This week's judge, @QuinnSkylark, has selected two prompts for this week's fanficflashfic.
Here they are:
“I fell in love with her courage, her sincerity, and her flaming self respect. And it's these things I'd believe in, even if the whole world indulged in wild suspicions that she wasn't all she should be. I love her and it is the beginning of everything.”
― F. Scott Fitzgerald
― F. Scott Fitzgerald
Remember to check the rules.
Have your 100 - 200 words submitted by 12:00am Friday, July 12, US EDST.
We want anything and everything: poetry, prose, fanfic, OF.
JUST GET WRITING!
Leave your entry as a comment - include your word count, and your twitter handle if you have one.
Probably good practice to reference any source material, too.
FYI - entries that exceed (or are under) the word limits will not be considered by the judge.
P.S. If you look to the right, where it says "flashers," you'll see I'm linking the places where people are posting their flash fics - either on fanfiction.net or on blog sites or whatever. If you'd like me to add you over there, just say so, and include the link with your entry today. Shell xo
P.S. If you look to the right, where it says "flashers," you'll see I'm linking the places where people are posting their flash fics - either on fanfiction.net or on blog sites or whatever. If you'd like me to add you over there, just say so, and include the link with your entry today. Shell xo
@shellisthimbles
ReplyDelete200 ineligible words
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My girl has this corkboard mounted over her bed. It's a covered with photos of her with her friends, the two of us, Ocean Beach sunsets, and quotes from books she's read.
I hate those damn quotes.
You see, I'm head over heels in love with her.
But pinned between our prom photo and a picture of her as a toddler in her dad’s lap is a quote from Fitzgerald. "I love her and it is the beginning of everything."
And then, next to the selfie we took at the beach a few weeks ago is this quote from a book she read last year. "I fell in love the way you fall asleep. Slowly, and then all at once." She cried for hours after reading that damn book.
So the thing is, she’s surrounded herself with all those amazing quotes about love, crafted by master wordsmiths.
How can I tell her how much I love her, when I know my words will fall so far short of theirs? How do I make her understand how much she means to me, when I can't hope to be that eloquent?
All I have is three simple words. Will they be enough?
...
ReplyDeleteI’m doing the best I can to ensure a life for us, my love. I type what comes to mind, for it is my gift of words that will surely make our lives richer. I may have failed a time or two, unsure of what it is my feeble audience wants to read, but I will not stand idly by and listen to our acquaintances evaluate our relationship!
If my first novel’s success was a fluke, then I’ll make sure the next one won’t be. If no one likes my post in the weekly this time, then the next will be better. It will have to be.
I no longer write for the joy it used to bring. I write for the dollar they will pay me, which is all for you. My love, you drown me in debt as we speak. I work as hard as I can, seemingly writing nonsense to make ends meet.
So forgive me for being upset when someone says you’ve broken off our engagement and have had an affair. Preposterous! I refuse to indulge in wild suspicions!
You’ll tell me the truth when we meet. Until then, I love you.
@LouiseClark75
196 influenced words from the quote
Twitter handle: @AnnaLund2011
ReplyDeleteWord count: 200 words, on the nose
~~~~~~~~~
My grandmother ran away from her well-off family.
She rode circus horses, danced the Charleston on rickety tables in dark salons. She drank glorious cocktails in public, and sang her heart out.
She roared, and the Twenties roared right back.
Her family had no sons—she had seven sisters—so one sister ended up manager of the family factory. It flourished, all through the Depression. It was a mystery to all.
My grandmother took the train to Paris, alone, where she smoked elegant cigarettes in long and dandy holders, and danced both on tables and in the ruelles of the grand city. She lived, during that long summer; she lived her whole life.
And danced, for the last time.
All died within her when she married.
My grandmother, half a century later, had nothing to do with the woman I saw in the photographs—or the fiery words of her diaries—that I found after her death.
There is one image—she has a funny little hairdo, and a feathery hat sitting daintily on one ear. A wrecking, toothy wolf-grin splits her face in two, martini-glass high in her hand.
I own the very same grin.
I’m keeping that photograph.
~~~~~~~~~
Throwing open the door to our house I race up the stairs trying to find my wife before she runs out. She’s sitting carelessly at her vanity, applying her face.
ReplyDelete“Evie,” I choke out, the look on her face is confusion. “Don’t meet Agnes, please don’t.”
“Oh George, what is it now?”
“Do you know what they’re saying? The death of Mrs. Smith wasn’t an accident! It was all over her family pearls. They think Agnes had something to do with it, and the whispers are maybe you did too.” Her face doesn’t give anything away.
“Oh George, don’t believe the rumors,” she shakes her head. I grab her wrist and pull her against me.
“Now you listen here Evie, I forbid you to go see Agnes today. I will do everything in my power to keep you in this house, I will even throw you onto that bed and make you forget anything else in this world exists.”
All I get is the smile I fell in love with all those years ago.
“Don’t you trust me?”
I rub my hands over my face. “Evie, I trust you with my life. I just want to protect you.”
“You do.”
@TinsleyWarren
Words: 200
Twitter: @sparklymeg
ReplyDeleteWords: 200
I stumble, the cups on my tray clatter. She peers over her shoulder, wide eyes full of concern. I shrug, one corner of my mouth turning up in that half smile she loves.
She stares down into her coffee cup, giggling. Her companion - her sister - clucks her tongue and huffs out a breath. I busy myself with the next table.
“Come on, Isabella, concentrate. You don’t have time to be sitting around making eyes at the help!” she barks. “Recite to me again!”
She speaks, her voice like sweet nectar on a Summer's day. She’s the first green bud after a cold winter, she’s water after a long run. Refreshing, soothing, captivating.
“I fell in love with her courage, her self respect -”
“No Isabella! It’s all out of order, this simply won’t do!” The sister rambles while Isabella’s ears turn pink, her eyes darkening.
Isabella huffs, flinging her notebook to the next table, throwing her hands up. “Fine! YOU read it! I don’t even wanna do this stupid recital anyway!”
Life imitates art.
She is her words. She is courage. She is sincerity. She is flaming self respect.
She’s the beginning of everything.
Today, I’ll tell her.
My link to my flashers-http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9298733/1/Flashers
ReplyDeleteTwitter- ShadesofPurple4
Word Count - 198
She had a lot of self-respect in school. She still has it, though slightly lost. I can only hope to help her get all her self-respect back.
I saw into her soul then as I do now. She is as pure as the day she was born. She does what she wants, when she wants. No questions asked.
***
She walked into the bar like she owned the joint. Almost like she had an imaginary spot light shining down on her.
A tall, stalky male walked up to her. I saw his lips move and then her knee met his groin before she threw him out. Did she own this bar?
Something about her was pulling me.
I sat at the bar drinking my beer as she walked by behind me. I inhaled, taking in the lovely scent she walked around with.
What was it? Her powerful presence brings me to life.
She is a woman who respects herself enough to know who she is and not care about what others think.
Knowing that, makes me want to hold her. To let her know there are men that enjoys that in a woman.
I want to love her.
Pinkcookie (Fanfiction.net/Pinkcookie)
ReplyDelete200 words
“Pidge and Millie, Millie and Pidge,” she sang brightly as I walked up and plopped down at our favorite table at our favorite bistro.
“Ye Gods, I hate our childhood nicknames…you know I can’t stand it when you call me Pidge in public!” I grumped. “Oh Grace!” my sister Millie laughed and launched into a monologue on whether Mickey Mouse or Felix the Cat was the best cartoon.
I thought of this morning’s newspaper story on Bix’s treasure hunt and party last night. The article called our circle of friends “the bright young people.” I preferred to call them spoiled and ditzy, but kept that to myself.
“Millie, I have some bad news for you.”
Looking her straight in the eye, “I saw Bix kissing and petting with another woman last night!”
Her face crumpled for a moment, and then she straightened her spine.
“You know Grace, Father took me to the air show last week; I think I’ll go learn to fly planes.”
Amelia took her first flying lesson on January 3, 1921. She was my smart, brave, courageous, and beautiful sister. No one knew her like me; I loved her from the beginning to the end.
Thanks, Bix.
@Shneezles
ReplyDeleteWord Count: 200
I saw beyond her flawless red lips and faultless face.
Unlike him I didn't just see the perfect curl of her hair or how she looked every day
.
I saw her, her smile. Her true smile. Not the facade that was there for his friends or his parents.
Or for him.
The man she was chained to until death took him or freed her.
It was a smile, a true smile and it was beautiful.
It wasn’t just a smile of lips and teeth, it would put a glint in her eyes and tinge her cheeks red.
She sat with a perfect posture, you would think it was her debutante upbringing but it was actually fear. She was on alert. Scared. For him to come back and for her to look anything short of perfect. It kept her ram rod straight.
She didn’t hold herself up with pride. It was fear.
None of that mattered here though. It was just us.
This was our time. Once a week. Without the demands of children or husbands. To be honest, be ourselves, to smile and laugh without restraint. Just once a week.
To spend time with someone we wanted. Someone we loved.
@Twilightladies1
ReplyDeleteWord Count: 199
I pull out the torn, faded photo from beneath my pillow.
You’re sitting in a café in Paris with your friend with the most dazzling smile on your face. This was the time of your life, and you lived it to the fullest. My dad is taking the photo, and I know that smile is for him.
I’ve been told I look like you. He says it with a soft smile, but I can see the hurt in his eyes. I remind him of you, and although he tells me he loves me for it, I know he sometimes hates me for it.
This photo is everything to me.
You were taken from me before I even got a chance to meet you, but I know you loved me.
I’ve heard the stories of how you would pat your stomach and tell everyone about the type of girl I would be.
You said you wanted me to take after my dad. You wanted me to read as much as possible so I could learn new things. But most of all, you wanted me to travel.
I hold my ticket in my other hand.
A one way ticket to France.
Word Count: 196 via GDocs
ReplyDelete@sandyquill
= = =
She strode into the speakeasy with a confidence that drew the eyes of every man. Clearly a flapper of some sophistication, she was quickly flanked by two men and guided to a small bistro table.
“What’ll you have?” the bronze-haired man inquired, his voice velvety smooth.
His friend, a striking blond fellow who could have been in pictures, leaned back with a smile. “I’d wager you’re not a bathtub gin kind of girl. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
With the tilt of her chin, her golden bob moved beguilingly. “Rosalie Hale.”
The younger of her companions swallowed visibly. “THE Rosalie Hale?”
His friend laughed lightly. “Then, my dear, you’ll want a martini.”
A small jazz quartet played unobtrusively in one corner, their music weaving between the curls of smoke through the alcoholic ambiance. Rosalie Hale seemed to have been born for this place, her bearing nearly regal, her flaming youth a beacon in a dark and shady world.
At length, she stood. Her gaze direct, she pointed at the men who had bought her drinks that evening. “Want to walk a lady home?”
“Absolutely,” they said in unison.
Her leaving garnered as much attention as her entrance.
@lellabeth
ReplyDelete198 words
My dreams are filled with bomb blasts and the cries of wounded men.
My skin is scarred and puckered from the war, and yet the real ugliness lies deep within me - a secret root of darkness that lays dormant until triggered, and then it ricochets inside my chest cavity until I am it and it is me. The shrapnel of war has splintered, a thousand shards embedded across my body.
I meet you on V-E Day. I don’t celebrate like the others - there is no singing or cheering within my heart, just a silent prayer of thanks that the death will be done with. I stand in the crowded city square of a foreign country with hundreds in the same khaki uniform as me, but I am more alone than ever.
And then I see you, smiling and laughing and beautiful, and the warmth of it chases the chill of solitude from my skin. I approach under the guise of entering the cafe, though the moment our eyes meet I know I’m exactly where I should be. You don’t hesitate when I pull you from your chair and into my arms.
Your lips taste like redemption.
@bigblueboat
ReplyDelete200 words
*****************
I see those two over there, sipping coffee, laughing, judging. You seem oblivious to it all, brush in hand, canvas being splashed.
Last night I stood back, watching them corner you, demeaning you with words they didn't understand the true meaning of, thinking it would get them looked favorably upon by myself. Little did they know, it did the opposite. Why put down such an exquisite spirit as you?
The shot of whiskey thrown to the back of your throat. A hearty laugh that boomed over whatever repulsive words that died on their lips. My heart thumped a bit faster.
Your carefree ways that make me sing and write prose are frowned upon by others that don’t understand. For that I pity them. They’ll never understand the truth you have brought to my life.
They might be what society believes is acceptable, yet you live while they hide behind their veneers of long, plaited hair and powdered faces, sipping coffee and wines.
You turn to me, the canvas once more at your back. You don’t ask or point; the mischievous look in your eyes tells me that it doesn't matter which color I provide next, you will make it work.
@KekahJ
ReplyDeleteWord Count: 140
She's not perfect. She never will be. But she's his everything. He loves everything about her. From the little groans she makes in her sleep, to the sound her jaw makes when she chews, to the fact that she never, not once, remembers to put a new roll on the toilet paper holder.
It doesn't matter to him that the world doesn't consider her beautiful, that her body has grown softer and fleshier over the years. To him, she's a queen.
And she flourishes under the warm sunshine of his love. Because of him, she becomes a queen. The faults and imperfections that other people would focus on fade into the background. His love makes her confident. His love makes her laugh a little louder, her eyes a little brighter.
His love makes her whole, and she makes him complete.
@magtwi78
ReplyDelete199 words inspired by the quote
She sits across the room from me, brown-eyed, pony-tailed, and waiting. The girls around her giggle, gossipy-words bouncing lips and ears, every so often escaping their circle and filtering through the conversations of the other cliques.
She laughs with them, dances with them, eats with them, but she isn’t one of them.
She knows she’s better than this, but she’s waiting for a reason.
I’m the invisible, messy-haired boy who watches her daily…but I know more about her than they do. She visits her grandma Saturday mornings. She walks her neighbour’s dog each evening. She bakes cookies for the kids down the street who lost their mum last year so they have something for their lunch boxes.
We’ve spoken. I wanted to kiss her. I still do.
One nasty girl says my name. Immediately, brown eyes flick to me and back to my attacker. Girl stands. She screams. She pokes her finger. They gasp and cower—this is not the her they know.
She turns her back on them, and she comes to me. Her smile is free. “Hi.”
I know her. I love her. She is everything.
I smile too. “Hi.”
Twitter: @hummingbirdFF
ReplyDeleteWord count: 137
~~~
Beautiful.
Kind.
Graceful.
Gentle-hearted.
Soft spoken.
Refined.
A lady.
A pretty, perfect, porcelain doll.
Always be polite, smile, curtsy.
But only speak when spoken to.
Do not give your opinion.
Do not have an opinion.
A mere decoration? An accessory?
That is not me.
I live.
I breathe.
I think.
I have dreams and ideals.
And I am not afraid to fight for them.
I can be educated,
and use it to make a difference.
I can have a career,
and still love my family with the same fervour.
My thoughts are not trivial.
My opinions are not inferior.
I am not less than any man,
and I will not stand to be treated as such.
I will no longer hide in the shadows that you cast over me...
I will shine even brighter because of it.
~~~
@ChocoMG2112
ReplyDeleteWord count: 200
My American friend Imogene and I were sitting outside the Café Ooh La La on the Rue de la Belle Femme when she brought up the subject of sex.
“Angelique, um...” she hesitated. Her face had turned a shade of scarlet.
“Imogene! What is it?”
“You remember Henri? We’re going out again and I think he, well, he wants to … have sex!”
Her last words were said in whispered excitement. My sweet American friend had prudish notions about sex, but I loved her dearly.
“C'est magnifique!” I exclaimed. “My dear, French men are marvelous lovers. They know how to please a woman.” I sipped my café au lait and thought of my fling with Pierre Plein de Lui-Même. I crossed my legs tightly in blissful remembrance. The things that man did with his tongue and his long fingers were nothing short of heaven. And his cock, mon Dieu! Thick and long and hard and utterly delicious…
“Angelique!” I heard my name called from very far away.
“Oh… Yes?”
“Will you help me?”
“Darling, I will tell you everything you need. Now my dear, write this down.”
Imogene pulled out her tiny writing pad and began writing my every word.
@bebeginja
ReplyDeleteWord count: 200
I see you, love. You’re still in there.
I sit next to your bed, hold your hand. Your flesh is weak, but I feel your spirit. Still fighting.
I smooth the lines on your forehead. You hate them, but find them hilarious, too. That's you, notoriously passionate to both extremes. A smart mouth and an enormous heart. Your words made me think. Your honesty made me laugh.
You taught me how to love big.
I feel honored to have done life with you. Decades of giggles, gasps, and rogue tears. Always synced in thought and heart. Tethered by some inexplicable power.The intimacy we shared transcended physical need. Not friends, not quite lovers. No one understood. They judged what they thought they knew, but they could never get us. You never cared to explain. Our love was undefined, and therefore unacceptable.
And now here we are. I’m holding my favorite picture of us. So much has changed since that day when we were young and ambitious in the city.
My beautiful best friend.
I promised to be here until the end. You said you’d never let go.
I want you to now.
You have a new beginning waiting for you.
Pinkcookie (PM me at Fanfiction.net/Pinkcook)
ReplyDelete200 words
The girls had been coming to the bistro every Friday afternoon for months now. I’d gleaned that they were best friends from University. They’d put their heads together and whisper and laugh. It made me happy every time I saw them. Serving their coffee I asked if they would care for a pastry to go with it. ‘Oh, no! We’re watching our waistlines!’ they both remarked at the same time, causing them to dissolve into giggles once again. I gave them a crooked smile and left them to their chat.
Later as I waited on some other patrons, a couple of Yanks in uniform stopped by their table. “Well, hello lovelies! Can we buy you a drink?” “No thank you.” “Come on now; we’re lonely soldiers in need of some warm company, if you know what I mean.”
Before I could intervene, the petite brunette jumped from her chair, grabbed the seltzer bottle on the next table and blasted the two cheeky Yanks. They sputtered and coughed and were about to make themselves a menace when they noticed me standing behind the girls scowling at them.
I brought the girls two pastries, fresh coffee and a new, full seltzer bottle.
@Aleeab4u
ReplyDelete200 words
. . . . . .
Late October chill hangs heavy in the air. Why Genevieve insisted on an outdoor cafe, Gwen doesn't know, but it's always best to humor her irascible sister. At least the espresso is good.
Gwen turns her attention to the sidewalk. Hustle and bustle accompanied by the click of heels and the thud-scuff of boots, mingles with snatches of conversations. Busy, busy. Life is always so busy.
"...it's the jazz age, after all."
Realizing she's lost the thread of her sister's chatter, Gwen attempts a nod.
"Oh, do pay attention, Gwenie," Genevieve snaps, tapping her cigarette ash to the ground. "Really. Always off in your head somewhere." She exhales a plume of smoke then suddenly smiles, her expression sly.
"What?" Gwen asks, alarmed by the look.
"I like that shade of lipstick on you," Genevieve replies, then, apropos of nothing, "New man in your life?"
Blushing, Gwen drops her gaze.
Genevieve laughs. "Good."
Smiling shyly, Gwen shakes her head. "He's just a boy. You know I'm holding out for a man who'll move mountains for me, Gen-Gen."
Genevieve smiles, surprisingly tolerant. "My sister, the inexhaustible romantic." She sighs and flags the waiter. "I think we're going to need cocktails."
We should never have happened, but we did. She was the daughter of a wealthy American industrialist and I was a struggling artist. We met at the home of my patron, another wealthy American industrialist — Paris was awash with them. When I first saw her, the world stopped. We were inseparable from then on.
ReplyDeleteI was late to our favorite bistro. She and her sister, Cecile, were already there, heads together, Cecile scribbling furiously. Audrey was bubbling with excitement, she was breathtaking.
They’d received a cable from their father. He needed them at home and had booked two tickets on the next boat to New York. It left in three days and they were in a frenzy of preparations.
My heart dropped. She was leaving me. When Audrey saw my face, she kissed me.
“You’re such a silly,” she whispered in my ear. “Let’s get married before I leave. I’ll book you on the boat after ours. It’ll give me time to prepare Daddy.”
We married in Southampton the day before she left.
The next morning I dried her tears. We’d be together soon. Their ship was new and unsinkable, and our lives were just beginning.
@adriftinmyhead
196 words
A flame, livid and irate, smolders behind those chocolate browns.
ReplyDeleteYour jaw is clenched to restrain yourself from the words that I know threaten to ripple off the tip of your tongue.
Your cheeks - usually fair under the constant cover of Forks rain - are ablaze with a crimson rage.
You are hurt by the vitriol that is spewed from Society's lips - that they are able to paint you shameless and unworthy when you have done nothing to earn the remarks.
You want to lash out - point out their wrongs and call them out on their hypocrisy, throw their words back in their faces to reciprocate the pain.
But I don't let you.
My hand traps your fist and you breathe in sharply through gritted teeth, shocked.
Your eyes leave the multi-hued scorn to meet my gentle jades.
You blink and the tears fall rebelliously.
You don't want to give them the satisfaction of crushing your soul.
But I know your soul, and I know that simple words cannot mar the gold that shines within you.
Words: 179
Twitter: @indieandfanfic