Flash Frenzy Round 100

Posted: March 26, 2016 in Flash Frenzy Weekend Flash Challenge
Tags: , , , ,

ROUND 100!!! Can you believe it? 100,000 thanks to everybody who has written, judged, or donated photo prompts over the past 2.5 years. You are all awesome. This weekend, we have a brand new judge, Stephen Lodge,  to commemorate our milestone. I’m sure you’ll all dazzle him with your entries.

Before we get started, here’s a brief reminder of the rules.

Deadline: Sunday at 6:00pm MST. You all have 36 hours to create your best work of up to 360 words (exclusive of title) and post it into the comments below. Please include your word count (required) and Twitter handle if applicable. For complete rules, click here. 

The winning author and their story will be featured as Wednesday’s Hump-Day Quickie, receive a winner’s page, and be crowned Flash Master of the Week.

Here is your prompt.


photo courtesy Ashwin Rao

  1. ladyhazmat says:

    *Since this is a bit of a special occasion, I thought I’d share here the first story I ever sold and had published – a piece of flash fiction that I think also fits the photo prompt quite nicely. If you’ve not read it before, enjoy.*

    Zoe’s Last Birthday

    She should have planned ahead. Begun her search sooner. She’d had a whole year to prepare, but now mere hours remained; at midnight, it would be too late. Zoe rummaged through a lawn of convenience store jetsam with a singular goal. She tossed away empty soda cans and discarded candy wrappers, aspirin bottles and sleeves of unopened condoms, searching for the ritual’s critical element. Shadows bled into the aisles, coalescing into night. Eyes choked with black, Zoe moved quickly; her fingers discerned the identities of expired snacks and over the counter medications one after another until, at last, her hands closed around the necessary object. An expression long thought extinct animated Zoe’s face. She secreted the prized item in her backpack and slipped like a whisper into a decaying metropolis.

    Back at home, Zoe sat—legs crossed and teeth chattering—on a green Formica countertop in a kitchen as warm and cheery as a meat locker. Cupped in her chapped, raw hands was Zoe’s hard-won treasure—a petrified, pre-packaged cupcake. A single birthday candle jutted upward from the center, emitting a solemn glow like a mournful lighthouse standing watch. Inserting the candle into the aged snack-cake had been a challenge; it leaned, dripping yellow wax onto cracked, gray frosting as stale and flavorless as day-old chewing gum.

    Happy birthday to me…

    She wondered how many others were still out there and if any of them were celebrating. Three hundred and sixty-four days ago—the day after Zoe’s ninth birthday—had marked the beginning of the end. People started disappearing. Not just a few. Millions. Every day. And each person that blinked out of existence did so in the same terrifying and inescapably predictable fashion. With each new day, another cohort of birthday girls and boys across the globe simply vanished.

    Happy birthday to me…

    Though the source of the phenomenon remained a mystery, it didn’t take long for people to extrapolate the implications: mankind’s days were numbered. Everybody had an expiration date; worse, everybody knew precisely how many days they had left. With no incentive to resist moral entropy, civilized society rapidly descended into chaos. Then, not quite so rapidly, the world grew quiet.

    Happy birthday, dear Zoe…

    Zoe sat, face bathed in candlelight, singing to herself. The last of humanity. Celebrating her last birthday. On the last day of the world. With her final wish on her lips, Zoe puckered and blew.

    Happy birthday to—

    The cupcake dropped soundlessly to the counter. The flame quivered, but the candle remained lit, casting a shallow sphere of light into an empty room.

    The flickering halo lingered a few moments, and then it, too, was no more.

  2. Baked Alaska

    The usual snake-skin pattern of condensation inside the window had been replaced by intricate icy ferns, feathers and exotic mosses. Tanya gazed at them, amazed, for a few moments before working a porthole in the ice with her finger and peering out. Still in semi-darkness, the garden looked as if someone had turned it into a giant all-ready-for-the-oven Baked Alaska. Rick’s favourite pudding. He’d loved all her desserts but that one in particular. It could even get him up for lunch, though he’d head back to bed once the dish was scraped clean.
    Tanya marvelled at the whiter-than-white icing sugar meringue whose impossibly smooth curves echoed the bushes, shrubs, bench and birdbath. She’d done all the gardening herself. Rick kept saying he’d come and help but never got round to it. His mates suggested she set fire to the bed. Only way to get him out, they said. Tanya was surprised they kept coming round with their six packs of beer. Their talk of running half marathons, cycling into the hills and exotic holidays ought to have encouraged him but never did
    It was getting lighter. Tanya remembered Rick’s pale skin and the way he lounged around, feet up, while she tidied around him. She realised, despite the snow-meringue covering the garden, she could still see the lump in the lawn she’d been unable to get flat again afterwards. She smiled. She would never forget digging the hole last summer. She’d dug for hours and hours. Such a boiling hot day. Sweat poured off her and her skin took on a reddish-brown tinge while Rick waited quietly on the kitchen floor.
    It had been six months. As soon a year had gone by she’d celebrate, she decided. Bake something special with a candle in. Life was good with Rick out of the way. She recalled how much of a nag his laziness made her. She knew she couldn’t have ever changed him so she gave him what he wanted.
    Baked Alaska; soft sponge cake, sweet jam, raspberries, vanilla ice cream and those swirls of meringue she knew Rick would adore being beneath now winter was here.
    Rest in peace, Rick.

    360 words

  3. stephellis2013 says:

    Gaap Year in Hell

    358 words


    Icing covers a multitude of sins; like snow it blankets the ugly and vile in virginal white hiding the wickedness beneath. Excuse me a moment though, a customer requires my attention. While I am gone, why not try one of my Black Widow Cupcakes. On the house of course … bit of a special occasion you understand to celebrate the end of my Gaap year – pardon the pun.

    Oh, my dear madam! It looks as though my small offerings did not agree with you. Much like your late husband, I hear. Don’t you fret now. Your pulse is a little erratic, but it will slow down, the pain will stop one day … perhaps.

    Another customer. Please, excuse me once more.

    Sir, sir! Such an honour for my humble little establishment! I have created for you the most delightful cream horns. Guaranteed to melt in the mouth. But you must try before you buy as they say. Go on sir, eat, gorge yourself on my dainties. No need to thank me, I can see you have your mouth full – but then you’re used to that, aren’t you sir …

    Ah, another customer.

    You know this place is the Devil’s own business to run when there’s a rush on. Please excuse me.

    My dear sir, apologies for the delay. Well, I must say you made sure of that little lot. It warms my absent heart no end to meet a man who yields so completely to temptation. What? You’re burning up? Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to it. Xaphan is on oven duty today. He’ll be with you in just a moment.

    Now all this running around has given me a rare appetite. I think I can afford to shut up shop for an hour, grab a bite of lunch. Belial knows I deserve it. In fact that last customer looked good enough to eat. I’m so glad he decided to hang around for a while, although Dumah will have to cut him down.

    You know standing in for Misroch in Lucifer’s bakery has been a blast, piece of cake really. Wonder if he’ll consider a job swap?

  4. CR Smith says:


    WC 316


    Dressed in black, I wait in the shadows. My face painted like I’m about to do battle. I only have a twenty minute window. Twenty minutes from when the security guard leaves his post and disappears around the corner to have a smoke. As he emerges from inside the building, I pull on a pair of gloves and watch him unlock the gate. He doesn’t bother re-locking it, but I already knew he wouldn’t. I watch him walk along the pavement, my heart beat accelerating with every step he takes towards the corner. The moment he turns, I dash across the street into the yard. It’s as if our movements have been choreographed.

    All the waste is sorted into bins. I rummage around the blue one, finding packets of salmon and a few other items I can use. I throw them straight into my bag-for-life. Next up is the orange bin, from where I pull freshly baked bread and cakes. In the green bin I discover cabbage and potatoes. I’m already composing the menu in my head. The yellow bin is last in line and this is where the gloves come in handy — to call it messy is an understatement. I delve inside, past sticky, unidentifiable objects and come up with exactly what I’m looking for.

    I know time is short. My phone is already vibrating in my back pocket. I need to leave right now! Running across the yard, I hide behind a stack of bread trays, checking to see if the coast is clear, sweat trickling down my face. I’m back across the street by the time he rounds the corner. He doesn’t see me; doesn’t even look in my direction. I hurry home. There’s a birthday dinner to cook, not to mention a cake. Once I’ve washed the yogurt off the candle it’ll be fine, no one will ever know.

  5. LearaVoice says:

    It’s The Thought That Counts
    WC 261

    It tasted as bad as it looked.

    I forced a smile as I chewed and swallowed a bite while holding my breath. “It is so good!” I lied.

    My sweet boy did odd jobs for the past month to save up enough money to buy the ingredients to make a birthday cake.

    I took a gulp of milk to wash it down.

    Being a single mom is hard. I feel guilty most days for missing out on time with my son in exchange for keeping a roof over his head and his belly full.

    I don’t like him being home alone as often as he is but he is a good kid and stays out of trouble. He is smart and has good sense and I hope he truly understands.

    He is twelve now…so grown up but still my baby.

    After pouring a glass of milk, he put a piece of cake on a plate for himself. I tried to distract him before he could take a bite. “So how about we splurge and walk to the Redbox for a movie,” I said enthusiastically and got up from my chair.

    “Sounds good,” he agreed, as he stuffed a large forkful of his creation into his mouth. He chewed slowly and then frowned.

    “That’s disgusting!” He whined.

    “Noooo, it’s good,” I reassured.

    “Mom seriously, Ugh!”

    “I hope you know my cake-making ability does not reflect my feelings. I promise I was not trying to poison you!” He said with a chuckle.

    I tousled his hair and said, “So how about that movie?”


  6. davidshakes says:

    You Can’t Have Your Cake And Eat It
    David Shakes
    360 words

    Shadows dance in the dim candlelight, their languorous sway seemingly independent of its gentle flicker. For a moment I think I can hear a sonata, something in G minor, then it’s gone.
    The candle continues to burn slowly but inexorably down – a dime store metaphor. Its wick, once a pure white, now blackened and charred at its end – as I will be.

    As I will be.

    I’ve spent one hundred weeks in this cell but I’ve been a prisoner most of my life – avarice and pride my twin captors. When the great war came I took my chances, not in the trenches but on its fringes. Attrition can be profitable. The allies belligerent attempts to wear down the opposition provided interesting avenues for commerce behind enemy lines. That was where I met the Great Opportunist – in the wreckage of an orphanage.

    I won’t tell you why I was there in that shell of a building, not through shame, that detail is simply unimportant. What matters is this – a floor collapsed and pinned me beneath it. As my life ebbed I felt a presence. A small girl, fragile, beautiful, held my hand in hers.

    ‘You’d like to live?’ she’d asked, just that and no more.
    I must have nodded. Then she sang,

    ‘One hundred years of profit, one hundred weeks of loss, one hundred years you’ll be a king, for eternity without the cross.’

    Did I agree?
    I must have agreed.
    Did I know what I was agreeing to?
    Of course I did.

    Those shadows grow larger. They have teeth. The candle is a nub, I trace the runs of melted wax over the surface of the cake. They seem chaotic, though I now know nothing happens by chance, nothing.
    The cake is her joke – a celebration, a summary. My chosen last meal sits untouched in the corner. The truth is, I’ve never had much appetite for food, for anything.

    I’ve spent the last century surrounded by empty opulence. I’ve had my cake. Time to eat it.
    Snuffing the candle between thumb and forefinger, I grab handfuls of cake, forcing them into my dry mouth.

    Somewhere close, a little girl giggles.

  7. davidshakes says:

    360 words
    David Shakes

    I wasn’t even going to invite Simon but Mum made me, so I guess this is her fault. Nobody likes Simon, he’s weird. The kid that sits alone in the cafeteria? That’s Simon. He really does have a sticking plaster holding his glasses together – I’m not even joking. We always ask him who has died, because his trousers constantly fly at half-mast. His parker would be vintage on anyone else, but on him it’s just old. His trainers are from the supermarket.
    How did Mum find out we shared the same birthday? She met Simon’s mother at parents’ evening. Can you believe it? Dumb luck.
    Smelly Simon we called him when we were younger, it’s Shitty Simon now. He does smell a bit – the smell of washed clothes not properly aired. He’s permanently damp – physically and metaphorically.
    Maybe we exaggerate the rest.
    Simon doesn’t own a games console, he doesn’t even own a TV. Before he learned to shut the hell up, he’d always be droning on about things he’d read or heard on the ‘wireless’. He really calls it a wireless – told you, weird.
    He’s clever though. Maybe TV really does rot your brain?
    Simon doesn’t have a dad. Norman Bates is another nickname. We joke about his Mum’s lodgers. You can see how angry he gets, but he swallows it down, walks away. Somebody probably told him if you ignore the taunts, eventually they’ll stop. Simon knows that’s bullshit.
    I do feel bad when his lips quiver and his eyes well up.
    So here we are. He’s been at my party, a square peg in a round hole, for the last few hours. Mum’s oblivious -my mates have been taking the piss out of me as much as him, but she’s constantly asking me to make sure he’s included.
    She’s just brought out the final indignity -a bloody cake Simon’s mother baked. It looks like a little kid’s. Mum wants us to cut it together.
    ‘Don’t give Norman the knife,’ somebody just shouted.
    ‘Eek, eek, eek,’ others chant– the classic Psycho tune.
    I momentarily feel Simon’s grip tighten on the knife, but he does nothing.
    This is reality.

    • mariemck1 says:

      Heartbreaking. I think we’ve all known someone like this and perhaps haven’t reacted as kindly as we should for fear we will also suffer social rejection. The character of Simon is very well drawn: ‘Simon knows that’s bullshit’; ‘Before he learned to shut the hell up’ ; as are your narrator’s feelings. Great writing.

  8. LearaVoice says:

    Really nice work, everyone!

  9. A Birthday For Kate

    “Happy birthday, Kate,” the girl said, her long, light hair dangling dangerously over the flickering candle stub within the haphazard mound of cake on the table. “And happy retirement,” she added.

    “Happy?” Kate asked.

    “Well. Might as well be as not, surely?”

    “Guess so,” Kate said, musing. “Not like there’s any real choice in the matter, is it?”

    “So let’s say happy, then,” the other girl replied.

    “Happy retirement to me,” Kate amended. “Happy birthday – and induction – to you. Fancy some?”

    “Don’t mind if I do,” the girl said. “After all, I did make it. Stands to reason we should share.”

    “Doesn’t it just?” Kate said, her lips quirking briefly, before they flattened back into a line. Her blue eyes looked briefly into the light, long lashed ones close to her own, before looking away again, into the dark centre of the candle’s flame.

    “Not quite right,” the girl said, brow puckered, grimacing, as she chewed on the sliver shedding crumbs cut from the cake’s edges. “Maybe a bit more sugar?”

    “You’ll get it right next time,” Kate said. “Next birthday. That’s the main thing.”

    “Will I?”

    “Sure,” Kate responded. “Stands to reason. You’re learning at the minute, is all. You’ll get the hang of it. Same as I did. There’s time.”

    The girl nodded. “Thanks, Kate.”

    “Won’t be long before I have to go. Retirement plan kicks in shortly,” Kate said, looking at the other girl. “Then it’ll be down to you. Best say another happy birthday before it’s really time.”

    “Thanks, Kate,” the girl said, again. “It’s been nice having you here.”

    “Albeit brief, right?” Kate replied. “They do it this way deliberately. At least, that’s how I heard it. Now you have too.”

    “On my own now?” the girl asked, looking straight into Kate’s eyes, on a level.

    “Only ‘til your birthday.” Kate paused. “A year’s not very long, you know. Then you’ll retire too.”

    “Like you?”

    “Exactly like me.” Kate shrugged. “Nice to meet you,” she said, holding out her hands to grasp those of the other girl.

    “Likewise,” the girl said. “Happy birthday.”

    “To you, too, I guess.” The older girl shrugged. “Kate.”


    (360 words)

  10. davidshakes says:

    Love the dark subtext here Catherine. Delicious.

  11. Jaime Burchardt says:

    123 Words

    “Happy Birthday!”

    “Pop! Snap! You guys shouldn’t have!”

    “Nonsense, Crackle! It’s a big day! Besides, this isn’t just any birthday cake.”

    “Well, whatta mean?”

    “Cut into it and you’ll see! But blow out your candle first.”

    “Oh boy! Hope I get my wish! [Whew] Alright! Now let’s have some ca…um. Um. Fellas. What is this?”


    “Pop. Snap. You didn’t…”

    “We did.”

    “You didn’t!”

    “We finally got you your dream cake!”

    “OH MY GOD! LOOK! Look at all that blood!”

    “Yeah, he was a tough bastard. Pop had to strangle him forever. He won’t be giggling from tummy pokes anymore.”

    “Because he’ll be in my tummy!”

    “That’s right, Crackle! Now eat up. The Dark Lord is coming over soon with presents!”


  12. mariemck1 says:

    … To Me

    316 words @elaine173marie

    I am here. This plate, this candle, this ability to indulge myself in this silly tradition proves I am.
    Being alone, doesn’t make you disappear, even if it does make you invisible.

    I sing the tragic word ‘me’ and bring it to an end. I am here. Me. Me. Me.

    I take a spoon and scoop up the ice cream, but as I bring it to my lips my appetite falls away, crumbling into nothingness.

    The old house groans, filled with the noises of its past, a birthday cheer, I pretend.

    I look out the kitchen window, remember how the view has grown up: green rolling hills… line upon line of houses set up to fall down again like rows of dominoes… roads that score the skyline supported by colossal pillars… I am tired already of what I’ll see next. I am bored.

    I bang the door behind me as I head towards the sitting room where the fire that I haven’t lit roars.

    I make my presence felt. For I can. I watch as their eyes look in my direction.
    ‘I live here!’ My shout throws open the large bay window. The woman, a nervous one, runs to close it. The cold shaft of air, or maybe just the fright, has made large, ugly goosebumps appear on her forearms. She walks to the fireside and stands demanding back the heat.

    I plonk myself at her feet and stare at them one by one. She hides wine underneath the sink behind the household cleaners. The boy, her boy, weeps underneath his sheets at night. Her husband doesn’t allow anyone to peer over his shoulder when he sits at the computer, and I know why.

    I hate her. I hate him. I hate their boy.

    ‘It’s my birthday.’ I shout; the woman flaps like a bird; and this time it’s the man who waddles towards the window.


  13. AND SO . . .

    * * *

    Brian S Creek
    254 words

    * * *

    I stare at the dancing flame. Its tip reaches for the ceiling, while it’s plump, orange arse balances on a soft, black needle.

    Across the table expectant faces look on, waiting for the moment, waiting for tradition. In a single row they sit, spectators in an amphitheatre, generations threaded together from left to right. A history of a name. A river of bloodline. Multiple points of export.

    My family.

    I look at the candle. Its weak heat strokes my face.

    The number rolls forward. Thirty-four becomes thirty-five. Behind me is a minefield of change and mistakes, of beginnings and missteps. So much has happened since the last time I was stood here like this.

    I was happier once, I know that. But three hundred and sixty-five days will forever be tainted by loss, whatever good memories I could have claimed, memories now all drowned in sorrow; a loss that exploded from a single event. A night of red and blue, of pain and tears.

    Perhaps that’s why I can’t look forward to this next year. I know how much can go wrong between the candles. One year cleaves its way in the blink of an eye. Standing here now, I wonder what is there to celebrate? Or worse, what there will be to fear.

    Across the table expectant faces look on, waiting for the moment, waiting for tradition. I guess I should give them their show. Count to three, blow out the flame, make a wish.

    It never comes true.

    See you for thirty-six?

  14. Stella T says:

    358 words

    The Birthday Gift

    The alarm clock says a quarter to four I’m committing one of the cardinal sins for an insomniac, checking the time. Slipping out of bed I pull on a pair of underpants I’d discarded the night before. Clothes scattered over the floor like rubbish on the communal tip. Emptying my bladder I think about life. It’s good

    Opening the back door I breathe in the cool morning air. Shivering I reach for a coat, it was one of Marie’s. Stepping out onto the overgrown lawn I wince, the grass stabbing at my bare feet. I look up and there she stands, watching me from the bedroom window. Her dark hair tousled. Sleep still in her eyes. I wave. She waves back, a shy smile creeping over her beautiful face. God I love that girl.

    The birthday cake I bought last night is in the refrigerator, cream and plenty of chocolate just as I like it. I wonder what Marie has bought me. If I don’t like it she’ll meet my ex-girlfriends. In the undergrowth I buried Tina’s gaudy tie, Sophia’s fake designer socks, Gemma’s Game Boy, that one was so out of date. The girls lay in the garden in a circle, pedicured feet touching. If the present is good I’ll ask Marie to marry me and never doubt her choices again.

    Marie slips her tiny hand inside mine telling me to shut my eyes holding a present. She looks so gorgeous in her tiny shorts and vest. Nipples erect in the cold chill, singing ‘Happy Birthday’. The sharp blade pierces a lung then a kidney, as a paramedic, I know I have to slow my breathing down to survive. She smiles begging me to open my present. She rips off the birthday paper, its perfect. I must be dreaming but the pain is telling me different and blood is staining the cashmere coat.

    “You’ll be buried alongside Tina, Sophia and Gemma”

    She kicks me hard in the side. I cry begging I don’t want to die.

    “You shouldn’t keep a journal; some secrets are best left unsaid. I couldn’t risk you not liking my present” she laughed.

  15. Fae Fielding says:

    Revenge is bitter sweet.

    A year ago today my creation was born at a theatre in the south.

    A year ago today, I finally had my revenge on my sister.

    They say you must never annoy a writer. It may be a cliche that they will write you into their novel, but that is exactly what I did.

    I am a fantasy writer. I write for children aged nine to sixteen.

    I am not a script writer. I am not a crime writer, but just over a year ago I wrote a play and entered it into a competition.

    It won.

    I wrote the truth.

    I spelt out, line by line, act by act, the story of how my sister swindled my father out of his savings. I wrote scene by scene the lead up to his death and my sisters part in it. I changed the names to protect the innocent. I left my sisters name unchanged.

    Of course everyone knew it was a work of fiction.

    Except the events were real enough. My sister did swindle my father, and he did die at her hands.
    How do I know this?

    I didn’t know for definite until I watched for her reactions during the play. They were priceless. When the Inspector pointed a finger towards the audience and announced, “It was you! You Aileen! You killed your father and stole his money,” she paled. I thought she would faint.

    From that day since, she has endured stress related ills with worsening agoraphobia, her fortune rots in the bank, she has no use for it.

    Yes, revenge is sweet.

    While I celebrate, I reflect on my own part in events.

    I was careful to use a pseudonym to ensure anonymity. Not just to hide from my sister, but there is a law against withholding information at an inquest, and I didn’t want to implicate friends who helped with my search for the truth. As I cannot reveal my true identity, or produce ID to prove my pseudonym to a bank, my royalties from the play remain unclaimed. At present they amount to thousands more than my sisters ill-gotten fortune.

    Revenge is bitter sweet.

    360 words

  16. A.J. Walker says:

    Birthday / Cake
    A.J. Walker

    It was their first date when Jemma said “I love cake, more than life itself.” Dave filed it under ‘ridiculous, but important to know’.

    Whenever they were out for a meal she always found room for dessert. She joked she had a second stomach exclusively for cake and no matter how much she filled up with starter and main course there was always room for cake. After ten months together there was so much empirical evidence that Dave began to believe that Jemma’s second stomach was indeed fact.

    He was a savoury man; starter not a pudding person. But his love for Jemma was complete. He suffered the countless nights of Bake Off, and a whole library of books on desserts faced him every day. Mary Berry even turned up his dreams not infrequently.

    For her birthday Dave secretly took the day off work and set to baking her a cake from one of Mary’s recipes. He never understood how people couldn’t cook; just follow the recipe.

    The sponge came out buttery coloured, soft and moist; just like the picture. He smothered it in fondant icing and drizzled on some chocolate powder. More than life itself – this birthday surprise would earn him a potful of brownie points and a night of great sex; at the very least. He swelled, with pride.

    Jemma called the police herself. It hadn’t been a malicious act, she just couldn’t help herself. She should have told Dave that whilst she loved cake more than life, she hated birthdays more than anything. She really should have told him.

    PC Cromarty was traumatised initially after finding Dave’s body in the living room. A knife, sticky with blood and crumbs, lying on the dining room table. At dinner parties he would eventually tell the story of the night: how he’d found Jemma sat calmly watching a rerun of Bake Off in the living room; how she contritely confessed to him; how she had a crumb of sponge on her top lip throughout the confession; how he realised she’d eaten the cake before calling the police.

    She asked PC Cromarty to see if he could find which recipe Dave had followed; for it had been a truly lovely cake.

    WC: 360

  17. […] Written for The Angry Hourglass: Flash Frenzy Round 100 Photo Prompt. WC 261 Photo by Ashwin […]

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