1. Lewdog

    Lewdog Come ova here and give me kisses! Supporter Contributor

    Dec 9, 2012
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    Williamsburg, KY

    Current Contest Flash Fiction Contest #13- "Obsession"

    Discussion in 'Bi-Weekly Flash Fiction Contest Archives' started by Lewdog, Sep 14, 2014.

    The newest and greatest Flash Fiction Contest #13 is "Obsession" as chosen by previous winner @Nothingness . Please keep in mind the word limit of 150-450 words. All entries must be posted anonymously in this thread by 6:00 pm EST October 5th (extended to three weeks) and make sure to include the number of words and any warnings. You can also make your entry private simply by clicking more functions before posting, and click the box that makes the post viewable by "Members Only."

    Thanks everyone and good luck!
    Last edited: Sep 28, 2014
  2. Drue Bernardi

    Drue Bernardi New Member

    Aug 29, 2014
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    The Asterisk (447 Words)

    He had obsessed over this race for years. He was, for all intents and purposes, one of the most successful drivers in history. 5 Championships, 93 wins, winner of everything from the Brickyard to the Coca-Cola 600, but yet this one race had always eluded him. The big one, the Super Bowl of Stock Car Racing, the Great American Race, the legendary Daytona 500. He had gone his entire career without winning this race, somehow coming up just short of victory time and time again. Flat tires, crashes, blown motors had all hindered his past attempts to win this race.

    This time it wouldn’t escape though, this time he was going to take that checkered flag come hell or high water. That asterisk on his career would remain no longer! This was his last attempt, and he was going to make it count. He carefully piloted his blue and white number six car off Turn Four and flashed under the white flag with the snarling pack in hot pursuit. All he had to do was make it two and a half more miles and the race would be his. He knew in his heart what was going to happen when they got back to turn four, and he knew in his head what he needed to do.

    Off the final corner, the checkered in sight, the car behind him went to the right, he blocked, back to the bottom to shut down the run of the third place car. His car jerked suddenly to the right, it rolled and tumbled down the front stretch. The entire pack became a spinning, sliding, sparking mess of cars that clouded the front stretch in a thick cloud of tire smoke as they all slid past the start finish line under the both the checkered and caution flags. 20 machines precision built for speed had become nothing more than destroyed hunks of sheet metal.

    “Hey man you alright?” the voice came from his spotter high above the track.

    “Yeah I’m fine, just pissed off.” He replied as he began unbuckling from the car that had thankfully landed wheels down just a few yards past the finish line.

    “Yeah well just imagine how the track workers are gonna feel when they have to haul that piece of junk to Victory Lane.” This time the voice was from his crew chief on the pit box.

    He felt a weight lift of his shoulders, felt the relief of a satisfied obsession. It hadn’t been pretty, it hadn’t been what he imagined, and hell he was pretty sure he had crossed the finish line upside down. But he had finally won the elusive Daytona 500.
  3. Who

    Who Member

    May 11, 2012
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    Friend Request for Sally [436 words - mild language]

    Sally is a girl I went to school with. I text her, I message her. Every time, I say “Hello Sally” she doesn’t text me back. She doesn’t reply. Sometimes I think I hear her calling me, but it’s only a faint voice. I don't know it’s her. It might be them. They might be reading this. That’s okay, they can be my guests.

    She’s here on my couch, not moving. She’s shy. That’s why she never replied, that’s why she didn’t answer my friend request. Maybe I never sent it. My mind could be playing tricks. Again.

    She accepted Phil Sternman and Gale Newton, but she didn’t know them in school, no more than she knew me.

    She sits there looking nothing like her picture. I won’t judge. I just want to know who Hillary Rosenthal and Aaron Berns are. I want to know where she met them. I want to know where they live.

    Sally won’t tell me. I don’t expect her to. It’s the way she looks at me. It makes me want to tell her what a bitch she’s being and that I love her and that she needs to tell me why George and Kaley Whositwhatsit beat me to the list. A list three hundred strong. Who are these people? I don’t know them.

    She might not know them either. It’s like those people that send random friend requests and you say ‘Hey. Who is this?’ And you never, ever hear from them again. I think it’s them. Some people don’t ask, they just accept and it’s plus one for their friends list. I think they take advantage of that. I think that’s how they watch you. Maybe they’re watching Sally sitting there, maybe they’re listening to the click-clack of my keys.

    She’s looking at me, but still won’t say a word. Her beak has never opened, not at all.
    Her toes are thin and boney, clawed. Her feathers are black and malting. There are a few of them on the floor, I think I’ll save them.

    She looks tired. Not shy, tired. She’s too tired to accept my friend request. I don’t think she could sit up straight without the strap I wrapped around her chest.

    Sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing… but that’s okay. It is. She is with me now. In a moment I’m going to sit with her. I’m going to ask her some questions. Then, I’m going to tear out of her what they put inside. I don’t want them listening, I just want answers.

    I’m afraid of what could happen if she stays silent.
  4. Artist369

    Artist369 Active Member

    Jul 11, 2014
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    Pacific Northwest
    "Morning Chores"- [445 words. Mild Language]

    They found the body by the derelict playground not a hundred yards out, face-down in the muck, legs strewn across the cracked pavement of the basketball court.

    Old Dollinger stood beside him, cinching the collar of his coat closed as he let out a long whistle. “Finally put down like the dog he was.”

    “Don't say that.”

    “Why not? He was a bastard.”

    “He never had a chance.”

    “None of us do.” Dollinger shuffled to the edge of the pavement and kicked a clump of cement into the mud. It splattered them both.

    By all that was holy, the stench. “What happens now?” he asked, swinging his forearm across his face.

    “Get in, clean up the mess, get out. That's our orders.”

    “No I mean--”

    “Hell if I know. He was a damn fool to think we could ever get beyond the seventh precinct anyway. What'd he expect on the other side? The Garden of Eden? Ain't so much as a wild mushroom that hasn't been contaminated. He'd have never made it to the county li--” A cough choked off Dollinger's words and he hunched over, clutching at the golf ball-sized goiter bulging from the side of his throat-- a reminder that the old crank was on borrowed time. They all were.

    Something clattered in an alleyway behind them. He glanced over his shoulder, scalp prickling. The mangled skyline butted up against the low-slung sun, making it difficult to see beneath the morning glare. Crumbling shells of hotels and apartment complexes loomed just to the northeast-- plenty of perches for the devout to lay in wait. He shuddered, glad that he couldn't see them, and wondered if that poor bastard, Michelson, had.

    “Stop with your misty-eyed daydreaming, Vanelli, and help me flip 'im over. ”

    He turned to find Dollinger had waded into the sludge, and was attempting to heave the guy up by the shoulders. He leaped to help, grabbing the feet. Together, they flipped him onto his back, but Dollinger lost his grip, and the body splashed into the filth with a sickening kerplunk. Again, the smell. It unleashed something in his gut which clawed its way up his throat with a vengeance. He gritted his teeth.

    “Slippery fellow,” Dollinger muttered.

    Michelson's head lolled to the side as they trudged toward the buildings, face muddied as if smeared with excessive warpaint. He envied the man's ambition. Almost.

    His obsession with finding a way out had cost him everything. And as he and old Dollinger exchanged a weary look, it was clear their hope of escape had died with the man.
    Last edited: Oct 3, 2014
  5. J Faceless

    J Faceless Active Member

    Jul 10, 2014
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    New England
    Prisoner Steve [466 words]​
    Prisoner 00B7861, that’s what my name tag read for twenty five years and four months, now it just read Steve. A name I hadn’t been called since I was sentenced, twelve years for the future murder of Rodney Beard. Who was Rodney friggen Beard?

    I’ve never met him, I wondered every night who he was and why I would murder him. How could I kill somebody I never even met? I was sentenced to twelve years for that in a trial that only needed one piece of evidence to convict me. They didn’t care that I had a family, that I did charity work or that I was considered by most to be a standup guy.

    When I finally got out, there was nothing for me, I was lucky to get this delivery job. I was no longer that standup guy, that charity worker; I was shaped by the horrors of prison, caged with the murderers and other animals. The convicts didn’t care who I was, to them I was easy prey.

    The Future crimes statute was considered unconstitutional after my fourth year of incarceration. It was already too late, to survive I had to commit atrocities. Atrocities that turned me into one of those animals, things that kept me awake at night for the twenty-one years added to my sentence. I didn’t belong there and it was all thanks to Rodney Beard. Prison taught me two important things about myself, which I could never have learned elsewhere.

    Twenty five years was a long time to obsess about something, especially when it’s something you never did. I still scratch at the tattoos, I got them during one my substance abuse phases. I often regret them, having another man’s name tattooed on me sends the wrong message. It just serves as a reminder that I don’t need. I could never forget the name, Rodney Beard.

    The last delivery of the day is always the worst, it never goes smooth there’s always some problem that holds you up. I kick the package out of the truck and head to the suburban house with its cliche white picket fence. I hope there’s not a dog, they make life difficult. I sigh as I walk towards the door, another long day. One of the things I learned about myself in Prison was that I’m a survivor. Be it shanks, riots or a fire I always found a way.

    The red door is already open and the man gives that dismissive smile. “Just sign here please.” I say holding up the clipboard. He signs, a sloppy signature, but I don’t need to read it to know what it says. The second thing I learned about myself in prison is that I like it there, life is simple.

    “Thanks Rodney Beard.” I say.
    Okon, Alexander Raisintree and Who like this.
  6. Alexander Raisintree

    Alexander Raisintree New Member

    Sep 23, 2014
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    [447 words-Mild Language]

    The old dive was a place full of phermones screaming fuck me and forget me. Women and men, sex didn’t matter much in a place like this as long as you got it in the end, and there I sat at the helm nursing that amber contentment yielding comfort or courage, whichever the night called for.

    It was the yelping that always plagued me. I couldn’t get away from her. I was there for one thing and one thing only: clean the shit, feed the bitch, and chop those tails and dew claws off. That in itself was torture to a boy my age, and well, torture’s a subject best left in the closet. Ma’s words were burned into my memory like an old scar.

    “Don’t pick the one that runs up, she’ll be bold’n pushy. Energetic, she’ll drive ya crazy. Most important, make sure she’s fuckable. A bitch that can’t breed ain’t worth a sack’a bread.”

    If she’d have just let me have Baby. Out of all the litters, she was different. I could tell in her eyes we had a special bond. Surely I deserved to have one of my own, and I loved her which was probably why I made the biggest mistake of my life. I asked, and Ma went to yellin.

    “You’re obsessed! Ya don’t need no dog. What you need is a bitch to keep ya from pullin at that thing down there.”

    Ma picked a thin branch from the ligustrum bush. I bent over and took it until I couldn’t take it no more, then I handed Baby over. It was the hardest thing I ever did, except what I’d do tonight.

    I pulled out the pill, rolled it between my fingers, and dropped it into the blond’s cocktail. I’d been eyeing’r all night. She was everything Ma taught me to look for in a good bitch, and I’s careful to catch her in my arms when the medicine took effect.

    She’d wake in my basement, and I knew she’d forget it the next day. They all do, so I went to work.

    With the utmost care, I carefully tied tourniquets around each thumb and big toe. My electric saw whirred to life. Night turned into day and finally she woke up. All that yelping wasn’t nothing compared this bitch’s screaming and howling as she hobbled about on the floor, her knees bound to her wrists keeping her on all fours. She bit at the gauze around her hand exposing a small nub where her thumb once was.

    As she screamed, I stroked her back and whispered...

    “Now, now, Baby, calm down. I’m gonna take real good care of ya.”
    Who and Alexander Raisintree like this.
  7. jonahmann

    jonahmann Active Member

    Oct 2, 2014
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    300 words
    Sexual violence, coarse language

    In a dark alleyway, the digit finally entered fourteen-year-old Lucy’s cunt. When the rapist was done, he cocked his revolver, pointed it at Lucy’s screaming head and gently squeezed the trigger. Lucy’s left temple and eye exploded off.

    Jade was six years old. Standing by the foot of her bed was most of a girl, except the left side of her face was replaced by a dripping, blood-red hole. Jade screamed.

    The meat bled as Jade carved into it. Is was a decade-and-a-half since her apparition. She was now working in a restaurant kitchen.

    She walked home alone that night. As she walked past an alleyway, she thought she saw something down there, in her peripheral vision. The girl with the missing cranium. When she looked, though, there was nothing.

    Jade was asleep in bed. Over her hovered Lucy.

    Jade visited a Buddhist monastery. The monk told her “The spirits of the dead watch over the living. Yours may be a ‘hungry ghost.’ You may be able to contact it during a seance.”

    Jade and the medium were seated at Jade’s dining room table. The medium said “If there are any spirits present, please give me a sign.” A door leading into the hall slammed. Jade gasped. The medium continued to speak. “Who are you? ...Lucy. What do you want? ...Revenge? On whom? ...On Jade? Why? ...She says that she was raped and murdered by your ancestor a long time ago.” Lucy materialised in the adjacent kitchen, within sight of the medium. “Lucy?” Lucy pulled a butchers knife from Jade’s kitchen draw and charged at Jade. Jade tried to hold Lucy’s wrist, but was cut in the stomach. “Lucy, I demand you to cross over!” said the medium.

    Lucy turned to white and disappeared. The knife fell to the floor.

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