Flash Frenzy Round 112

Posted: June 18, 2016 in Flash Frenzy Weekend Flash Challenge
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Welcome, writers, to Flash Frenzy Round 112. Your judge this weekend is Sal Page.

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 Aswhin Rao

  1. mariemck1 says:

    The Mover

    He didn’t fully understand it himself. It had been this way since he could remember. He wasn’t sure if it had made him grow into eccentricity, or if it was just another part of his make-up. But he’d been different, and he’d enjoyed it.
    He chose clothes that impeccably mismatched, folded swan napkins into breast pockets and tucked pocket watches into odd socks.
    Loneliness was a part of it, but he enjoyed that too. He had very little in common with anyone, anyway. He didn’t quite fit into a category, so he hadn’t suffered scorn or cruelty in the way that others might.
    Of course, they did probably fear him. But that was misplaced. He had mastered it just to forget it.
    Some days he still used it for his own amusement- a party trick for the man who never attended parties.
    Had it started with smaller objects- pins, coins, buttons, pens, spoons, cups- it would have taken him on a different, more profitable journey. Telekinesis was a beautiful, mind boggling gift. Making an object fly through the air or stick to a wall with a mere look in its direction was indeed awesome. But children…

    200 words

  2. Voima Oy says:

    315 words

    He often wore yellow in honor of Jorge Luis Borges, his favorite author. It was said that when Borges was going blind, the last color he could see was yellow. For this reason, Mr. Serrano grew sunflowers in his garden. The sunflowers also reminded him of his favorite artist, Vincent Van Gogh, who had painted the sunflowers in the south of France.

    Mr. Serrano had once traveled to Provence, to visit Van Gogh’s yellow house, to see the fields of sunflowers. He walked by purple fields filled with the scent of lavender. He imagined himself in a painting by Van Gogh, staring out at the star-filled sky.

    He shared these stories on Saturday evenings at the house of Lydia Lucas and her husband Henry. He would arrive with a bouquet in hand, or a book, or some small gift. They would chat for awhile, and he would play chess with Henry. The game went on for years.

    After Henry died, Mr. Serrano continued to visit the widow Lucas, bringing gifts, entertaining her grandchildren with his stories of yellow gardens and lavender fields.

    When she casually mentioned her interest in pottery, he showered her with books on Chinese porcelain and contemporary ceramics. “Oh my, you shouldn’t have,” she would say, and they would sit in the living room looking at the pictures. The books were displayed on the coffee table. He wondered if she ever looked at them when he was gone.

    When he mentioned the summer art fair, she declined his invitation. So, Mr. Serrano went by himself, admiring the work of local artists. He considered a set of hand-thrown mugs for Lydia. He imagined them filled with coffee in the living room, and their conversations on Saturday nights.

    Then, he saw a round vase in a milky white glaze that looked like moonlight. He could see it on his library table, filled with sunflowers.

  3. Don’t Be A Mug
    347 sips

    ‘Yes pet, it’s me. And Auntie Barbara and Uncle Pete – the whole family.’
    ‘But how did this happen?’
    ‘When you die darling you come back…’ Auntie Barbara answered in her usual condescending tone.
    ‘Well Tommy, we were always big tea drinkers!’ Uncle Fred joked, the whole family agreed in a cacophony of spoons hitting ceramics. Tommy pretended to be interested in a set of dishes.
    ‘Now you know we’re all here, aren’t you going to take us all home?’
    ‘Yesh – you canst leaves ush here.’ It was grandpa, he hadn’t put his false teeth in. Tommy looked at the guy running the stall, it was obvious he couldn’t hear anything of this family reunion.
    ‘I have enough mugs at home thank-you. I’d have nowhere to put you.’ Tommy tried to be diplomatic.
    ‘But you can’t separate the family, what happens if Auntie Barbara and Uncle Pete get split up? You’d never forgive yourself!’ Tommy winced. His head itched the way it always does when he was in a conundrum.
    ‘Listen Tommy, you’re not getting any younger, don’t believe in all this going towards a white light and everyone’s waiting for you bullshit. You die; you wake up as – well – something not human.’ Tommy wondered which one was Uncle Peter, he figured it was the shiny, blue cup. A mosquito buzzed around his ear; Tommy slapped it out of existence.
    ‘Oh dear…’ Tommy heard his mother say in that tone.
    ‘Oh dear Tommy, you just killed Reverend Michael.’ An inspiration hit Tommy like a triple espresso coffee.
    ‘Excuse me, how much for all these mugs?’ The seller looked quizzically at him.
    ‘All of them?’
    ‘Aha – the whole shebang.’
    ‘Errr – let me think – they’re only a pound each…’ Tommy heard his mother tut.
    ‘I’ll take them for a pound each then!’ Tommy decided. The seller didn’t hesitate, hurriedly packing them in newspaper.

    Tommy was impressed with his new mosaic style bathroom tiles, it took a while to cement all the bits in, especially around the toilet, but it was worth it; anything too keep the family together.

  4. stephellis2013 says:

    She Never Got To Wear Purple

    326 words


    When I am old, I shall wear purple. The line from her favourite poem drifted into his thoughts and his hand briefly touched his garish tie. Admittedly the hat wasn’t red but at least it didn’t suit him and in his pocket was a hipflask of brandy. Sniggers interrupted his musings. Two youths were sat on a low wall watching. Francis walked over to them, rattling his stick along some railings as he did so. Their laughter stopped and they eyed him warily.

    “No,” he said. “Don’t stop. Laugh as much as you can while you’re still young. God knows you won’t find much to laugh about when you get older.”

    “Is it that bad?” asked one lad as the other edged away.

    “It can be if you let it,” said Francis.

    “You look as though you’re having a good time though. We saw you gobble up all those samples over at the Deli. Shopkeeper didn’t look too pleased.”

    Francis grinned. “No, he didn’t, did he?”

    The youths were studying him with open curiosity now. He knew the young regarded the elderly as an alien race.

    “So what else do you do for fun?” asked one.

    “I don’t know … yet,” said Francis.

    The youths laughed, more comfortable in his company now. Age was not a barrier to getting up to mischief. And he seemed harmless enough.

    “My Grandad’s about your age,” said the other suddenly.

    “And what does he do?” asked Francis.

    “Nothing. Just sits and stares out the window.”

    “And what do you do?”

    “Nothing,” admitted the youth. “I just get away as quickly as possible. We … we don’t have anything to talk about.” A look of embarrassment, of shame crossed his face.

    “Take this,” said Francis, pulling a worn piece of paper out of his pocket. “Go and see him, read it to him. It might help.”

    “What is it?”

    “My wife’s favourite poem,” smiled Francis. “She never got to wear purple.”

  5. @firdausp
    (358 words)


    “You need to get here immediately,” my father cried over the phone.
    “Dad are you okay? Did you fall or something?” I sat upright in bed still groggy from sleep. It was six am.
    “I broke the coffee mug!” he cried.
    I knew which one he was referring to. It was the one mom had gifted him before she fell ill and eventually died. I always found him sipping coffee from it whenever I visited.
    “I’ll come home as soon as I can dad. It’s Father’s Day too.”
    He hung up.
    When I reached home I found him pacing the front porch. He had his hideous yellow coat and purple tie on. But somehow he looked very dapper in it. He was a handsome old man. I hugged him but he was impatient to get going.
    We searched for a similar coffee mug and when we found one which looked quite like the old one, dad didn’t seem too happy. I bought it anyway.
    We sat down for lunch at a restaurant. He looked across the table at me and took my hand, “I’m sorry I acted like that, I was so upset. That mug seemed to be a part of her somehow. But…” he paused, “…you are a part of her. She’s left you behind.” His eyes were moist.
    “She left that purple tie too,” I chuckled trying to lighten up the moment.
    “Oh this one,” he ran his hand over it, ” this I was wearing when your mom came up to me thinking I was her blind date.”
    “And you weren’t?”
    “When I saw her for the first time my heart stopped! She said ‘Are you Joe?’, and By God! I was willing to be Joe for the rest of my life.”
    “You lied to her dad!” I tried to sound stern.
    He nodded with a cheesy grin.
    “Did you ever tell her?”
    “Oh yes, but not until I had a wedding ring around her finger,” he grinned, “you should have seen her face.”
    He threw back his head and laughed and I couldn’t help but join in. It was turning into a good Father’s Day.

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