in, is scowled at. e.g. news paper head line instead of newspaper headline.

I am not the adjudicator, though, so won't be policing anything! I suggest that if someone isn't sure, they flag this up at the end of their piece, to make it clear that they aren't cheating? Then they have the right to re-post if necessary.

 

[Julie]

Prose and poetry entries allowed?

 

[Emily]

I would prefer not to police either, so I'm **trusting** everyone will do the best they can (wooden spoon at the ready, lol)

Yes, absolutely to poetry and prose

I'm really looking forward to seeing the entries to this

 

[Anonymous]

Listen! The point is that Eben was dead, now, in the present. It doesn’t matter that he was reclining on a Caribbean beach with a cocktail in hand, holding it high in greeting to the pretty passing girls, lasciviously imagining his future. This is not usual behaviour for one who is dead. But I assure you he was; as dead as winter ground under hard trodden snow.

He Zoomed her and the kids.

“Merry Christmas!” he cried.

They looked back at him with eyes that in the past had been warmer.

He was dead. And no spirits would save him.

 

[Katie-Ellen]

Happy December

Thank you @RG Worsey for the inspiration for December's Flash Club contest. It's a toughie!!!!

This month, let me introduce The Drabble (dun-dun duuuuuunnnnn)

• The THEME is seasonal: winter/Christmas/holidays

The Rules:

• Drabbles should be precisely 100 words. (Because I so liked @RG Worsey ‘s explanation, I have to repeat her words verbatim here: "Basically, anyone who doesn't write EXACTLY 100 words (not including title) is DISQUALIFIED and THROWN OUT ON THEIR SORRY ARSE, so it's an exercise in precision." Couldn't have articulated it more clearly myself!)
• Word counts vary depending on the word processing program you use. Hand count if you’re unsure. The sticking points seem to be hyphens, dashes, and ellipses. In order to achieve and true word count, we’ll follow these guidelines:
• Hyphens (-): words that are typically hyphenated, such as mind-bender or t-shirt, will count as one word. when hyphens are used to connect a string of words, such as the-best-thing-in-the-world, each word will be counted separately.
• Dashes, such as an m dash (—): these need to be connected to one— and only one— of the words they sit between and there should be a space on the other side (see what I did there?). If the m dash is connected to both words, some programs will count only one word. If the m dash isn’t connected to either word, it will be counted as its own separate word.
• Ellipses (…): These work the same way that m dashes do. Connect them to one of the words that they separate, and your word count should be fine.

Make sense?

Easy?

Of course not! Can you hear me chuckle with a festive flavour from this wee, damp bit of sod in the middle of the Atlantic? Ho ho ho.

VOTING:
The entry with the most votes on the 31st December 2021 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.


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

-The main rule here: we ask you not to critique.

Good luck!!​

"Thrown out on their sorry arse." Oo-err. Well rules are rules, says someone who just once in -how many years- broke one, with one word too many, entirely inadvertently, but...well, all joking aside, is this not a teensy departure from our usual easygoing civility

 

[Dorm Ant]

"Thrown out on their sorry arse." Oo-err. Well rules are rules, says someone who just once in -how many years- broke one, with one word too many, entirely inadvertently, but...well, all joking aside, is this not a teensy departure from our usual easygoing civility

It's just a wooden spoon thing. Playfully harmless.

 

[Emily]

"Thrown out on their sorry arse." Oo-err. Well rules are rules, says someone who just once in -how many years- broke one, with one word too many, entirely inadvertently, but...well, all joking aside, is this not a teensy departure from our usual easygoing civility

Ah, I was hoping it would be taken in jest It was a bit of a continuation of my threatening the wooden spoon!! But I can remove it if it offends

 

[Anonymous]

The Magic Of…

"It's not real. Shantel's big brother said. Your parents buy the presents. Father Christmas is your parents."

"I know. I'm not stupid."

But on Christmas Eve, when he woke up in the dark, curled in the ancient nylon sleeping bag, on the camp bed between Dad in the single and uncle Zak on the lilo, when he wriggled over his pillow and pressed his ear to the chimney breast, when he held his breath and screwed up his eyes, he heard scraping and a thump in the front room below.
And bells jingled softly as he drifted back to sleep.

 

[Julie]

Ah, I was hoping it would be taken in jest It was a bit of a continuation of my threatening the wooden spoon!! But I can remove it if it offends

It makes me smile - it's a bit of role-playing pantomime

 

[Anonymous]

The Naughty List


Arthur set a plate of shortbread cookies on the knee-height, oval table in front of the tatty Christmas tree, next to the tumbler of milk. His younger sister, Kellie, placed a carrot beside the plate.

“Ma, do we have to go to bed?” he asked. “Pleeease…”

She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Santa won’t come unless you sleep.”

He hung his head. Why do I bother? Of course, she’d smother our curiosity.

“But...“ Kellie faltered.

“-we wanted to see if you'd wallop him for leaving crumbs,” Arthur mumbled. “That’d be cool to see.” …because you top the naughty list.

 

[Anonymous]

Winter Memories

It was Christmas Eve 1940 when he gave me the ring. He went down on one knee and everything, right there in the radio room in front of all the other girls. I blushed so scarlet, you could have fried an egg!

The girls were utterly silent. I couldn’t even hear them breathe. And then he asked me, in his thick Polish English.

“Betty? You will marry me?”

There was an air raid that night, of course, and he went up.

I say a little prayer, every Christmas, and think what could have been.

He was such a beautiful man.

 

[Anonymous]

Christmas Dinner

Been cooking four hours already. Spuds peeled, steamed, roasted. Carrots boiled. Parsnips glazed. Sprouts prepped. Stuffing balled. Gravy made fresh from stock, not granules.

Meanwhile, they all just sit and stare at the telly, oblivious to my efforts.

I’ll have to carry it all into the dining room as usual and lay the table. Serve. Tidy up.

Daisy has everything cut up small. Jane wants her parsnips pureed. No salt for Adam.

I’d rather spend Christmas Day here at the care home, though. I’ve no family; all my colleagues have kids. The residents and me, we’re alone in this, together.

 

[Anonymous]

A pirate Christmas

Be quick Josie, said her mum, we don’t have time.

Josie looked out at the cold, dark sky. I just wish, she said. I wish that for once, he would, you know. . .

No I don’t know. And I don’t know what you’re thinking, a grown woman like you still thinking all that stuff. You know it’s made up don’t you? He’s not real. A kiddie fantasy.

I just. . . wish he would. . .

What. . .?

Leave me.

Leave you what? A tangerine?

Just leave me.

Above them Santa laughed, as Pirate slid from the bedroom.

 

[Anonymous]

Night Flight To Christmas


Cicadas chirping in the darkness. A sweet summer scent of jasmine.

Sparks of starlight land on the bronzed backs of Christmas beetles crawling across the sand.

I stroll soulfully along the midnight shore, waves sighing and sucking at my unshod feet.

Black velvet ocean ripples towards the southern cross. Upon it, ghostly streaks of sea foam.

I am alone.

Turning my ear, I catch the balmy breeze. Do I hear bells?

In the east, a brilliant star is rising.

I close my eyes. And imagine Santa, on his endless night of circling the globe, with Christmas dawning at his heels.

 

[Anonymous]

Christmas Island

Deep within a fragile rainforest, on an island lost at sea, a lone fruit bat folds wings over her furred belly and begins to give birth.

Below her roost prowls a robber crab. An armoured menace stripping the island of resources only the pollinators, such as our endangered bat, can preserve.

Wildly twitching antennae smell easy prey; grotesque claws grip bark, and the crab begins to climb.

By chance, a passing army of tramp ants engulfs the crab. Formic acid smarts the air as one scourge annihilates another.

While high above, safe for now, a tiny life enters the world.

 

[Anonymous]

Hidden in December

December, a red ember in the dark
where I did dree the loss of you.

I remember us sat close upon the berm;
bree to brow. Malt beer on lips. Kiss.
Giving each the other due meed.
Rec as white flakes fall;
thick mallow on the silent scape.

Bee sleeps.
Deer ghosts
white horizon.

Cattle stomp, breed
monumental of horn.
Boof! Recede.

Buzzard’s cere steams upon
the mouse, taloned.
Embed, scuttling snow.

Swan and life-mate cede
the frosted reed and brede
the mere with sparkling ripples.

Decree Solstice light
redeem me
in the purity of snow.
Turn memories into ash.

 

[Pamela Jo]

Peace on Earth

Christmas Eve 1949. Every night the policeman met the 23:45 train. When he saw the mother and child step down their faces reminded him of many he'd given rations to, or thrown into graves in Normandy. The 82nd's New Yorkers had called him Cowboy. A nostalgia for war's simplicity hit him like a cigarette craving. She told him they knew no one here. Kansas was as far from Europe as they could go. "Ou sont les peaux-rouges?"

The child played with his badge until Father Brecht came for them. Then Cowboy started home where a candle was lit for Santa.

 

[Anonymous]

How to choose a Christmas tree in Wexford. Ireland



Get the the coordinates for a "cut-your-own-xmas-tree" farm from Wexford People. Set out at dusk in heavy fog. Follow GPS down old Roman roads only GPS can find in Ireland for 2 hours. When a handpainted wooden sign suddenly looms thru the gloaming you pull into the darkened farmyard. Any port in a storm by then, you'll figure. A young boy chewing on a porkpie carrying a lantern will appear with an axe. In a nearby wood he'll cut the tree you want. Thirty euro for a 7 foot tree. Repeat each year until you realize the boy never ages.

 

[Anonymous]

A not so merry Christmas

“It’s so hot and muggy!”

“Yeah, I miss being cold on Christmas.”

“Well… you were the one who wanted to come here.”

“It was a great opportunity.”

“Which you immediately failed at.”

“It’s always the same! Always criticising me.”

“Do you think I like massaging people for a living?”

“And do you think being a bouncer is fun?”

“Yes! I think you have fun getting drunk every night.”

“I only drink after work.”

“With your whores!”

“What the hell are you talking about! You think I don’t know how you make your extra money?”

“I want a divorce.”

“Me too.”

 

[Anonymous]

Nottingham - 2008

Joe found the house, late August. We climbed through a window; six guys, three girls and a small, black everything dog called Onesie. The council threatened to evict us, then backed off. We cut the grass, planted flowers. Litter, sharps, and graffiti – all gone.

By December, it was freezing. We put heaters in our rooms, scrounged extra duvets. The recession bit hard; few of us worked. On Christmas evening, the others drifted back from seeing parents. I broke pallets, lit a fire. Cooked a huge spread. We drank white Russians, whisky, and mushroom tea. Ate cake. Talked revolution. Planted seeds.

 

[Anonymous]

Christmas Eve

It’s always a full-on day. 2017: Sabotaged a suicide. 2018: Called 999 on a heroin overdose. The guy shook my hand Boxing Day. 2019: Romance ended. 2020: Consoled three locked down kids.

2021: The hospital appointment that will divide my life into Before and After.

I recall the old roadside adverts – 1 IN 3 PEOPLE READING THIS WILL GET CANCER . Sisters nudged me, said, “It’ll be you!” Freaked me out, aged eight.

Will it be Positive? If so, I caught it early. Negative? I’ll dance.

It could be: We need another biopsy.

Meanwhile, I wait. Plan festive socials. Enjoy life.

 

[Anonymous]

He rolled over in his bed, his belly all swollen. Was this what Christmas had become? They had left the heating on too when they’d gone out for this latest feast: more turkey, more booze, topped with more Christmas pudding. And it wasn’t even cold outside, just some mild drizzle. So now he was sweaty and swollen and farting like some monster roars in a children’s tale. ‘Oh God,’ he groaned. Wasn’t there some magic, some wonder at the start of all this? His stomach gurgled and another avalanche of wind overtook him. His wife sighed. ‘Silent night my arse.’

 

[Anonymous]

‘Do what?’ His wife sat up. ‘I said, silent my arse!’ She rolled over and stole the duvet. He got up, farted again, and rubbed his eyes. Today was dinner at Karen’s. He couldn’t stand the woman. They arrived first, and he knocked back a sherry with gusto, and the next, and the next, and then a couple of beers, and some fine red wine with the cream and mince pies, and a couple of brandies to finish. Karen was all right. You had to put up with your in-laws. He grinned. Here was the magic. Here was the wonder.

 

[Anonymous]

Me. Hair shorn to jawline
mug of tea in hand
legs crossed away from you on the sofa
where you’ve been sleeping
receding for months.
Nightly, tapir devours you.
Try. Today is trying.
Disbelief that you really wouldn’t do Christmas.
Day has risen and our children want . . .
You hold my gift. I read a smirk.
Here. I know the whole story, see.
Blind. I’m looking straight at whichever child
has chosen to document this awful day.
The pits of my eyes show the smile can’t quite rise.
Worse to come.
Distanced, I close it returning it to a nameless file.

 

[Emily]

**Congratulations** @Pamela Jo !! You are our worthy, wonderful winner of Our December Flash Club Drabble... it was a close shave

You can find Pamela Jo's winning entry HERE

Stay tuned for more Flash Fiction adventures in the New Year's morrow, my Fabulous Flashies

 

[RK Wallis]

congrats @Pamela!!

 

[Dorm Ant]

Congrats, Pamela.

Who wrote the wartime one? I cried when I read it. I'm not a sentimental person, and it's rare that a story moves me to tears, though that one packed a rollercoaster into 100 words and really impressed me.