Flash Fiction Contest #43 WINNER!

For the Prompt: "Deceptively Terrifying"

Congratulations to Ikmar for winning this week's Flash Fiction Friday!

Humans fear the unknown most of all. Well done, Ikmar for masterfully building up the suspense of the unknown in what turned out to be quite funny!

Thank you for participating and keep an eye out for the next Flash Fiction Friday!

Flash Fiction Friday #42 WINNER!

"I saw Mommy kissing Kra-a-mpus..."

Congratulations to Susan for winning this week's Flash Fiction Friday!

We encourage you to check out her humorous yet frightening tale of a smart-alecky little boy, his mother and the monster that haunts Christmas:

"I Saw Mommy Kissing" by Susan Monroe McGrath

Thank you for participating and keep an eye out for the next Flash Fiction Friday!

Flash Fiction Friday #40 WINNER!

Congratulations to ELISE SCOTT (@buttonjar1) for a gritty, descriptive Flash Fiction Friday win! You're awesome! :)

Flash Fiction Contest Winner #31

Thank you to everyone who provided yummy stories of cookouts!! Made me hungry. =) But, regrettably, there can only be one winner, and that is: Stephanie!


The sun burned hotter than the burgers on the grill. Two look-alike women – one older and one younger – wearing huge floppy hats and brightly flowered sundresses laughingly shooed flies away from bowls of potato salad and coleslaw as juicy meat sizzled and popped, its mouth-watering aroma temporarily overpowering the sour tang of chlorine and the slightly sweeter scent of sweat mixed with sunscreen. Kids screamed and splashed in the above-ground pool, oblivious to the rough-and-tumble game of two-hand touch on the other side of the backyard, just one touchdown away from finally turning competitive.

I stood at the grill with a spatula in one hand and a glass of ice-cold lemonade in the other, fat drops of condensation rolling down the sides of the glass and drip, drip, dripping onto my hand. A bit of grease plopped onto the coals causing a burst of flame that nearly devoured a hot dog and sent a heatwave rolling toward my face. But the flames died down just as quickly as they came, leaving their porcine victim charred to perfection and me pressing my glass of lemonade against one heat-flushed cheek with a quiet sigh of relief. 

Not sure which was cooking faster – me or the meat – I stared longingly at the kids splashing in the pool, at my pretty young wife as she stood in the cool shade slicing big, juicy pickles into small perfectly round slices, and finally at the football game, which seemed to have degenerated into a full-contact sport. Maybe one day I'll get to join in the fun, but not today, because I am the grill master, and this is our family cookout.

Flash Fiction Winner #30

Thank you so much to our entrants! And I'm pleased to share that our winner is Rosieisonthego, with a very heart-rending piece.

***

The Teacup

The toddler was finally asleep. The young mother's bare feet slapped against the linoleum as she made her way through the small house, searching for her favorite teacup – one that Nana had given her, telling her to imagine a “Nana sugar-hug” when she used it – and the headed to the kitchen. She stood in front of the microwave as it reheated her ginger tea, rubbing her swollen belly and wondering if standing this close to the humming machine would hurt the baby.

When the microwave beeped, she took the flowered teacup and began to wander through the house, muttering to herself. Her whisperings weren't the shopping list, but rather, a two-sided conversation with her husband. Since he was 8,000 miles away, she answered for him as he would have, and smiled at his answers.

She continued the conversation as she weaved her way around the toddler toys strewn on the floor, but her path to the couch was interrupted by the sound of a car door. Curious, she changed direction and went to the window to peek around the curtain edge. Her heart squeezed as she watched a man in Class As shut his car door and join three other soldiers who were dressed the same. She held her breath as they glanced around; her lungs burning as she watched to see which house they would turn to.

Which life they would ruin.

Chamomile tea splattered her bare legs as Nana's sugar-hug teacup shattered on the hard floor.

Flash Fiction Contest Winner #29

Thanks for taking time out of your Mother's Day weekend to stretch those writing muscles! Our winning entry is below:

************************

The grappling hook sailed over the side of the Seeker and grabbed the mahogany railing. All up and down the deck, as hooks latched onto the boat, my crewmates scrambled for knives to saw at the ropes in futile attempts to free the Seeker from the pirate ship’s grasp.

“Saw, you dogs!” I yelled, my dagger working frantically, the muscles in my arms burning, tears clouding my vision. Behind me, my father, the Queen’s captain, lay motionless, a wooden splinter protruding from his chest. His blood soaked my clothes and the once-pristine deck, but I would not let them take this ship.

But sheer determination wasn’t enough. The pirates sailed gracefully through the air suspended on the ropes that bound our ships, and when their boots hit the deck, the Seeker’s crew was against the opposite railing, swords at the ready, my father’s body the only thing between them and the invaders. I kneeled over it, my eyes a warning to the snarling men.

The pirate captain stepped forward. Her tricorn hat sat at a mischievous angle on her head. There was something familiar about her eyes, something that reminded me of what my father said. “You have her eyes, the same color as the restless sea. I fear you will be as wild as your mother.”

Then the woman’s gray eyes found mine and it was like looking into a mirror. She was a dream, an illusion, a nightmare. She had the nerve to hold her arms out as if I would run into them. Well, my forgiveness was not so easily won.

“Mother,” I said, the word a curse, unfamiliar on my tongue. My father’s rapier sang out of its sheath, its weight familiar to me, and when I stood, I brought the sword down to meet hers.

Flash Fiction Contest Winner #28

Big thanks to everyone who participated! As always, lots of good entries, and it made the decision quite hard. But in the end, I had to go with... Tabitha Bird! It was a very lyrical piece, as you can read below. Congrats, Tabitha!

_________________________________________________________

You came to the patch of dirt with encouragement from the weeds, where stray dandelions puffed their heads of seeds and you sent wishes to the sky. You came for the bark and sticks, the wind and the blue above. But you really came to escape the insides of your house. The yelling and crying. The mother who wouldn’t leave. The father who knew she’d stay. You came because it was the only stance you could take, the only way to be free in the middle of their storms.

“Nothing much here grows,” they said.
But you knew that wasn’t true. For here in the garden grew you. A little girl. Poetry and ideas. Things bigger than the little girl herself. With water from a glass jar you mixed mud soup. Fairy guests fluttered in your mind and you fed them on stories and make believe, on four leaf clovers and gum nuts.

Until the days you didn’t come. The garden left behind. You grew older with the passing days. No more stories. Too much lost and hurt within you for dreams to grow.

Then one day it happens.
Your own little boy and his own little garden. Rocks, mud pies, and sand cakes sprinkled with grass. And of course four leaf clovers.
“Play with me, Mamma? Feed the fairies?”
You stammer. “I can’t. I don’t remember how.”
His face. It falls like a star from the worlds above. And he turns away.
But you do remember. You remember all too well.
“Wait. Fairies?”
He nods. Eyes hopeful. “Let me see. Yes, they like sand cakes, but also mud soup. Do you know how to make mud soup?”
And the afternoon grows longer, the skies the color of pink lemonade. Once more you send wishes to the skies.

Flash Fiction Contest Winner #24

First, sorry I am so late in announcing the winner. Christmas-- along with being on vacation with limited internet access-- kind of wreaked havoc on my schedule.

After much going back and forth (lots of good entries!), the winner is...A.M. Hounchell:

I wanted to knock, but the wreath was encircling the entire door like a holiday version of poison ivy.

Congrats! I'll be contacting you on the best way to send your gift card to you! 

Flash Fiction Contest Winner #22

Thank you to our entrants! My desire for pie is even stronger now. =) But as always, there can only be one winner, and for our 22nd contest that would be...Laura L. Zimmerman! Please take our flash fiction badge and display it where you'd like. We'll be back with some more flash fiction prompts in December, and again, thank you for entering!

Flash Fiction Contest Winner #21

Thank you to all our participants! I loved reading the entries, you guys are a scary bunch. ;) I seriously had a hard time picking the two winners. But after much deliberating , those two winners are...Crawfordwriting & Maryanne Frederick! Feel free to snag the #OA Flash badge as your own, and I'll be contacting you to see which Halloween print you would like emailed to you. Thanks again, everyone!

Flash Fiction Contest #19 Winner

Thank you to all our entrants! I really enjoyed reading each story. One had a unique narrator, one was super sweet, and one had a creepy twist. But there can only be one winner and that is...Barbara!! Congrats!

Winning Entry:

I walked beneath a sickle moon, placid waves lapping at my feet. The beach in autumn. It was silly to come. Autumn was the season of death and decay, ghouls and ghosts, not beach parties. But it was too far to walk home, and my ride was making out back at the bonfire. Everyone was. I couldn’t sit and watch.

A figure struggling from the water caught my eye. My heart quickened, and I glanced back at the bonfire. Would they hear me if I called out?

I turned and gasped. The figure stood before me. A girl. My age. She wore a thin nightgown, and seaweed dangled from her hair. But she wasn’t wet.

“Help me!” she cried. “We must save her!” She pointed at the island across the bay and offered her hand. "Hurry!"

“My friends. I should tell them—”

“Take my hand. Do not let go.”

She stared at me, eyes pleading, and I took her hand.
She led me into the ocean, neither cold nor warm, nor even wet, and we walked across the sea floor as if strolling on land.

“Why are there no fish?” I asked.

“They abide in the living sea. This is the sea of the dead.”

As if to prove it, bloated bodies began to appear. They swam past, their eyes pleading, too. I looked away, but even behind closed lids, I saw them stare. And then we rose from the sea and stepped onto a rocky shore.

The girl was dry as bone. I was dripping wet.

“There.” She pointed to a huddle of large boulders.

Another girl lay wedged between them, legs twisted, face bruised. I worked her out, the incoming tide helping in my task. I laid her in the sand, brushed back her hair, and gasped.

“It’s you.”

“Yes. I am free now. Thank you.” She began to fade away.

“Wait! Bring me back!”

“I cannot. I am no longer undead. I am spirit now.”

“But how—”

“Watch for the eddy,” she said, and vanished.

I stared across the bay at the flickering bonfire. It was too far. They would never hear me. I had to swim.

I removed my shoes and socks and dove into the water. Cold bit into my skin, took my breath and my strength, but I forced myself on.

The current suddenly changed, and the ocean pulled like a vacuum, sucking me back toward the island. Below me, the dead reached and groped. I thrashed and kicked, but my arms tired, my legs went weak. I sunk under the waves, struggled up again, and then I remembered nothing until I found myself struggling from the water.

Lyra raced toward me. “Dani, where’ve you been? We’ve be calling you for hours. Why would you go swimming alone at night and not tell anyone?” She looked at me strangely, brushed back my hair. “But, you’re not even wet.”

“Help me,” I said. “We have to save her. Take my hand and don’t let go.”

___________________________________________________

Once again, thank you to our participants! Everyone did a great job!!

Flash Fiction Contest #17 Winner

Some very nice entries this week. Thank you to those who entered!

Flash Fiction Contest #17 Prompt: Birthday!

Entry by Cassidy Taylor

35 days. 

If my etchings on the wall are accurate, today is her birthday. It's hard to tell how much time has passed in space, when days can't be measured by a rising sun and time isn't told by the cycles of a moon. 

My world has shrunken to this tin box, while out there somewhere, in one of the millions of known galaxies, the Mariner floats on. She floats on. Does she think of me still? When she gets out of the shower and rubs a circle in the condensation on the mirror, does she look at herself and remember when I told her that her eyes were the color of the stars? When she sees someone walking away from her in the corridor with my black hair, does she think, for just a minute, that it's me? 

“He'll kill you,” she warned me, her arms around my waist, her head against my chest. We had broken into the observation tower. I want to see the stars, she had said. I want to know we're not alone. I was nothing if not obliging. Her birthday party raged on in the bowels of the ship. It seemed like the whole population had come to celebrate her, though that was impossible. The Mariner was the size of an old Earth city. The population was dense, packed into every corner. There was one ruler, and he had one princess - this girl standing in the arms of a lowly mechanic. 

“I'm not afraid,” I said. I should have been. Just not of her father. 

For 325 days, I was happier than I had ever been. I had learned to cherish the feeling of her hand in mine, the stolen glances across crowded halls, the embraces in hidden alcoves. Then one morning, in my small bunk, she sat with her back to me on the cot, yelling into her Comm: You can't do this! You can't take everything away from me!

“My father,” she had said. “Empty threats.” I kissed away the tears in her eyes.

Five days later, I was repairing a Scouter and looked up to find her standing in the bay. I smiled to see her there, raven-haired and red-lipped, but then the door slid into place between us, and I noticed her hand on the external controls, the hardness in her eyes. I put my hand to the glass separating us and she raised hers. 

“He's going to take it all,” she said, “if I don't give him you.” 

And then the Scouter had engaged, the airlock opened, and I was gone, flung into space, her hand sweating against the porthole the last piece of another human being I would ever see. 

35 days drifting in space in a broken Scouter, still stocked from its last mission. 35 days for her to make it up to her father. She had proven herself to him, and today, on her eighteenth birthday, the galaxy would become hers.

***

Space and hope and a little bit of a Romeo and Juliet thing going on. Daw.

Our next contest is in three weeks--the second Friday of the month. But come back next week for #PassOrPages!

Flash Fiction Contest #16 Winner

The one week that I forget to schedule my Buffer tweets, and we get more entries than we ever have. Funny how life works, isn't it? Thanks, everyone, for writing something--tough choice this round!

Flash Fiction Contest #16 Prompt: Boy Band

Entry by Erik Battle

“This one’s going to be trouble,” said the Vat-Tech. She pointed with the clipboard at the tall, male form suspended by cables in the cloudy liquid.

“Trouble’s good, right?” The Stylist asked. "He's got great hair."

“A bit of trouble’s good. Enough to stir up the press junkets. This one though…” She sighed heavily. She handed the clipboard to the Stylist.

“What am I looking at here? You know I don't read PCR. DNA profiling is your gig." 

"This marker," the Tech pointed to a short bar on the PCR analysis. "Drug addiction."

The Stylist clicked her tongue against the top of her mouth. The Tech pointed to another blurry blob.

"And this one. Well...let's just say we'll need to watch him around the fan girls." She arched an eyebrow at her colleague to emphasize her point.

"A bit of eyeliner would really bring out the depth of his eyes," the Stylist said.

"Oh. It's worse." The Tech's eyes went wide.

"Worse? What's worse than drugs and an overactive libido?" 

"These two markers. They are the genes for depression and violence. He'll be a suicidal maniac! Destroying hotel rooms and wrecking sports cars!"

"Dear god! This is awful!" The Stylist flipped up a cover on the vat's control panel. Her hand wavered directly over a big red button. "We should flush him, shouldn't we?"

"No." The Tech calmly took the hand of the Stylist and drew it away from the button closing the panel.

"But, he'll be a monster."

"No." A satisfied smile formed on her face. "He'll be a legend.

***

Our next flash contest is in two weeks--tell your friends. :D

Flash Fiction Contest #15 Winner

Thanks for stopping by to read the winning entry!

Flash Fiction Contest #15 Prompt: France

Entry by Laura L. Zimmerman
I pulled at the silky threads that clung to the walls of the cave. “Spider webs.” My nose crinkled in disgust.

Lydia giggled but kept her flashlight in the shadows. She was tall for twelve. It made her easier to spot, though, as the light bounced off the walls. Was the passageway getting smaller? My throat closed.

“Shhh. We’re almost there,” Jimmy said.

Why did we need silence just to look for buried treasure? It’s not like we’d scare it away. But I kept my mouth shut.

Something skittered to my left, and my head swung around, eyes wide.

“Don’t fall behind, Corban. The ghost of François Aregnaudeau might get you.” Lydia giggled once more.

“Tell me who this François guy was again? Something to do with horse-hair?”

“Honestly, don’t you listen? I already told you everything on our hike to the cave. He was a corsairs, which is French for privateer… but many went rogue and became pirates. In 1811 he arrived in New York with a boatload of loot, which the U.S. government immediately took –“

“Or so they say,” Jimmy cut in. “My great-grand-pops kept the map his grandpa gave him when he was a kid. It’s bona fide authentic, I tell you. We follow this, and we’ll find the treasure of Captain François. Or the part the government didn’t take.”

My hand fell through another doorway of silk and I jumped. “Sure wish we’d hurry up.”

“Don’t be a whiney pants,” Jimmy said.

“Hey! There’s a fork up ahead!” Lydia whisper-yelled, before I could get snarky with Jimmy. “We go left, then it’s in a ditch to the right.” The light flipped up to the narrow passage that jutted to the west. My heart skipped a beat.

“This is it,” Jimmy whispered.

We slowly moved forward, the group tightly knit, each breath labored with excitement. Around the corner, Jimmy fell to his knees before I even spotted the hole in the ground.

“I’ve got something!” he exclaimed.

Lydia aimed her flashlight low, the rest of us hidden in darkness. Anything could be behind us. A shiver ran down my spine. “What is it?”

A small wooden box that cracked open with resistance, then a woven cloth of some sort. Inside, a ceramic doll.

“What –“ Jimmy and I looked at one another, our brows pulled together.

The treasure was a doll?

“Break it,” Lydia said. “The map says to break it.”

“Oy!” I yelled, as Jimmy tossed the thing to the floor.

It broke into a million pieces, but there was something there, another paper. He picked it up, Lydia quick with her light. Her lips moved as she read the French under her breath. She swallowed hard, her gaze on ours.

Her shoulders straightened and a smile tugged at her lips. “The treasure isn’t here. We’ve got a little farther to go.

“This time, to France.”

***

Buried treasure--so fun!

Our next flash contest is in two weeks--tell your friends. :D

Flash Fiction Contest #14 Winner

Thanks for entering this week, everyone! Without further delay...

Flash Fiction Contest #14 Prompt: Clone

Entry by Laura Rueckert
You aren't supposed to move like that. Clones are supposed to sleep until revived. Not flutter their eyelashes when I stand before your pod. It's bad enough seeing my inanimate face through the milky glass. Seeing you move, seeing you twitch, is worse.

A knock. Your right pointer finger banged against the pod. I'm sure of it.

My hands shaking, I call the hotline, pressing 6 for *I think my clone is waking up*.

"The pod is filled with a sedative, nutrient gas that keeps the clone alive and in a coma-like state," the recording says. "Less than 0.000001% of clones awaken prematurely."

A scraaaaape fills the air behind me—I whirl around but you're still—and the telephone voice rambles on. I press 7 for *My clone is making noises*.

"The gas filter in the pod makes a hissing sound once per hour. Beyond that, you may hear a pop when a new canister of sedative is punctured."

That wasn't a hiss or a pop. Now your hands are sliding against the glass, pressing so hard I can see your fingerprints...my fingerprints.

You're crying. I have to help you, get you out of there. I press 4 for *Emergency revival*.

I fetch the transponder and—click!—the door swings wide.

"Do not attempt to revive your clone on your own. Improper revival can lead to dangerous results.

With a deep breath, you emerge from the pod. Your eyes are focused. Your stomach growls. You open your mouth.

***

*goosebumps* So creepy. I totally want to don't want to read more.

This is Laura's second win, and you can read her first winning entry here.

Thanks for stopping by!

Flash Fiction Contest #13 Winner

Good stories, guys! Sorry for the delay in posting this, but here it is, our winner of lucky number 13...

Flash Fiction Contest #13 Prompt: Argument

Entry by Quentin Christensen
"A zombie? In space? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" McGregor was not one to believe in anything that hadn't had at least three articles in "Nature" and a space shuttle mission about. Until this conversation, he thought Peterson was similarly sensible.

"Zombies don’t need air.”

"How exactly would one become a zombie, in space?" Asked McGregor, not quite believing his own question.

"Being bitten or scratched before take-off."

"That would be picked up in the pre-flight quarantine".

"Maybe it has a long, symptomless incubation period."

"Blood tests, Peterson! Mission prep urine analysis.”

"Only if they knew what to look for."

"So, you're telling me there’s a zombie colony living quietly on earth, and the first person they bite is an astronaut?"

“A pathogen floating in space?"

"That happens to float into a torn space suit? Preposterous!"

Before they could continue the argument, there was a banging on the window. The space station window. Jones couldn’t be alive. Two hours ago during a spacewalk, the robotic arm fell, slicing Jones and his suit, shoulder to hip before hitting the airlock, blocking it and preventing a rescue. Now he was moving, purposefully, trying to get back inside himself.

***

Zombies in space. Love it.

Flash Fiction Contest #12 Winner

It was a tough choice this week. Each entry was emotion-laden, but I had to go with the one that was most visceral.

Flash Fiction Contest #12 Prompt: Angel

Entry by J Lenni Dorner **Trigger warning: Violence & homophobia**
(And some sexual innuendo thrown in)
The smell of burnt cedar and sweaty armpits wafts up my nose as Dixon grabs me from behind.

"Look who it is. How you doing, Shallow Throat?" His cronies all laugh. That's it, yuck it up, inhale his obnoxious odor. Six bottles of cologne but not one swipe of antiperspirant. I'm almost glad when he chokes me. Inhaling his scent is the worse assault. Getting lifted by my neck and pinned to the wall is practically salvation.

I shut my eyes as his taunts continue. Spit from him and his followers mixes with the beads of sweat on my forehead. Pretending to be deaf isn't enough to satisfy today. Dixon drops me, hard. He shoves me down while two of the other boys kick out my legs. I look up in anticipation of what horror will come next. I wonder how much he enjoyed pissing on me yesterday?

"You know, I bet I can guess what Shallow Throat would like." He sneers. His friends chuckle, eager for the joke. Dixon turns around. His friends hold me in place. "A tasty treat for you." He farts in my face.

There is a smell worse than his cologne and armpit stink. I'm not crying. I'm not. But my eyes are cracks in the dam. They celebrate the victory and play rock-paper-scissors to determine who will feed me a fart next.

"What's going on here?" I hear his voice. The tears turn from leaks to a stream. I don't want him to see me like this. For the first time in months, I struggle against the bullies' hold.

"Just feeding farts to Shallow Throat. Care to join?" Dixon smiles at him. A second later, Dixon's face explodes in agony.

Heath lifts the bully. There's no need for a wall. Rippling muscles that no fifteen-year-old should have easily hold Dixon in mid-air.

"You all right, Caleb?" He knows my name. I don't answer at first. I just want to hear him say it again. He offers me his other hand. My little mitt disappears in his great paw as he helps me to my feet. Heath runs his fingers through my hair, stopping my heart.

Dixon's friends whisper. Heath glares at them and snarls. Did I imagine that? He's showing his teeth. It's raw, it's uncivilized... it's breaking the zipper in my pants. He throws Dixon into them.

"You're gay!" Dixon shouts as he rubs his throat.

Heath's left cheek lifts, a sexy half smile forming. "Gay. And I stole two of your girlfriends. In fact, I was just on my way to pick Miranda up. I'll tell her you said hi."

No one knows what to say to this. It's nice to see the bullies silent.

I wish I knew what to say. Maybe if he hadn't seen me on my knees eating farts...

Dixon curses at Heath and threatens me.

"I'm Caleb's guardian angel now. Whatever you do to him, I'll do ten times worse to you."

***

This was tough to read, but that was the reason I picked it. I could feel the pain of the protagonist along with him and the relief that followed. It toed the line of my PG-13 rating, but the immediacy of the scene is the reason I had to pick it.

Thanks for reading, and I'll see you again in a couple weeks!

Flash Fiction Contest #11 Winner

Thanks for stopping by to read our winner's entry!

Flash Fiction Contest #11 Prompt: "It looks like snow, but it's actually _____."

Entry by Randi Perrin
“Jenkins, get in here.”

I hated when the sergeant addressed me like that. It had been five years, and two years in he started using my first name, so I thought that meant I fit in. Clearly I was mistaken.

I followed the sound of his voice through the condemned house that smelled of death and decay until I ended up in a room that was dimly lit by the setting sun. The sergeant was crouched down next to something that was covered by a paint-splattered drop cloth, which was odd considering the walls didn’t look like they’d ever been acquainted with a paint brush. Just like in the movies, he used his pen to push the cloth out of the way and the fresh stench of death knocked him back and he stumbled a few feet. I held my hand over my mouth to cover the laughter that I couldn’t swallow, but it also worked well to block the offensive scent that filled the room. The look he shot me warned that any word I uttered could be the last mistake I ever made.

He walked around the room, poking holes in the walls and moving dusty books that lined a rickety bookshelf. He shook his head and mumbled to himself.

Determined to be useful, I left the room, grateful to no longer look into the hollow eyes of the skull my boss unearthed.

A rustling sound from upstairs caught my attention, and my hand immediately went to my hip to draw my weapon. Hiding behind the 9mm, I made my way up the stairs, my heart thumping harder with each step I took.

I made my way through the rooms, but found nothing out of the ordinary. I returned downstairs to find the sergeant bent over the body, his hand over his nose and mouth. The look on his face told me not to speak, lest suffer his wrath, and that was the last damn thing I wanted to do.

Instead, I re-holstered my weapon, and paced the floor, my hand still on the piece—just in case.

The sergeant stood up and kicked the cloth back over the body. His shoulders were tense, and his brow was furrowed, and this was the last thing he wanted to deal with, I was sure.

Rustle, rustle.

There was that noise again. This time I could tell it was right above my head, and I pulled my gun out and fired straight up into the second floor.

The ceiling splintered, cracked, and fell in. The sergeant and I moved just in time to save ourselves from the dead rat that came tumbling down—followed by a mountain of white powder.

It looked like snow, but it was actually cocaine. A lot of cocaine.

The sergeant smiled. “You’re not so worthless after all, Danny. That’s what we were actually after.” He motioned to the rubble. “The homicide over there was just an added bonus.”

***

Thanks for stopping by! Come back on Monday to read about our Pass or Pages agents. The entry window will be open between Monday, March 14, and Wednesday, March 16, and anyone with a complete, polished manuscript in the YA Contemporary genre can enter. You can read more about it here.

Flash Fiction Contest #10 Winner

Good evening, all! Here ends another edition of the #OAFlash Fiction contest.

Flash Fiction Contest #10 Prompt: Spaghetti

Entry by Julia

Long ago when the world was still new, the people of earth revered the Sun, for it chased away darkness and with it the creatures that lurked therein. It was a time before monsters were banished, and held captive in the minds of children. Warriors were trained up, and they prayed to the God’s of their world to free them from the terrible creatures that tormented them in the night.

Many had failed to defeat the witch. The cave was her home, and her children were the snakes that adorned her head in place of hair. The last warrior was sent into battle against her. He was everything a warrior should be, strong, brave, and true. He marched into battle not wielding a sword, but alone with only his mind to save him. For the mind is the greatest weapon anyone can posses.

Entering the cave he peered over his shoulder and slunk into the shadows, whimpering, for while he acted the part of a brave warrior he was truly as scared as the rest.

He prepared his mind picturing his foe, Not snakes…. he imagined. “Please! Not snakes!”

Deep in the cave there arose a scream, and he knew he had won. He raced towards the sound, and upon seeing her he fell to his knees laughing, a deep belly laugh. The snakes were gone replaced by… spaghetti! The witch, no longer frightening or scary had no place in the shadows or darkness, and was banished from the land.

***

Thanks for stopping by. Tomorrow, I (Samantha) will be kicking off a series on how to book your own blog tour. See you then!

Flash Fiction Contest #9 Winner

Thanks to everyone who stopped by! Without further adieu, I present our contest #9 winner:

Flash Fiction Contest #9 Prompt: "The last thing I need is another child. I already have twelve to look after."

Entry by Gretchen Mayer

The pod was sitting on the step when I opened the door this morning. The last thing I need is another child. I already have twelve to look after.

I looked up and saw nothing but dirty gray smoke rolling across the sky. A drone must have dropped it off last night. Perhaps it was a mistake and they would return for it. I lifted it up. It was heavy and would hatch within a month’s time. I placed it in the incubator, closed the lid and turned back to the clones. They were ready. All my hatchlings were ready in time. They were five years old now and would soon be taken away to be trained as warriors. I had done my job perfectly as always – except for one thing.

For sixty years I had been attending hatchlings – 144 total clones – teaching them the state-approved curriculum and nothing more; feeding them the special diet that would cause them to grow quickly and nothing more. But commandment four, “Show no affection,” was one I could not follow. Indoors, where there were no drones to monitor me, I would kiss their identical cheeks and hug their identical bodies.

And for sixty years the war had raged on.

As they slept or studied I would walk the barren hills outside my hut. Being a preceptor is an honorable but lonely calling.

A week passed, then two. No one had come for my hatchlings. This had never happened before and I feared the reason. The war was over. There was no more need for me or my hatchling warriors.

But now I paced the hills for another reason – what was I to do with twelve grown clones? I worried and fretted this for many days.

Finally the new pod opened. It was a slow birth – not the ripping and tearing I had witnessed a hundred times and more. And I could see right away that she was different. This last pod that had been so unceremoniously dropped on my doorstep was a consolation prize – a child I could love and raise t0 adulthood to care for me in my aging. I fed her milk from my cow and food from my garden. I cuddled her and played with her and taught her silly rhymes.

And I sheltered her from the sight of the clones as they rapidly aged and died one by one like stars blinking out at sunrise.

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Come back again in two weeks for the next #OAFlash Fiction contest. The week after, I (Samantha) will be sharing a week-long blog series on how to book your own book blog tour. Come back then!