Flash Frenzy Round 113

Posted: June 25, 2016 in Flash Frenzy Weekend Flash Challenge
Tags: , , ,

Welcome back. It’s Round 113, and this weekend our judge is David Shakes!

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. stephellis2013 says:

    The Birthday Present

    342 words


    “Put down the mug.”

    Brian jumped as a heavily-armoured SWAT team invaded his kitchen.

    “Put down the mug.”

    Four leather-clad hulks surrounded him, faces hidden by strange masks. It brought back vague memories of a lost weekend in Amsterdam and the subsequent trips to the clinic. Mary had left him not long after that

    A gloved hand reached out for his cup, another made to restrain him but was interrupted by the crackle of a radio. In the pause that followed Brian’s mind wandered back to Ruth, Mary’s replacement. It was her birthday and he had promised her breakfast in bed … amongst other things. He winced at the thought. Lately her demands had proved not just exhausting but downright terrifying, her foibles and fetishes becoming more and more disturbing as she swapped E.L. James for the Marquis de Sade. A slight burning sensation reminded him it was time to reapply the ointment again.

    Murmuring voices around him brought Brian back to the present. The invaders were surveying him awkwardly.

    “Sorry sir,” said their leader. “It seems we’ve made a mistake, a hoax call. I hope …”

    They started to shuffle past, allowing Brian to take in their uniform more fully. Leather AND rubber. He grinned.

    “No problem,” he said. “Let me show you out.” He held the door open for them. The men so eager to leave that they paid little attention to where he led them. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he called into the room.

    “Sir, I don’t think …”

    “For me,” squealed Ruth surfacing from the duvet like a whale erupting from the depths.

    “Madam …” said a strangled voice. “I …”

    Brian quickly closed the door and breathed a sigh of relief. He returned to the kitchen and made himself another brew, the burner phone he’d used to make the hoax call buried in the rubbish bin. For once he had a free morning. Enough time to watch the match and plan next Saturday’s call out. Perhaps, the Fire Service this time; he hoped their hose was long enough.

  2. @KreskaFiction
    359 words

    The Doctor Who Symphonic Spectacular Show

    ‘Well, it is sort-of like the cybermen outfit,’ Vinny offered, his own Dr Who get-up seemed lame in comparison; at least he’d kitted his own scarf.
    ‘I guess we should get going…’
    ‘Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but – Doctor Who? Not very original,’ Mark mentioned smugly. Vinny wound his scarf round his neck six times, now he looked like one of the Padaung people who stack brass rings around their necks. Mark guffawed and walked out to the car like Tinman; his metal pouch rubbing his unmentionables something terrible. Heading into town they had trouble parking, they made it with one minute to go.
    ‘Geez Vinny, can you slow down?’
    ‘I want to get in there! It’s bad enough we’ll have to squeeze past everyone to get to the seat, but walking in when it’s just starting is embarrassing,’ Vinny shouted, taking two stairs at a time. Mark winced, convinced his left ball was being scythed off and was probably hanging by a thread, he tried to juggle his precious pair by standing like a gun slinger and gyrating his hips. Without warning, someone yanked him into a side room..
    ‘You’re late! Come on, just through here…’ Mark stopped, glad it meant no more stairs.
    ‘Thanks – I can’t wait to…’
    ‘Now you don’t have to do anything, just walk on. Quick, everyone’s in position!’ He was shoved behind someone dressed as a dalek, he marvelled at how convincing the costume was. He could just about hear the orchestra and the presenter. Excitement surged through him; he’d loved Doctor Who ever since he was a nipper.
    ‘These other people must be late too,’ he thought, still trying to wriggle inside his costume, finally his left bollock freed itself, he let out a long groan of relief. The dalek glissaded forward, disappearing into the bright lights – cheers erupted from the audience – then a pause in the Symphonic Orchestra:
    ‘Exterminate! Exterminate!’
    Mark moved forward, his steamed-up mask allowing no clarity, while his left bollock slipped back into the stranglehold. Only able to move in tiny steps, he limped forward onto the stage holding out his crumpled ticket…

  3. A Magnificent Mugful of Minestrone

    (Or … Super Soup-erlatives)

    Maurizio carried a steaming jug across the road from the restaurant and filled up Sunny’s mug.
    ‘Enjoy, my friend.’
    Sunny pulled out a giant straw and settled to his slurping. He loved soup – something robots weren’t supposed to do – and Maurizio’s Minestrone was his favourite. Sunny had taste buds and a simple non-absorptive digestive system because he’d originally been designed for a politician with paranoid fears of poisoning. Sunny hid his far-from-human robot face and hands with a gasmask-glasses and leather gloves combination. He was sure folk knew he was a robot from the way he moved, just as he knew when humans had false limbs or glass eyes.
    Since breaking his programming he’d been all over, relying on the kindness of strangers for soup. In Leicester, he had a lovely Lentil Dahl thick enough to stand a spoon in. In Coventry, a Scottish lady served him a splendid Scotch Broth. He had magnificent Mannish Water made with various parts of a goat. He was told, by a laughing Jamaican lady, that it would put hairs on his chest. Perhaps he hadn’t drunk enough yet. He would head back to Birmingham again soon.
    He’d had a consummate Clam Chowder made by an American family on the Isle of Wight. He’d brave the ferry again for a few marvellous mug-fuls of that. Then there was the excellent Egg Drop soup from a Chinese takeaway in Colchester, fabulous French Onion soup from a bistro in Brighton, a glorious Gazpacho in Glasgow, a brilliant beetroot Borscht in Bangor.
    Maurizio returned to top up Sunny’s mug ‘I would like to get you a sandwich …’
    Sunny raised a hand in protest.
    ‘I know you don’t have bread, my friend. A sandwich board. You could walk around advertising my restaurant. Settle here, Sunny. I give you as much Minestrone as you desire. You could live in my stockroom. A comfy bed on sacks of dried beans and soup pasta, eh?’
    But Sunny shook his head. He liked life on the road. Maybe he’d come back when he was ancient and rusty, when he’d slaked his wander-thirst and tasted every soup in the country.

    360 words

  4. mariemck1 says:


    He owned my mother’s happiness. He broke it up like breadcrumbs and fed it to her when it suited him.
    Mum was an ever decreasing presence. First, her body shrank and then her soul.
    He made everything shrink. His mates would come round, the pecking order clear to see. They’d make this one guy cry, said stuff about his sister. I think he didn’t have any words to fight back with. After, they’d have me make them thick sandwiches. And they’d show off to the big man who made them feel big and small all at the same time; profanity and food erupting from their mouths until he tired of them.
    He made the world too real for a 7-year-old. Once I wet my trousers because I was too scared to walk past the chair he was sprawling on. I’d held off going to the toilet for hours.
    He made my stomach feel like razor blades. He was bovver boots stamping on my guts. He was a pneumatic drill in my head. 
    One day, in the back room I found my mum’s box of happiness. He’d forgotten to lock it away. I gave it back to her expecting things to be the way they once were. She kissed me and that was the last time I saw her.
    On the night she died, he watched a film. He laughed and laughed and laughed. I eventually fell asleep on the couch dreaming of nothing.

    240 words

    • Coo – the product of a more disturbed mind than mine…cool…This is really great writing, top quality as usual. *mutter mutter – never win these damned competitions with people like HER around – mutter mutter* 🙂

  5. zevonesque says:

    I’ll Do Anything for Love, I’ll Even Do This
    A.J. Walker

    A wry smile ghosted briefly across Daniella’s young face as she watched Hyder struggle with the filters.

    ‘Are you sure they’re even supposed to fit that mask? It looks… a bit unusual.’

    Hyder stopped his efforts at twisting the plastic casing into his mask.

    ‘Yeah, used it before once. Remember when I stripped the Artex out?’

    Daniella couldn’t work out how she’d forgotten that sorry episode.

    ‘Ah! Yes, of course.’

    Hyder turned the mask around to admire its workmanship. ‘Cost me an arm and a leg to get this made. Gunmetal and leather. Bit of fun for dressing-up and utilitarian too.’

    He saw Daniella shrug. ‘Whatever floats your boat, leatherman.’

    ‘Granted I haven’t had much cause to wear it. But for you I must.’

    ‘Don’t you dare put this on me! You’re just looking for an excuse to dress up. Perv!’

    Hyder smiled. ‘Hey, it’s for your mum, and because I love you. What she wants she gets.’

    ‘Look, you’ve no need to prove anything to her, or to me. I’d never make it for her even if it is her new favourite thing. It’s a fad. She’ll have forgotten about it before this house even recovers.’

    ‘Maybe, maybe not. But I’m making the effort.’

    He twisted the filters into place which went in with a satisfying click.

    ‘Did you see was I twisting that clockwise or anti-clockwise?’

    ‘Wasn’t looking. I take it you didn’t look at the instructions as per…’

    Hyder coughed. ‘Anyhoo, the ingredients are ready. My mask is sorted. I have my leather onesie on.’

    ‘I did mean to ask about that. Is that really necessary?’

    ‘Not really, but if I’m wearing the mask a t-shirt and jeans wouldn’t seem appropriate.’

    ‘Whatever, leather-boy. I’m off out. You get going. Clean the kitchen afterwards and get some bloody incense burning before I get back with me mum. She better drink the damn thing as soon as she gets in else I’ll be charging her for a fumigation.’

    He pulled on the mask and strode into the kitchen with purpose. ’Right, future mum-in-law, one durian fruit smoothie coming up!’

    WC 356

  6. Mark A. King says:



    194 words

    Tristen walks the promenade. His lanyard sways in the breeze like a lover’s first kiss. His cap adorned with a star, like Hollywood Boulevard.

    He doffs his cap to the pretty girls and handsome boys—it matters not to him.

    Doffs it to the chavs and the toffs. It matters not to him.

    We’re all equal.

    He votes Leave.

    On social media—they call him bigot. Xenophobe. Racist. Moron.

    They think he’s called Beryl. Or Reginald.

    They think he has Union Jack underpants and has a buzz-cut set at number zero.


    Harmony walks the council estate. Her glasses like safety-googles. Her looped earrings like industrial air-vents. She carries a coffee-cup with a heart scrawled on it. She’d tell you who drew it but you’d only judge.

    She winks at the old folk. High-fives the young-uns. It matters not to her.

    She passes the university she couldn’t afford. She smiles. What’s the point in bitterness? It matters not to her.

    We’re all equal.

    She votes Remain.

    On social media—they call her a toff. Elitist. Privileged. White. Middle-class.

    They label her with names that make no sense.

    They think she has gold taps. Wears designer clothes. Drives a German car.

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