Flash Fiction Friday!



I had fun today. I took part in Flash Friday with Breathless Press on their Facebook Page. I had to write twelve fifty word flash stories based on word or picture prompts. This inspired me to write a 100 word entry to a contest. So that’s awesome.

Rather than repeat the prompts here (you can view them on the Breathless Press Facebook Page), I thought I’d just share the words with you. Here they are in the order they were written. Enjoy!


He was always up with the sunrise. More beautiful than that were the people he would see while he was still not quite awake: A woman gathering bottles from the street, a man walking his dog, an early morning runner. They were all part of a whole: separate but unique.


He was early for everything. His mother had taught him that promptness was the mark of someone who took life seriously. “If you are early or on time, people will respect you.”
Over the years, he was prompt for everything. Now, he spent his life waiting for it to start.


When the sunrise filled the sky, he knew his last moments were upon him. He had lived a long time, too long in fact. To see the end of his existence didn’t frighten him. Instead, it would be a welcome respite. He would wait for the sun to claim him.


He had not been expecting to get a thong for Christmas. He picked it up and looked at his boyfriend.
His boyfriend smiled. “You like it?”
Instead of replying, he asked “Why did you crochet it out of white acrylic yarn?”
“It’s more virginal that way.” He said.
“For whom?”


He was no longer sated. When food had been his companion, he could fill the void in himself with many culinary delights. Since going from a 48 waist to a 32 waist, he saw food as his enemy. He was always hungry; for food or for whom he had been.


He stood, naked but almost decent, as the photographer took picture after picture. The strangers on the street that looked hungrily at him were somewhat disturbing. Most frightening of all was that one of the strangers looked familiar. She walked towards him, the photographer still clicking away. “Mom?” He asked.


He grabbed another arm off of the pile. She gave him a withering look. “Don’t be such a pig.” She said.
He sighed. “I’m hungry. We haven’t even had any brains for weeks now.”
“Well, try a nice foot or maybe a pinkie finger.”
He sighed. “Being a zombie sucks.”


He’d never seen Casablanca, or any black and white movie, for that matter. The one time he had tried, his eyes had switched off all the colour around him. For days, he wandered in a grey haze, waiting for the pigments and hues to return, pining for the colour red.


He wondered, as he often did, about language. There were so many words that sounded the same. For instance, when someone told him to “come here”, he often mistook it for “cum here”. This led to difficult misunderstandings, fines and problems with the police. He always asked for clarification now.


Adam looked at Steve. “What is THAT?”

“It’s a fig leaf.” Steve said. “This way at least things stay covered.”

Adam grinned. “Looks like a fruit roll up. Oh! Wait, no, it’s a-”

“Don’t say it.” Steve’s voice was firm.

“A fig roll up!”

Adam didn’t join in the laughter.


There were a myriad of other things he should be doing, but he focused on the task at hand. He moved the needle through the skin, being careful not to snag the thread. She had been such a stickler for her looks. When she was finished, he would give her life.


He waited for the curtains to part. The audience, invisible to him, shifted and coughed. They were waiting for him. He didn’t feel embarrassed by his nakedness; instead he was empowered. When the music began to play, he was ready. As the curtains opened, parting slowly, he began to move.

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