1. Lilly James Haro
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    Lilly James Haro The Grey Warden

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    Past Contest Flash Fiction Contest 18 "Scars" as chosen by Lancie

    Discussion in 'Bi-Weekly Flash Fiction Contest Archives' started by Lilly James Haro, Jan 18, 2015.

    And the theme for Flash Fiction Contest 18 is “Scars” as chosen by the previous winner, @Lancie . Remember the word limit is 150-450 words and all entries must be posted anonymously in this thread by 6:00 pm EST February 7th. 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."

    Good Luck!
     
  2. RachHP
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    RachHP Contributing Member

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    Summer - 417 words

    There was a wound in the ground.
    It wasn't much, just a sweep of dirt aching its way towards the pavement and fracturing the grass.
    She looked up, noticed the bleed of clouds tainting the sky, and closed her eyes.
    It was madness, to be offended by such things. Nature wasn't personal; it didn't speak out in codes or riddles, determined to tease her.
    At least, that's what she told herself.

    It was different in there, with the others, things were bound to be said and remembered; but the sky wasn't a story, it was just water. The earth wasn't in pain, it was just where she walked.
    Resolved, she blinked a few times; trying not to care that her lashes were wet.
    She moved away from the bench, unwinding a body they said was hers and dragging its feet away from the high polished windows. Lazing down the steps, she tried not to hear Nina. Her lost soul was still throwing up in the bushes, a bitter streak of pale tearing the leaves in half. Sympathy freckled across her stomach, but the truth was they were in here alone; Nina would have to learn to fight, without her.
    Twigs broke under her feet, birds were cut off mid-song, the air itself seemed to be waning - set to rip like delicate gauze. Like lace. Like a veil.

    A hand rose to wave away a smiled greeting and the bandages held her eye; blocking the nurse's face as she wheeled another frail one down the path.
    Curling a fist, she tried not to remember angry red and bitter tears. She tried not to hate gentle doctors and frightened eyes. To remember failure.
    The sky broke, rain chasing after her dark musings, water drawing down her skin like better scars. Lines that would only stay for a little while; could be wiped away, or forgotten.

    They didn't like the way she found the rain, would only leave her chair to come outside and be drenched.
    But, she didn't care. It was the only thing that was reaching her.
    It was beautiful. Not rain, but a reminder that the worst had already happened. That the whole world knew what it was to tear a little, and was somehow more beautiful for it.
    This was her lesson in recovery. Each drop drew her eye and seemed to tell her, she could start again. If she wait just a little longer, just a few breaths more.

    The storm would pass.

    Hope would come back.
     
  3. lustrousonion
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    lustrousonion Contributing Member

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    Embossed [341]

    “You sure about this?” the purple-haired boy asked, already wielding his weapon. His ears were punctured with rows of holes.

    She nodded, once and decisively. No room for doubt. “Absolutely.”

    The boy grinned.

    Her father had killed himself. That was no secret.

    People heard this fact and automatically thought they understood a lot about her. That must have been so hard on you, they would say. Because of this, she wasn't allowed a bad day like other people were. If she felt sad, or if she sometimes felt like giving up, others would connect the dots, always working backwards to #1. The dead father dot.

    The needle buzzed to life, touched her. She flinched only once.

    A gun? A rope? A bridge? People put a lot of emphasis on the how. What did that matter to her? She'd been five years old when it happened. No one was going to be unscathed; but she wasn't hurt. There were no scars or bruises. No outward manifestation of suffering.

    People liked scars. They liked them as much as they liked embossed wedding invitations. Beautiful, interesting, unique tendrils across an otherwise ordinary page. Without these markings, everyone would forget. She would be one more animal in the pack.

    But she was hurt, over and over again. He was gone; that absence was all that mattered. That was hurt enough.

    The buzzing clicked off. In a smooth motion, the boy swiveled his chair to the side and then back.

    “You'll have to keep it covered for a few days,” he said as he handed her the mirror.

    Three stylized letters traveled down her neck.

    “Looks good,” he commented. “You're a brave one.”

    She fingered the raised skin. It hurt like hell.

    There was no changing it, just as there was no getting over it. This would always be her lot in life, and it would never be fair. She'd learned that lesson a little earlier and more thoroughly than most. There would always be a hole inside her, but now she also had her scar.
     
  4. Mckk
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    Mckk Moderator Staff Supporter Contributor

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    Mark the Market Day [385 words]

    Will had been hiding in the crowd. There was the gallows: a simple beam and crossbeam upon a platform, and the fraying noose swaying in the warm, spring breeze. The executioner stepped up, opening himself to the crowd as they cheered.

    Will waited with empty eyes. His memory of that day had been fractured into a thousand stark, glittering pieces, all with sharp edges: a woman’s bright red hair; the hazel-brown and tawny roofs against the azure afternoon sky; baskets of tomatoes and cabbages being sold as though it were market day, for the precise purpose of throwing, of course; and then, the distinct voice of Jesper, yelling above a multitude of memories. It was time to place a bet. Jesper, a bone-thin rack of a human being with rags hanging on his shoulders and moth-eaten boots, waving his stake cards in the air. How long did they think the criminal would last before his breath ran out?

    The pictures weren’t coherent. Strange limbs and colours bled into each other with a certain clarity for certain things, glowing like a stained glass arranged by a debased mind. Here a child’s excited, pointing finger was framed, there the crowds parted, but Will couldn’t remember the horse or the cart, though there must have been one, for his friend Rasiah was upon the platform, his wrists bound by rough rope in front of him, his hair dripping with tomato juice, his face stained blue with bruises. Fruits lay opened at his feet, spilling soft flesh, smearing Rasiah’s clothes. Tomatoes were the local favourite, the way they popped and splattered, painting him into a clown.

    Will’s own bandaged hands were limp by his sides as he watched. The scars still hurt too much then for him to close them.

    Then the noose was upon his friend's neck, and Rasiah cried. Will felt tears on his cheeks.

    Then he heard the trapdoor beneath Rasiah’s feet, heard the lever being pulled, a screech of wood and metal.

    Rasiah’s face changed as he fell.

    Snap. Will had hoped with all his heart that Rasiah’s neck would snap.

    But it didn’t. The bet was on. Ten minutes? Twenty minutes? How long before Rasiah stopped twitching, his legs flailing uselessly in the air? The human ragdoll swung, soundless, and Will could not close his eyes.
     
  5. Lancie
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    Lancie Contributing Member

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    Stitches (330 words)

    “I am pretty,” Daisy repeated to herself over and over. She smiled into the mirror, turning left and right, striking a pose at each angle. “I am very pretty.”

    She applied another layer of foundation to her skin, carefully covering the line of stitches around her ears and nose. Hair straighteners for her silky black hair, scarlet lip stick for her plump lips and mascara to lengthen her fluttering lashes.

    “So pretty,” she whispered, dragging her eyes from the mirror. She collected her bag and left her house. Hurrying down the street she managed to catch a bus that was running a few minutes late.

    Buses wait for pretty people, she thought cheerfully.

    Leaving the bus in the city centre, she crossed the main square with a fountain shooting up jets of dancing water and sat herself down on a bench.
    Opposite was a corporate building reaching up to the sky; all glass and power.

    Daisy waited. And waited.

    As the warmth in the air began to chill, streams of people began to exit the building. She smiled. It was home time.

    And there he was, wearing a sharp black suit. The most handsome man Daisy had ever seen. She quickly approached him and beamed.

    “Hello!” she said. He glanced down at her petite frame.

    “Hi...I'm sorry,” he looked puzzled. “Do I know you?”

    “Yes you do,” Daisy said coyly. “We've met before. I don't suppose you recognise me.” She'd caught his interest. The man slowed down. “I'm Daisy Summers,” she announced, and waited for his reaction. “Do you remember?”

    The man shrugged. “Sorry, I don't.”

    Daisy felt her left eye twitching. “Daisy. You know? Daisy-Daisy.” Still nothing. Panic began to creep into her body. “From UCE? You know. English Literature.”

    “Sorry,” he said apologetically, nervously. “I really have to get going. It's nice to see you.” He looked over at a group of people. “Paul! Catching the train?” he jogged away.

    Daisy stood trembling.

    “But I'm pretty now.”
     
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  6. superllama
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    superllama Member

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    scars (334 words)
    He woke screaming, searching for his fingers. Were they still there? Would they look like lumps of melted candle wax? Would he see his own blackened bones this time? Was the pain real? Did it matter if the pain was in his head, or in his hands? Could he feel his body if he touched it with his stumps, or would that cause him more pain?

    “Don’t play with matches,” they said. “You’ll burn our house down,” they said. All around him, for hours on hours, a day or more they kept him awake. Each in turn took their place at the altar of his sacrifice, to make sure he knew how lowly he was.

    He just liked the way they smelled, he said. He stomped them out and spit on them before they could burn free, he cried. He cried. They paid no heed to his pleas, and took pleasure in his pain, for they had no God but He who told them they were better than the boy; for he had been caught, not they. Their sins were safe from the views of others while he was on trial.

    An open book lay before him in his dreams, a nursing textbook from bygone days. The burn victims reached out to him from the pages, the claws of their hands dragging him towards the fires of Hell, ragged flesh hanging off of their bones. “Come with us, you are one of us. You killed them all!”

    Night after night they came for him and dragged him down into the fires of Hell to burn over and over again. Sometimes his family was taken first and he was made to watch them burn. Always, always the pain would wake him up, searching for his fingers.

    Every night, he lived these dreams. Every night, he woke to the sound of his own screams. What was real? Had he done it in truth? Which was truly the dream, and which was real?

    Some scars never fade.
     

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