Flash Frenzy Round 125

Posted: February 4, 2017 in Flash Frenzy Weekend Flash Challenge
Tags: , , , ,

Happy Saturday, writers. Welcome to Round 125. Our judge this weekend is Mark A. King.

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 and be crowned Flash Master of the Week.

Here is your prompt.

Round 125

photo courtesy Ashwin Rao

  1. Drums On The Broken River
    by Steve Lodge
    360 words

    “Running Water, Running Water, do you have a minute? I need your help. Yes, the inner teepee.”

    “I’m here, Sitting Bull, how can I help, chief, oh, I think I know how…”

    “Well, if you are thinking it is to do with removing these flaming arrows from the top of my head and in my hair, then you are right on the money. I have chosen wisely as you have realised so quickly where your help is required.”

    “Thank you, mighty chief of the Single Finger Tribe. But it was the TV I saw, noticed your picture was a bit fuzzy, but, yes, I can see this is a question of priorities.”

    “And, so….” Sitting Bull guided his brave.

    “So, which one would you like me to do first?”

    “Running Water, it is lucky you were born near that old stream, because I can think of a couple of names that would have suited you better. Now, to business. The arrows. Do you have any water on you?”

    “Let me try and yank them out.”

    “Don’t scalp me, I couldn’t live with the shame. A fierce Indian warrior chief having to wear a wig. I could never look Redcrow, Hawkfeatures or Straight Backed Bear in the face.” Sitting Bull’s a bit worried.

    “I can’t help noticing that these arrows are very small and thin, oh mighty chief.” Noted Running Water, gently removing the burning arrows.

    “Er.. well spotted. Fired at me by my son, Obscured By Crowds. From the toy set I bought him last birthday.”

    “He fired these? At you? His own father. But he’s only three.”

    “Yes, Running Water. He will likely be a superstar with the old arrows when he is older.”

    “Oh, you’re teaching him darts, then?” Asked Running Water.

    “Be quick will you? Minimal talking. I am beginning to smell burning hair.”

    “Lovely smell, isn’t it?”

    “Usually, but strangely not on this occasion. Hurry up. I am at the edge of my temper here.”

    “Nearly done, chief.” Running Water whistles tunelessly, then says. “Oh, I heard Morning Wind still sleeps with One Eye Open.”

    “Well? What’s wrong with that? One Eye Open is his wife.”

    • ewansmithxxx says:

      lol! This reminds me so much of the bizarre conversations I have with the barber when I’m having my hair cut. At some stage, I always find myself thinking “Are we talking about completely different things?!”

      V. funny as always. : – )

    • stephellis2013 says:

      Oh, this is your best yet. Great names (esp. the Single Finger tribe), the little digs that go over the brave’s head, the transformation into a recognisable hairdresser scenario. Wonderful

  2. Rebekah Postupak says:

    The princess sat on the rock, studying him. Finally she said: “What happens now?”

    A yawn. “Mouth opens, down you go.”


    The dragon creaked open an eye. “You clearly have no idea how difficult dragonfire is at my age.”

    She eyed the teeth dangling from his jaw, blunt and cracked after decades of use. “Do you at least chew first?”

    “What for? You’re too tiny to leave even a hint of flavor on my tongue, or assuage a single note of the orchestra thundering in my belly.”

    “I’m sorry for your discomfort,” said the princess politely, noting the gaps where his talons once sprouted. “I brought a sandwich; you’re welcome to it, if you like.”

    “You brought a sandwich?”

    “I came prepared. It’s impolite to allow one’s belly to grumble and you, unfortunately, are known for your tardiness.”

    “Oh?” said the dragon faintly.

    “It may surprise you to hear manners are still valued by some.”

    Flushing under her glare, the dragon shut his eye again.

    “You’ve obviously forgotten the etiquette even for today’s silly tradition,” the princess went on, slipping off her bonds and looping them round the dragon’s legs, firmly, quickly, unnoticed. “The dragon is supposed to return the princess, and in thanks the king serves him a perfectly roasted herd of cattle. You alone persist in devouring princesses. Bad form, old thing.”

    At this the dragon’s eyes shot open in protest, only to discover the princess standing in front of him with a fistful of flaming arrows. He tried but failed to wriggle out of the chains.

    “I could overlook your snacking on princesses; I daresay some deserve it,” said the princess, delicately setting him aflame. “It’s your gosh darn lapse of manners I can’t forgive.”

    “Naturally,” she added, laying out her silver tea service and settling back to wait, “I will chew thoroughly.”

    As he burned he saw the silver, like her smile, glinting and sparkling in the mouthwatering roar of dragonfire. He realized, embarrassed, that the fire must have seized his ears first; he’d have otherwise sworn he’d heard her, as he died, emit the tiniest, most graceful, politest, and only very slightly apologetic, burp.

    360 words

    • ewansmithxxx says:

      Beautiful – that is beautifully done, Rebekah! I love the way you’ve taken a very traditional form and turned it completely on its head. (And I particularly approve of your focussing on the importance of Good Manners on all occasions.) And a gorgeous ending! 👏👏👏

    • stephellis2013 says:

      Lovely. A real turn-the-tables moment. I feel quite sorry for the dragon actually.

  3. @firdausp
    (357 words)

    Scents of time

    I struck a match and brought it to the tip of an incense-stick. The match went out. Impatiently, I grabbed a few sticks, walked into the kitchen, turned on the gas burner and stuck their tips into the flame. They immediately caught fire. I blew them out, their tips smouldering red. Tiny curls of smoke arose from each tip. The scent of jasmine was strong.

    It’s strange how a little thing like a certain fragrance can hurtle you down memory lane; and I landed right beside Kallu. I was five and hardly reached his mid-thigh. He had a whole bunch of smouldering incense-sticks held above his head and I was pleading to hold just one.

    “No bibi, you’ll burn yourself,” he was saying politely as he walked to a large dining table laden with food. I think it was the death anniversary of my father’s grandmother. The men of the house were gathered on one side of the table and the women, with their heads covered, on the other side. I followed Kallu to the table and watched him arrange the sticks in a little stand with holes.

    As my father recited verses from the Holy Quran and blessed the food, which was for the poor children waiting outside, I watched the incense-sticks burn, grey ash dropping onto the table. I wondered which one would hold the ash the longest. I rooted for one until it lost.

    Disappointed, I ran into the kitchen and watched Kallu knead dough and make piles of rotis. I loved watching him cook and listen to his banter. He had funny things to say.

    It was almost dusk and the summer breeze was carrying the scent of jasmine from plants at the far end of the courtyard and also of ripe mangoes. The stars would be out soon and I would lie on a bamboo cot in the courtyard, with a mosquito net, while Kallu would go about doing last minute errands before he headed home.

    It’s strange how a scent can evoke memories of starry nights and mosquito-nets, flowers and mangoes, death and food-laden tables and someone you thought you’d forgotten.

  4. stephellis2013 says:

    Fire Fighting

    348 words


    Small fingers reached up, fire flickering from blackened nails. Masked firemen moved between the tiny bodies, demon giants walking through flame. A crowd had gathered to watch; an act not unusual in itself, except that this house stood in proud isolation. It had no neighbours. But apparently it had its ghouls.

    “Where’d they come from?” Mike’s voice crackled over the radio.

    “Dunno, but you’d better move ’em.” Ryan watched Mike walk towards the crowd, gesturing to them to retreat until a loud crack pulled his attention back to the building.

    The downstairs window had burst open as fire erupted once more inside. He frowned. They had got it under control, damped down the flames so that only smoke and residual heat remained. There had been nothing in his quick inspection to indicate a further flare-up. I’m getting too old for this, thought Ryan, time to hang up my helmet.

    The fingers grew longer, stretching up towards his legs, wrapping themselves around his ankle, climbing up shin and calf. He did not see them, did not feel them; the shrivelled limbs, burrowing through the thermal layers of his protective clothing, through the lining, through flesh, swimming in blood, crawling towards the heart. Only then did he feel it, burning fingers crushing against atrium and ventricle, tearing at his heartstrings. He cried out but the crew did not hear him. All he could see was fire. The crowd had re-gathered, closer now, this time surrounding him, their faces – their smiles – as bright as the flames flickering in the darkness.

    “Fire demands sacrifice,” murmured a voice in his ear. “Tonight it’s your turn. You must’ve sensed it.’

    “Time to go,” he said distractedly, taking his helmet off. He didn’t hear the shouts of his crew.

    “Time for you to join us.”

    He nodded obediently; his body a mere puppet now that someone, something, else was pulling his strings. Part of him had always known it would end this way, that the fire would claim him. They had been part of each other’s lives for so long. It was a fitting end.

    • ewansmithxxx says:

      Great description, Steph. And I love the sense of the inevitable about the story; “Part of him had always known it would end this way, that the fire would claim him.”

      There’s something very satisfying about a story which builds up to a conclusion which, when you come to it, you think “Of course! I should have realised!”

      • stephellis2013 says:

        Thank you. As always I had a starting point and then not a clue – it just works out somehow!

  5. ewansmithxxx says:

    355 words

    The Judgement

    Drexel scurried along the dark passage after Lysis. The noise was growing deafening; was it singing, was it chanting?
    Lysis pushed aside a thick curtain and, at once, Drexel was overwhelmed by the suffocating stench of bodies. People were crushing against him on all sides. He felt an instant of panic before Lysis dragged him away up some steps and thrust him into a tiny alcove.
    He gazed in bewilderment at the vast hall in front of him and the great clouds of smoke rising on all sides. “Is that incense?” Drexel cried. “Is this a religious ceremony?”
    Lysis laughed harshly. “It’s a place of judgement.”
    She pointed to a far corner. Drexel had never before seen such a pitiful group of humans. They looked exhausted, maddened. “They’re the supplicants,” Lysis shouted in his ear. “They’ve made such a terrible journey to be here. The incense is because of them. To cover up their stink. Oh look!”
    Hooded figures had grabbed one of the supplicants and dragged him from the crowd. A large silver plate was held up and on it the supplicant placed a filthy scrap of paper. “That’s the next case for judgement.”
    In procession, the plate was carried forward towards a hunched figure slumped in a great wooden chair decorated with obscene carvings. The chanting in the hall grew to a crescendo, shrieks and screams rising on all sides until, suddenly, the figure raised a clawed hand. Silence fell over the hall. He picked up the paper and gazed at it. The tension became unbearable. Then, with a tiny shake of his head, he tossed the paper away. There was a dreadful cry from the supplicant who was at once grabbed by the hooded figures and hurled brutally aside.
    “The judgement has gone against him,” Lysis shouted as the vast crowd capered and howled in approbation.
    Drexel gazed in horror at the mad scene. It was like some nightmarish Brueghel painting. He spotted the supplicant stumbling past and leant forward to hear.
    “One day,” he was whispering in a voice of utter despair. “One day, a poem of mine will be accepted…”

    • stephellis2013 says:

      Perfectly captures the feeling of all poets out there. Thought this was going to be some sort of horrific sacrificial/punishment until your twist! Great story.

  6. stephellis2013 says:


    356 words


    The familiar cloying smell drifted in through the window. She didn’t need to look out the window to know that it was Kieran. Give him half-an-hour and he’d probably be slumped over his books puking his guts out. He didn’t disappoint. As Sue passed his classroom, she cast a sympathetic glance at her unlucky colleague now guiding him away from the desk.

    She walked slowly, mentally running through the never-ending ‘to-do’ list, trying to prioritise tasks which were all urgent. Literacy interventions, differentiation of GCSE texts for the students she withdrew from class where the pace was relentless. Admin. Worries. The expectation of all that you would know as much as the teacher regardless of subject. Just a lowly teaching assistant.

    Not for the first time she wondered why she remained. It certainly wasn’t for the money, her wages so dire she often felt it impossible to continue – especially the too frequent regularity with which unpaid time ate into home life. It definitely wasn’t for the difficult times – restraining a boy from hurling a fire extinguisher across the classroom, standing in front of another to protect him from a howling mob, walking around with the imprint of a fist in your side, working in isolation with a student whose violent outbursts put you at risk. No it wasn’t for that.

    She glanced in at another classroom. A student looked up and waved and she smiled back. This was why she stayed. It was for the students whose eyes shone with pride and excitement when they’d read a book for the first time and wanted to try another; the students who suddenly wrote pages of a story when they’d never produced work before; the student who started to open up about home-life; the students who had no one.

    And then just at the point when these were about to leave and she felt she could possibly walk away without guilt, she met the newcomers: hollow eyes, sad eyes, confused eyes … trusting eyes. And already she could feel that bond emerge, a fragile thing, wispy tendrils tying them together – so she held out her hand and stayed.

  7. davidshakes says:

    Cleansing Ritual
    266 words
    David Shakes

    To cleanse myself of your shadow is now my only wish. I hope you choke upon the incense, that its cloying smoke is all-pervasive just as you have been in my life.

    I wanted you once. I wished for this. After the accident I prayed to know that something of you survived. Now I curse whichever cruel god heard my words.

    At first I thought I’d imagined you. Others still think it, if they remember at all – I soon learned to keep quiet about your ubiquitous presence.

    When love fades people separate but you clung to me all the same. I’d catch your unfaltering smile in a mirror and hate you a little more. Your benign expression became a trigger for uncontrollable rages.

    Relationships were impossible. People thought I’d yet to get over losing you but the reality is you never went away.

    I’d take my own life but for fear that my eternity would be spent with you. Would you be able to speak when I crossed the threshold?

    I couldn’t bear to hear those words.

    You’ve smiled through every seedy and self destructive phase of my miserable life. You watched impassively as I shot poison into my tired veins.

    Did I hear you whisper my name that time I almost overdosed?

    My greatest fear is that you are just a delusion. That the family and friends and doctors and junkies are all right – that the accident damaged me irrevocably.

    Please just get from behind me.

    You’ve held me back all these years.

    Let me go.

    I want to let go.

    You’re still smiling.

  8. Angelique Pacheco says:

    Word count: 360

    Temple Tears

    It’s silent as I enter the outdoor temple. The sounds of catcalling and the bustling street trade fades as I walk into another dimension of a sacred space. Even the birds are still as I walk quietly observing my surroundings as only a tourist would. A cat slinks languidly past, his eyes gleaming in the shadows. He looks fat and well-fed as he sits down to attend to his grooming. I wander past a board that is covered in scraps of paper nailed in place so the wind won’t steal the prayers of others. A monk walks past and I do my best not to touch him in any way. In Thailand you may not touch or speak to a monk if you are a woman.

    That’s when I see her. Lines of passing time are etched into her face. She looks like all color has been washed away from her. Everything in how she is dressed screams of neutrality. Her brown house dress, hangs shapelessly on her. It is evident that she has lost weight and she looks drawn. A glint appears over her head as she sways the incense sticks rhythmically in prayer. I see it again. A shining beacon of hope. A diamond ring appears each time, sharply in contrast to the rest of her. It is the only identifying mark of her as a woman. She is married. No, scratch that. She was. Tears stream down her face as grief forces torrents of prayers to the golden figure above her. She is trying to alleviate the pain she is experiencing. And he sits there and stares blankly at her. I also can’t help but stare at her. There is something so beautiful about grief. I wonder if I look like her. I have decided to embrace my grief by travelling alone to find myself, realizing that somewhere along the line I lost myself. I am so determined not to feel grief that the tears find their way out despite my stubborn nature and I decide to let them fall.

    She looks back at me and smiles gently. I smile back. We have recognized one another’s souls.

  9. Frank Key says:

    Lost in a Tenement Window
    by Frank Key
    359 words

    She closed her eyes to find the story inside and opened them hours later to find herself in a much altered state of mind.

    Uncurtained tenement windows hovered above, diamond adorned old lady fingers lingered below. The scent of recently lit lavender incense wafted through the air all around her. The clamor of a forgotten name inner city, echoed off the plaster walls and into the spiraling chambers of her panicky cochlea.

    ‘I’ve been here before,’ she thought, ‘as a character named…’ but the name escaped the front of her mind only to avoid recapture by becoming entwined with the blurry smoke from the slowly burning flowery scented sticks.

    ‘The incense, that’s got to be the key to all this nonsense. Focus, girl, you really must focus. What do these image elements mean to you? Surely something more than a lonely old woman burning lavender incense in an empty tenement room.’

    ‘That’s you, sweet girl, as you will be some faraway day in your future and me long after there was a you.’

    The real time noise of a live human voice jolted her out of her mid-afternoon reverie. ‘What the hay, mother, can’t you see when I’m in the zone and not to be disturbed?’

    ‘You were fantasizing within the tenement vision again, weren’t you?’

    ‘You know I was, this conversation is not new. Why do you insist on repeating it?’

    ‘Because I worry about you.’
    ‘Please don’t.’
    ‘Can’t help it.’
    ‘Yes you can and you should.’
    ‘It’s a mother’s duty to worry.’
    ‘And a daughter’s duty to ignore it.’

    The mother arose from the bedside where she’d sat beside her daughter, a thin smile hidden between the wrinkles of her ageless face.

    ‘Mother. Wait. I’m sorry.’

    ‘I understand and accept. May I leave now or is there more you want to say?’

    ‘Yep. One question. Why is the lady holding twelve sticks of incense?’

    ‘Why, dear, the answer is so obviously clear. There’s one representing each year of the age when you spread your fledgling wings, flew out the window, and became forever lost to me.’

    ‘Oh, okay, I remember now. Goodbye, mother.’

    ‘Goodbye, dear.’


  10. Scratch-N-Sniff Story

    Her perfume wraps around my mind turning a corner and blowing down the street past the grocery store and the school and through my memory of her feathered bangs and tight jeans sliding up my sidewalk her scarf flickering like a pink cloth fire stitched with wind and her steps to my front door echoing in my thoughts that hold millions of scents in my life that color my existence with tiny abbreviations of time flowers. The doorbell rang like an alarm that started rain in my heart to put out old flames. We would smoke pot in my room all day and then use incense to hide the evidence from my parents. We used so much that we could have disguised Woodstock. She laughed with that faint sweet conditioner she used hitting me with a shower of lust. My Kiss Alive album. The bushes outside my grandmother’s house. Erasures from grade school. These floral arrangements peppered my life and come back to haunt me at the most unexpected times. Like her perfume on another woman just walking by me on some lonely stretch of road. I approached her, perhaps too forcibly, and asked what she was wearing. She took out a can of mace. I pressed needing to give my memory a name. She sprayed me then scratched my face. And at that moment that her nails dug into my skin and her perfume enveloped me, I could recall seeing the lovely curve of the bottle that had carved her body with the grace of my dimming innocence on a dresser all those years ago. Her nails brushed my cheek with a deep faint surprise like that first kiss in my bedroom; flesh parting and warm liquid playing my cheek with “Rock and Roll All Night.” There was a soft language in her departure. I stood there bleeding a smile. She had no idea how she had rescued me.

  11. zevonesque says:

    Temple Contemplation
    A.J. Walker

    Kev sat cross-legged in the corner of the temple, near the entrance for the breeze. He’d circled the outside of the building twice taking a hundred photos that no-one would ever see. It pleased him to take them, but he never did anything with them. They were his alone and would die when his hard drive died.

    He seemed to be the only tourist in town at the moment. Out of season and off the usual tourist trail. He’d read about the temple in a fiction book, not a guide book, so perhaps few travellers knew about it. It made him feel lucky.

    A man slowly walked into the temple. Kev thought he looked in his early thirties. He had smart jeans on, slim fit that Kev had never had a day in his life when he could have contemplated wearing them. He was as thin as the smoking incense sticks he was holding. Kev couldn’t help himself staring, he felt like he was behind a one way mirror invisible to anyone in the temple. For now that was only himself and the young man.

    The man was muttering something Kev couldn’t make out. It may have been a prayer or just as easily a list of shopping to remember for the way home. He felt the buddha’s impassive gaze looked to all the world like he cared.

    A mosquito landed on Kev’s temple and he slapped it dead instinctively. It seemed to him the wrong place to do it and he said a silent prayer of his own in apology; even though he considered himself a devout atheist it cost nothing to sit on the fence and be an agnostic in places like this.

    The man placed the incense into a holder, at the side of a smaller buddha or some other deity, and left. Kev really needed to read up on the temple symbology, but for now he just welcomed the feeling of peace and shade it afforded.

    Next up, the bar he’d seen by the river. More mozzies were guaranteed so close to the water, but so was an ice cold Beer Lao.

    Or three.

    WC: 360

  12. TanGental says:

    Moving On
    355 words
    Estelle Hughes came into my life one Wednesday. It was the way she nibbled her sandwich. She laughed, commenting on the size of mine. We talked then and after, when we were in the Rialto café. I was between everything, depressed and, frankly unlikely to come up if I took another blow. How she told me she was a medium, I don’t remember. What I do recall was what she said next, ‘It’s your mother, Grace,’ I’m sure I hadn’t mentioned mum’s name, ‘she’s all about you.’
    ‘All about me? She’s been dead two years.’
    ‘You know she’s not gone, don’t you?’
    Bullshit, of course. But insidious BS nonetheless. It wouldn’t make sense to anyone else – being haunted – it’s hardly likely to help your credibility. But it did to me. Mum never settled when dad died. Something about his death, the lack of a body, the way she gradually stayed indoors, then upstairs. And her final fall. Unexplained. Some wanted suicide but it was ambiguous, why she fell. No one was there, no evidence of foul play.
    When I took Estelle home she became sombre. Introspective. Fascinated by dad’s study, running her hands along the walls. She suggested exorcizing mum… and dad. I thought her nuts. But I’d lost two stone already; I’d try anything. It was a blur, really, but I remember her holding these splinters to her forehead – titian wood, she said – and them drawing in this vapour while she moaned something awful.
    Whatever she did, it worked. After she left, I slept for two days. When I woke, I knew they’d gone. The house felt like it had been aired, a smell I didn’t realise was there had been cleared.
    I looked for Estelle, without luck. The café owners said she’d only ever come in on the days I was there. They knew nothing about her beyond she talked to me. They said she looked like me – they thought she was my sister.
    That made me start. See, I have, had a twin sister, died in childbirth. Looking back, I’m not sure either of my parents really got over that loss either.

  13. Titanium and Supplication
    360 words

    “Sorry I’m kind of in the middle of nowhere. . . OK I’ll try that. . . Thanks.”

    Bisim slid the phone back into his cargo pocket and approached his lifeless travel companion.
    Reaching behind the solar panel his pinky finger found the recessed toggle the Taladez operator had just told him existed. The face plate on the Tyson.2 flash white then offered the text: SOLAR BYPASS NUCLEAR AUXILARY INITIATED. BATTERY LIFE 93 HOURS. REBOOTING. ENJOY.

    Of course his Tyson.2 would breakdown at the most important part of this whole deployment to Wat Arun. The robots were made for rain, snow, heat, but the constant cloud cover over the past four days had been too much for the machine to overcome. Bisim sat down on a low temple wall hoping to get a few rounds of Popping Penguins in on his phone while the machine started up.

    The monk, Bisim’s contact at the temple, spent the robot’s reboot time examining the automaton. The small man looked especially interested in Tyson’s articulated hands.

    “Why am I setting this up here?”Bisim asked the bald man.

    “You don’t know?”

    “I mean, I know the purpose. But why here? This is the temple of sunrises right?”

    “Young man, someone’s setting sun is another’s sunrise.”

    Bisim rolled his eyes. The monk sounded just like the rest of the holy men he’d been working with since taking this internship. He thought the stereotype of these divine thinkers would have been debunked. The more Tyson.2 deployments he worked through the more the stereotypes were reinforced.

    The machine clicked and picked itself up like a time-lapse of a mushroom springing into existence. “Wonderful,” the monk declared. As soon Tyson’2 faceplate was illuminated Bisim dialed the first of what would be a lifetime of clients to use the robot’s services. An old man in a dark room popped onto the screen.

    “The incense,” Bisim prompted the monk. The diminutive man handed the robot a bindle of the perfumed sticks. Tyson.2 lit them with a butane fingertip. The robot lifted the incense to its forehead and in unison, recited prayers and last rites with the dying man on the screen.

  14. A Girl Named Euphoria

    “The soul is a black box like in an airplane. All your information is in it. Your spirit is the plane that is using the body to move. My incense is being used like those people on the runways that direct planes. I am landing energy.”

    “Do you have any beer?”

    This was the hot witch girl next door that I have been trying to land for months.

    “I feel your chakras are misaligned! Your rainbow is blurred with past life issues! You’re spiritually raining!”

    She returned with a beer. It spilled on me like a spell.

    “You should meditate with crystals everyday and eat bee pollen.”

    I noticed photos on a piano. In the photos she looked normal: No purple hair. No Egyptian jewelry. No black clothes.

    “I have a collection of rocks. When I was moving here the movers wondered if the boxes were full of rocks or something. I told them it was rocks.”

    “Why rocks?” I asked with beer still in my mouth.

    “The energy. Everything is energy. And I use energy for different things, so I need different things to create the energy. Every rock has a different personality.”

    She lit more incense and walked around the room. She was holding a fist full of stems without blooms. A trail of smoke danced in the air then dissipated like conversation in a busy bar. She started to take her clothes off.

    “We must celebrate existence.”

    The incense was making me light headed. Thoughts darted in my mind without hitting any particular kind of target.

    “You are not ready, yet.”

    She left the room and I heard noise in the kitchen. She returned with something kind of purple and kind of red like someone had beaten the shit out of a Margarita.

    “I call this Euphoria. I named it after myself.”

    I drank the concoction as she danced around the room landing spirits. My spirit started to taxi then left my body to fly around the room. She directed it to her bedroom that resembled an airport with lots of pillows. She looked down at me and asked, “Sir, do you want another bag of peanuts?”

  15. […] I wrote this from a prompt on the Flash Frenzy website, here […]

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