Flash Club July Flash Club Contest

[Emily]

For July, let's have a go at a short story of up to 50 words (short and sweet since we'll be sunning ourselves -while sipping something delightful- in beautiful locations).

The first line to be: She made a poor job of hiding the damage... (the challenge is to write a short scene with a resolution in no more than 50 words. The 9 words of the prompt are not included in those 50 words).

As always, a like equals a vote, a love equals 2 votes.

The main rules are:
SUBMIT ANONYMOUSLY
and
NO CRITIQUING other people's work


Good luck!!

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. Frosting feebly holds it together. He must like it.

When he returns: “I made it for you.”

“It’s ugly.”

She offers him a slice.

At first forkful, his eyes widen. “It’s good.” Another bite. Coughs. Grabs his throat. Collapses.

She wipes frosting from the corner of pale lips. “Happy birthday.”

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. Really, makeup companies were at fault. Why was it so hard to find a good concealer? She wore a ball cap and sunglasses on the bus.

A pink-haired woman announced, “I’m sell makeup.”

Two more stops.

Pink persisted. “Are you…. looking to buy makeup?”

“No.” He said he was sorry.

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. Clothed in a red-haired male’s skin, she can’t help but admiring herself, despite the sloppy seam up her side. She looks good as a male. Too good. Maybe she’ll never return to female. He laughs. Unlikely. Rejoining protesters in the streets, he raises his sign: FREE THE NEPHTALIA. Freedom’s delicious.

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage, but then that was her job.

“Just so it looks broke, but not so broke they won’t pay,” says Jack.

“If I mend it proper, they’ll pay more.”

His cigarette flicks. “Don’t work that way.”

“Why?”

“We sell ‘fixeruppers’. What daft bugger’s gonna buy a fixerupper what don’t need fixing?”

 

[Anonymous]

She made a good job of hiding the damage, but I saw it - her broken heart - as clearly as if her skin had become transparent. Why did I pretend to be queer? So she would fall in love with me? Now, I don't know how to repair the tear. Every time she sees me with Damon: rip, rip, rip.

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage when she tore her communion dress.
Mummy cried blue murder.

She could not hide the damage after birthing her own little wild thing.
She wept, missing before but loving after.

At the end, she wore the damage like medals and flags and epitaphs to memory.
Who wants an untroubled life?

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. My brand new slippers, velvet with feathered pom-poms.

I held it up, looking into those big brown eyes. Better wouldn’t melt...

“What was this doing in your bed? And you’ve EATEN the pom-pom. FiFi, you are a very naughty dog!”

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. Beyond concealment. Wince.

“You need help. You could have killed yourself.” The words echoed in her brain.
Just some random woman behind her on the nightclub stairs.

She looks again at the card she put into her hand, dials. Alcoholics Anonymous.

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. The glue still showing.

The formal job offer. In Australia.

“When were you going to tell me?”
Silence. He didn’t meet her eye.

Then she saw what he was doing, the lighter. The envelope, unopened, the corner alight.

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage.

The wound oozes like raw meat, bruised and dripping with colour. I look away, then back again. This time I see swollen lips, tongue scabbing on her exposed midriff.

“Mother, please tell me that’s not—"

“Come on! Haven’t you ever heard of the Stones?”

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. Couldn’t do better in the time available.

She looked at it critically: the missing gold leaf hurriedly covered, the edges still showing. But, thank God, the protestors had glued the frame, not the picture.

Back on show again: Art trumps Violence.

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. The blood. The unborn but yet born. Now her ticket to execution. She'd loved her child, but the Fascists would execute her. Her feelings had nothing to do with their deranged ideals.

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. The bumper scratched; the garden wall reduced to rubble.
Her pulse raced. Any second, he'd run out, wrench the car door open, call her a stupid bitch.
Her new relationship was over. Already.
His face at the window. 'Are you OK?'
He was a keeper.

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. Move along, there’s nothing to see here, she imagined herself saying, as she broomed the shards of her life under a lumpy rug – innocently impish smile on her face. She couldn’t help but laugh.

But then some things can never be truly hidden.

She closed her eyes and went down.

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage.

Joining the edges over where she’d made the savage cut hadn’t worked – but neither did this. It was nowhere near as good as it was before.

If only she hadn’t killed the hero’s best friend...and deleted all his scenes!

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. The broken door lock upstairs was obvious. No matter … they wouldn't get her for this crime.

Or the next one.

The woman walked onto the flat roof.

She wouldn't allow it erase her savings, or her dignity, or her.

There was no-one in the courtyard below.

Fuck Alzheimer's.

She jumped.

 

[Emily]

HEAR YE, HEAR YE!

It has come to my attention that some Flash Club entries are OVER the 50 word limit Should one feel one would like to amend ones transgressions, that would be much appreciated

And I shall start patrolling with The Wooden Spoon henceforth (dun-dun-duuuuunnnnn.... thhhwack!) (I've been practicing extensively with a fly-swat for approximately 31 years for this very moment).

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. The broken door lock upstairs was obvious. No matter… they wouldn't get her for this crime.

Or the next one.

The woman walked onto the flat roof.

She wouldn't let it erase her savings, or her dignity, or her.

There was no-one in the courtyard below.

Fuck Alzheimer's.

She jumped.

 

[Anonymous]

Ellipses count as a word, who knew?

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage, but her clumsy stitches gave it character.
“You’re not serious? You can’t give her that.”
Harriet squeezed the one-eyed bear until her knuckles turned white. "Why not?"
Children's laughter erupted in the backyard.
“Aunty Harry!” The birthday girl ran toward her, arms wide. “Is that my present? I love it!”

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. Terrible, really. As was her custom.

She sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for Nikoli to enter the room.

“Jesus Christ!”

The exact reaction she’d hoped for.

“Are you fucking serious?”

She arched her back. Flicked her tail. Purred. All in a good day’s work.

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. As usual. A day without a blackout, explosion or Cease and Desist notice from the Council is a quiet one, in this house.
'Miranda,' I sighed. 'What now?'
She uncupped her hands. 'He deserved it.'
The frog leapt into the sink, squawking.
'Who's that?'
'TV Licencing.'
For once, I smiled.

 

[Bloo]

Anonymous British fantasy writer

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. As usual. A day without a blackout, explosion or Cease and Desist notice from the Council is a quiet one, in this house.
'Miranda,' I sighed. 'What now?'
She uncupped her hands. 'He deserved it.'
The frog leapt into the sink, squawking.
'Who's that?'
'TV Licencing.'
For once, I smiled.

A Brit is more likely to appreciate this one

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. Also, the workmen who supposedly cleaned the carpet.

She could still see stains taunting from where she’d dragged her desk. Faded brown splashes that could’ve been soda. Coffee. But weren’t.

First day of school: “Hello, everyone!”

Smile. Wave. Don’t think about the stains and the body that covered them.

“Welcome!”

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. When Alex came downstairs, she wore a shirt with cut-off sleeves. ‘FUCK’ bulged in angry, fresh scabs along her bicep.

Wrapped in a plush bathrobe, mother sprawled on the couch. She sneered. “Attention-seeking slut. Disgusting. Wear a fucking hoodie. I don’t want calls from Ms. Stick-up-the-ass.”

Always hiding. Never seen.

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. The lock broken, the gilt surround gouged.

But the old boy wouldn’t notice; she would tell the family it’d been him, losing a key again.

She’d been so sure this box held valuables.

The slumped figure in the chair opened one eye, wriggling at the new lumps in his cushion.

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. Shards covered the kitchen floor. In the corner, she rocked, whispering.

At the doorway, Jerry surveyed the warzone. “The voices?”

“Yes.”

“What’d they say?”

“Awful things.” She covered her eyes. “About you. But I don’t believe them. Not a word.”

He kissed her, hands gripping her neck. “You should.”

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. But why should she? Instead, she began running. Wore shorts displaying the prosthetic.

At the start line, she inhaled, muscles tense. If she lost, they’d pity her. If she won: “You’re an inspiration. What with your disadvantage.”

But her leg wasn’t an inspiration or a pity. It was just her.

 

[Anonymous]

She made a poor job of hiding the damage.
The dented bronze cube fizzled. Their ride back to the future cancelled by the simplest of accidents.
Arlo would freak.
Honestly, she preferred this century. Clean air, trees, blue sky.
Could she trade home for this?
Had it been an accident?
Arlo appeared, glowing with enthusiasm. “And there are dolphins!”