Flash Club July Flash Club 2021

[Emily]

This month's Flash Club is now open. Thank you, @Barbara, for handing over the reins Let’s have some more stretching-of-our-writing-muscles and fun in July!


This month:

-the wordcount is: 500

-the genre is: fairytale

-the prompts are: Sparrowhawk and mutter (please use both in your piece)


RULZ:

-To participate, use the writing prompts, genre and 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, that's okay too. (Note: 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'. Please don't vote for your own work.

-The entry with the most votes 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 most generous voter will get a mention. At the end of the month, I will announce the most supportive Flash Voter who will get the prize of a special shout-out and some of our aforementioned Litopi-cake.
(Please don't just hit every entry to ensure a win. That's not helping the author).

-Please keep to the word count! Writing to a specific brief is good practice. I'll be strict when it comes to word count. @Barbara was a pussycat in comparison )

-Entries over the word count limit can’t win (dem is the rulz) But! 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.

Remember:
*The Flash Club isn't about winning. It's about trying something new. It's about grabbing readers with words, and gauging the response*​

So, ready? Let’s go

 

[Barbara]

@Barbara was a pussycat

Ah, that explains why I keep sitting on the fence or the neighbour's shed, licking body parts.

 

[Emily]

LUCKY NEIGHBOURS

 

[J Babo]

Ah, that explains why I keep sitting on the fence or the neighbour's shed, licking body parts.

Whos body parts?

Did you murder your neighbour?

 

[Emily]

Whos body parts?

Let's not encourage @Barbara to go into particulars here... Our imaginations will suffice

 

[Anonymous]

Sparrowhawk and the Seven Thieves (497 words)

Once upon a time, a blizzard howled outside a drafty cottage. An amateur thief sat with his wife on the floor, atop a small fur of fox. Fire blazed at their side, and they poured over the layout for Mint Castle. This job, assuming they pulled it off, would mean no watery soup. It’d mean a horse, maybe two, meat in their belly and straw on the floor. He said,

“If only we had a son. If only he were a respected artist. That could be his cover. That could get us into the castle. Alas, this old goat isn’t learning anymore new tricks.”

The following year, his wife birthed a son. When a teenager, his poor parents went without more often than not. For they had a lofty dream – they would one day rob Mint Castle – and their son? Well, he was their hope. They encouraged him to sing. Money went toward parchment. They gave him a pen, whispering,

“Write songs.”

This son grew, his voice as sweet as honeycomb. The family started a reliable hustle. The son took them into each castle they visited as personal servants. While he sang, they stole. A necklace here, a candlestick holder there. Watery soups turned into meals of meat. But the dream gnawed at the family.

The son’s reputation bloomed. Thieves revered him, and hailed him as Sparrowhawk. But his songs and the missing trinkets soon drew attention from the law.

Tress was incensed. How did anyone believe themselves above the law? She was an owl hunting squirrel at the best of times, and put two-and-two together. Sparrowhawk became her next prey.

Flushed from home, Sparrowhawk stumbled through woods until he discovered a cave. Empty beds of fur lay upon its dirt. A blackened firepit blotted the cave’s centre. There was even food. He ate, found a bed, rested his bones.

Presently, seven thieves returned to their hideout.

“Who’s this?” Patiently gestured at the sleeping lump.

“He’s eaten our food,” whined Brawn.

“Wait,” said Brains, “is that the golden hair of Sparrowhawk?”

Deftly’s eyes widened. “The Sparrowhawk?”

Stealthily cuffed Deftly. “Don’t be obtuse, you know there’s only one.”

“No one likes a wise guy,” Deftly muttered under his breath, staring at his shoelaces.

When Sparrowhawk woke the next morning, the seven thieves were waiting, staring.

“Is it really you?” Digger asked.

But Sparrowhawk didn’t know he could trust them yet, so said, “who?”

“Sparrowhawk,” Crafty said in a tone of wonder.

“Tress hunts you?” Brains asked. When Sparrowhawk nodded, Brains added, “us too. Stay, but be on your guard.”

“Let’s not act like flies,” Sparrowhawk countered. He preceded to share the family’s dream with them.

Then Sparrowhawk dyed his hair, went to Mint Castle for a job, singing, right under Tress’s grubby nose. Only she looked for a family, not a troupe of men.

That night, his delicate songs earnt his family and the seven thieves a lifetime of untold riches, and they moved far, far away.

 

[Anonymous]

THE FOOTMAN [391 words]​

I wait. Footmen always do.

Horse hooves and wheels crunch down the path as carriages depart. A woman slides her hands into silk gloves, her dance partner strolling beside her. He proffers an arm, helps her up the carriage steps. Their carriage leaves.

Another one leaves.

I rise onto my tiptoes and peer through the lowest glass pane of a tall window. She’s still smiling, still dancing with the prince, her marble-coloured gown swaying, ribbons on her cuffs floating as if pink butterflies follow her. Reflections of candelabra-light shine on her clear slippers so that, as she moves, her toes seem to dance in a sparkling sea.

The clock on the wall of the tallest tower chimes, the beaks of its sparrowhawk hands telling me, telling everyone there’s only half-an-hour before midnight.

Should I walk in? Cough or something? Because at midnight, the prince won’t think she’s the belle-of-the-ball anymore. Or if we leave too late and midnight hits us while we’re still on the road, the rest of the traffic won’t be enamoured with a ginormous pumpkin blocking their path. And I will have to scuttle off before I’m run over or stamped on by horses, and pray I find a burrow that’s not already occupied, for the residing family will surely chase me back into the cold. Or eat me.

What will Ella say if I’m late home again? She already doesn’t believe the fairy godmother gave me a job.

‘I suppose you expect me to believe in tooth fairies as well,’ she says.

Well, yes! And gremlins. And the leprechaun who stole our inheritance and has buried it at the end of the rainbow where I haven’t been able to find it yet.

‘When are you going to admit you’re just a mouse and tell me what you’re really up to?’ she mutters, accusations flashing across her squinting eyes: Gambling? Drugs?

‘Come to work with me,’ I say. ‘Perhaps the fairy godmother will turn you into a footperson too. Or you could just sneak in then hide in the carriage if you prefer. I’ll show you palaces and princes, castles and queens.’

She twitches her nose, swipes the air with her paw and waddles away. But I can tell by the angle and tremble in her whiskers that she’s secretly smiling. I think she’ll come with me. One day.

 

[Anonymous]

Sparrowhawk and Mutter, a fairytale?​

There’s something there, said Sparrowhawk to Mutter. He peered through the bushes. Can you see?

Move your big head out of the way, said Mutter. Sparrowhawk stepped to the left. Mutter looked. I still can’t see anything. All he could see was the forest, which stretched for miles in front of them, taking light, taking air, taking the dead.

Then they heard a cough behind them. They spun around, to see a tall wizard standing in front of them. They could tell he was a wizard because he had ‘wizard’ written on his t-shirt.

Gentlemen, said the wizard. I believe, if I’m not mistaken, that I’m standing before none other than Sparrowhawk and Mutter, the two most illustrious heroes in the realm.

Sparrowhawk smiled. He liked this wizard. Mutter was a bit more sceptical.

Sparrowhawk said, Indeed we are, kind sir. But who, may we ask, are you?

My name matters not said the Wizard (aha! thought Mutter), what really matters are my words.

And what words will they be, kind sir? Asked Sparrowhawk.

I have a job for you, said the Wizard. A quest, if you like. An adventure, if you prefer.

Not another adventure – Mutter said this out loud, but because he was Mutter, and he didn’t get that name by accident, no-one heard him.

We love an adventure! Shouted Sparrowhawk, a smile lighting up his face.

This involves a Princess, said the Wizard.

We love princesses! said Sparrowhawk.

A dragon, said the Wizard.

Dragons are the best! Said Sparrowhawk. All that fire-breathing! And such sharp teeth! You see this hole in my hand? Dragon tooth made that. Never healed. Never will.

And of course there is an evil witch, said the Wizard, who has cursed the Princess using a poisoned slice of kiwi-fruit.

Oooh, such cunning, said Sparrowhawk. For who can resist kiwi fruit?

The witch will not rest until the princess is damned forever! Shouted the wizard.

But what is the witch to the princess? said Mutter, once the wizard had finished shouting.

What? Said the wizard.

I mean, said Mutter, pleased now that he had the wizard’s attention, is the witch the princess’s mother, sister, aunt? A rival from school days? A jilted lover perhaps?

The wizard looked confused. She is her mother, of sorts.

A step-mother? Asked Mutter.

Yes, and an . . .

Then we’re not getting involved, said Mutter.

What?

We have a policy, we do not get involved in family feuds.

It’s true, said Sparrowhawk. We believe they’re better resolved through mediation. Counselling.

We have someone we can recommend, said Mutter. He reached into his sack, pulled out a business card, and gave it to the wizard. Here.

Hmmm . . . said the wizard.

Trust me, said Mutter, he’s good.

He helped Lear, said Sparrowhawk.

That’s good enough for me, said the wizard. Thanks lads.

And with that he was gone, leaving Sparrowhawk and Mutter alone again in the forest.

 

[Anonymous]

Once, there was a girl who dreamed. In vivid colours, sounds, and scents.

One night, this girl dreamed of a walled city. This city was divided into four quarters, each occupied by a different family. The families never mingled, for a reason long forgotten. And where you were born, you lived your life.

Now, this girl ached to know what existed beyond her city of walls. Daily, the ache grew stronger, until it started tearing her to pieces.

And as she was about to succumb, there came a mutter of air. The mutter became a throbbing, and the throbbing a roar. Strings of drying clothes were whipped every which way by a sudden gust. Then she saw the golden helicopter. Like a Sparrowhawk with four rotating wings—but a million times bigger.

Out stepped a pilot with short black hair and gentle brown eyes. Eyes she thought she’d never see again. Her father’s eyes.

“You ached so much you drew me back,” he said, “to show you what you need to see.”

This girl whose passion had raised the dead climbed into the golden helicopter. Rising above the ramparts of her city, she marvelled at the world beyond. Folded green hills specked with grazing cattle. Marching ridges of blue and green, with a sparkling blue river spooling in between.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

Her father banked the helicopter. She saw the dividing walls of her city, and realised they were entering another family’s world. Here lay jungles, vines woven with kaleidoscopic serpents, flamboyant canopies through which soared birds with jewelled beaks.

Now they crossed a desert. Thorny scrub and a hazy pastel horizon. Around a muddy waterhole, striped horses whinnied and splashed. Above lurked ice-white fangs of jagged mountains.

“Each world reflects the spirit of the family that tends it,” her father said. “Each holds its own beauty, and each its terrors.”

As the helicopter banked once more, the world dropped away. In this quarter of the city, precipitous cliffs plunged into a heaving ocean. Waves crashed against the city walls. Despite this, children screamed with joy on the ramparts, wild hair glistening with spindrift. They caught silvery fish in nets, and played tug-of-war with chains of sea grapes.

Then the helicopter’s engine coughed.

“Don’t fear,” her father said. He steered the shuddering aircraft to a tiny platform just beyond the breakers, while the girl watched rivulets of sea spray run down the windscreen. But it was not sea spray.

“Why do you weep?” her father asked.

“Because I can’t go back.”

“You can. But you must choose which quarter of the city you want to spend your life, for we will only stay aloft for one short trip.”

The girl considered the comfortably folded foothills with their sparkling rivers, the impossibly vibrant jungle, the harsh desert with its painted horses, and the wild children playing at the cliff’s edge.

Which quarter should she choose?

 

[Anonymous]

The Partisan​

All the partisan could see through the window in his prison cell was a small patch of sky. From sunrise to sunset he lay on his back on the stone floor and stared out the window. On this day, he did not see the sparrowhawk.
When night fell, the jailer brought him stale bread and thin soup. "In the morning on the day after tomorrow, it will be over."
"Will I be released?" asked the partisan. "After twenty years, will I be free?"
"No. You will be shot." The jailer walked away chuckling. That little joke had brightened a dull day.

The next morning, the prisoner lay on the stone floor, staring out of the window. "Sparrowhawk, my friend," he muttered. "Please come today. Take me away one last time."
Whenever the partisan had seen the sparrowhawk he had soared up in the open sky and flown beside the bird. Below them, the sun had glistened in the river where the fishermen stood on their boats and threw out the nets. On the hillsides, farmers and their children had picked grapes and olives. In the crowded square of the town, hawkers had sung praises of their bread and wine while young lovers exchanged secret glances. Then a patrol of soldiers would come marching through the square and the people would fall silent and bow their heads.
For hours, that felt like an island in the stream of time, the partisan looked longingly down at the people and the land he had sacrificed his freedom to set free.

"Please, no blindfold." The partisan had not seen the sparrowhawk the day before and he hoped he would see it now in the last minutes of his life.
The officer shrugged and walked back to the firing squad.
The partisan stood in front of a blood-stained wall in a courtyard. In twenty years he had never seen so much of the sky as he did now. But the sky was empty. Would he die without once more seeing his beloved country?
He didn't hear the harsh commands the officer shouted, nor the metallic clanks from the riffles as they were loaded with the bullets that seconds later tore into his flesh and bones and slammed his body against the wall.
As he slid down to the ground, he used his last strength and last seconds of consciousness to look up at the sky where the sparrowhawk spread its wings.