1. Lilly James Haro
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    Lilly James Haro The Grey Warden

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    Past Contest Flash Fiction Contest #21 - "Time"

    Discussion in 'Bi-Weekly Flash Fiction Contest Archives' started by Lilly James Haro, Mar 21, 2015.

    And the theme for Flash Fiction Contest #21 is “Time”. Remember the word limit is 150-450 words and all entries must be posted anonymously in this thread by 6:00 pm EST April 11th. 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. Sam Mills
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    Sam Mills New Member

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    Master of Time (438 words)

    The echo of his footsteps reverberated throughout the grand vestibule as Theos moved slowly down the hall. A countless multitude of sentries, garbed in gleaming golden armor that surely outshone the sun whose light presided over the world of men, lined the walls of the seemingly infinite hallway.

    It would not be wise to keep the master waiting, but Theos was not eager to see him. To be unexpectedly summoned to the master’s presence never boded well for that individual—be he mortal or divine. The master was not known for his forgiving or understanding nature, and the punishments levied against those who displeased him were always of a most unpleasant nature.

    Theos walked with his head held high as he occasionally glanced toward one of the many guards he passed. It would not do for one of these lesser entities to see one such as he carrying himself in a dysphoric manner. They seemed to ignore him, however, as they stood as still as stone statues and continued to gaze forward with an aloof expression in their cold eyes. They were creatures created for a singular purpose—to be destroyers. Theos held them beneath him.

    His journey through the grand corridor seemed endless, but in this place time had no meaning. As Theos neared the entrance to the chambers of the ethereal ruler, his heart began to race and he could feel beads of sweat form upon his brow. This was madness—that he should be subjected to this type of psychological torment. He summoned all the power his mind to will his hands to cease trembling.

    Without a word or glance toward Theos, two of the glistening sentinels standing guard abreast the entryway, which led to the master’s chamber, pulled open the towering doors which barred his way. Theos hesitated; it was so brief that it was barely even discernible, but he did it still—a betrayal of his fear, a display of weakness.

    Theos resolved himself to maintain his noble bearing as he approached the lustrous throne, but he refused to make eye contact with he who sat upon it. From his name, one might imagine the master to be an elderly man, perhaps grey with the wisdom of his many years. He was anything but. His ageless skin and powerful build struck an intimidating pose.

    Stopping at the foot of the throne, Theos dropped to one knee with his head bowed. One hand rested on his knee, the other hand curled into a fist as he placed it on the floor. “I have come as requested; what would you ask of me, Father Time?”
     
  3. Upper Case T
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    Upper Case T New Member

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    Rewind [450]


    Jack died.

    His eyes stared to the heavens as he took his final breath.

    A woman, Jack’s wife, knelt beside him, tears streaming down her face. Jack wanted to console her, but he was unable to move or talk. She said something to him, but no sound found his ears. Her mouth continued to form unspoken words. He could only stare in response.

    His wife, Alyssa, stood and slowly backed away, the tears drying on her face. Jack noticed she was carrying a gun when she crouched and placed the weapon on the ground. She backed up a few more paces and right after raised her hands to her mouth, her eyes big and round. She froze like that for a few moments.

    Suddenly, Alyssa dropped her arms to her sides, her face relaxed, and she sprinted backwards almost out of view (Jack had to crane his neck to see.) Her head swiveled to and fro as if searching for something or someone. After a moment, she continued her odd walk backwards until she disappeared among the rows of limos that lined the lifeless lot.

    Jack inched his way up and rested on one arm. He pressed his free hand against his abdomen, which was promptly smothered in a warm stickiness. Footsteps approached from behind, and another woman backpedaled into view. She stopped next to Jack and glared, hands on hips. Her face wore an expression of satisfaction and anger, a peculiar combination.

    Jack recognized her. This was the woman he loved, Catherine. Cat, he called her, and she was the love of his life. She continued her backwards stroll and stopped next to the discarded pistol.

    Jack sat up straight then sprang to his feet. Immediately after, the gun jumped off the pavement and into Cat’s waiting hand. Thin wisps of smoke appeared in mid-air and disappeared into the barrel. Jack’s nose twitched at the acrid hint of sulfur. Then the smoke (and the smell) disappeared along with Jack’s wound.

    Cat yelled something at Jack, but her voice missed its mark. He was deaf to her sorrow and pain, but that didn’t stop her from finishing her condemnation of him. Cat then placed the gun in her purse and backed away, never turning her back. Before Cat’s exit into the night, another woman, scantily-dressed and reeking of cheap perfume, ran up to Jack and screamed an empty scream. Cat yelled something in return, then resumed her trek into the backwards night.

    The lady on his arm squeezed it tight, and they stopped and faced each other. He kissed her deeply on the lips. “This is going to be the greatest night of my life,” Jack said with a grin.
     
  4. Lancie
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    Lancie Contributing Member

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    Come and Dance (407 words)

    When they came I was thirteen years old. Light singing had drifted into my dreams and woke me up. It felt like silken fingers were plucking at me, urging me to follow.

    So I did.

    It led to three tall, willowy women with long shining hair and wide sparkling eyes. They danced and twirled in streaks of silver moonlight about a toadstool circle, their gossamer robes floating like cobwebs about their graceful limbs.

    One held her hand out too me, a warm smile spread across her plump lips. “Come, Eleanor, come and dance with us.”

    I remembered the stories of my grandmother and her warnings about the Fae, but these women didn't look dangerous.

    "Eleanor, come and dance with us. Be our friend.”

    “Come, forget time and be young and happy and dance with us.” sang another. Somewhere in the distance I heard faint drumming and a pipe playing a hauntingly beautiful melody. The music sank through my skin and into my bones. So I joined their circle. They took my hands and we spun and twirled about the toadstool.

    The night passed. I saw the stars glow brightly and shift across the black sky, sliding into daylight and vanishing. The sun rose over the hills.

    The music began to fade and left a deep, cold ache in my bones. Hunger and fatigue crashed against my stomach. I stumbled, breaking the circle. The three women turned to watch me silently. I noticed they smiled no longer.

    “I should be going,” I mumbled. My throat and lips were incredibly dry. I felt them crack and bleed as I spoke. “Goodbye.”

    The three of them continued to watch me as I made my way back to the house, my legs shaking and my vision swirling with bright colours and dots of light as though I’d looked into the sun for too long. I saw another two houses that shouldn’t have been there, a strange large cart in front of the crumbling cottage.

    Inside the house an old woman was cooking. I faltered. It wasn’t my house. Nothing was as I remembered. The old woman turned and dropped the bowl she held. It smashed across the stone floor, the oat mixture inside tumbled against my bare muddy feet. She screamed at me; incoherent and desolate shrieking. And then, as the sickening horror set in, I realised.

    She was my ten year old sister, and she was an old woman.
     
  5. lustrousonion
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    lustrousonion Contributing Member

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    One Second (220 words)

    In one second Agatha's mood went from grand to sour, the same second that Madison's hand lowered and picked up her tray, the same second Jeremy scratched his nose three times.

    More can happen in a second than you would think.

    Nothing in the preceding second had ruined Agatha's mood. It was simply that she had reached the edge of her limit and fallen over it – a steep precipice indeed. In that second she dropped the ladle into the gravy.

    Ava's eyes prickled before Elise even finished her last word. Elise was at the end of an insult about Ava's nose. Ava blinked once against her budding tears.

    In the room, eight pairs of feet shuffled, ten mouths chewed, and six throats swallowed. There was a burst of sound: truncated words and half-completed laughs. Josh and Tilly played rock, paper, scissors. Josh threw scissors. Tilly threw rock. Alison wrote the word really on her Hello Kitty notebook.

    Piper's chest moved up and down; air moved in and then out. She blinked and tapped her finger one time. In that second Noah gulped down his nervousness and put a note in Piper's pocket. She didn't notice him slip it there. She would notice it later, in a different second. In his chest, Noah's heart pumped one and a half times.
     
    Last edited: Apr 1, 2015
  6. NigeTheHat
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    NigeTheHat Contributing Member Contributor

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    What’s The Time, Mr Wolf? (415 words)

    Mr Wolf took a golden pocketwatch from his straining waistcoat pocket, and placed it carefully on the desk in front of him. His waistcoat was brown, the colour his fur had been when all this began. Not any more.

    The girl – young woman, he corrected himself – had entered his office and shut the door. She was young, young enough to be one of his students, which was probably why it had caused no comment.

    Evidently no-one had noticed the bulge of a gun under her red suede jacket. But Mr Wolf noticed. He looked out for such things.

    “Hello Red.”

    “You remember me.”

    “Family resemblance.”

    Red looked at Mr Wolf, and Mr Wolf looked back. What big eyes she had. On the desk, the pocketwatch ticked, steady as a heartbeat.

    “You don’t seem surprised.”

    “As I tell my students, spacetime is curved,” Mr Wolf shrugged. “So eventually either your past catches up to you, or you run into it from behind.”

    “You ate my grandmother.” That even surprised Red when it came out. She knew it. She knew he knew it. But she hadn’t expected it to sound so flat. So bored.

    “I did indeed.” His tongue rolled over his teeth and slapped his chops. The word ‘lascivious’ had been invented for that tongue. “She was a wild, wild woman, and I ate her all the way up.”

    Red winced. Winced at the tongue, winced at the teeth, winced at the way the p popped at the end of his sentence like a champagne cork.

    “I should kill you.”

    “Perhaps. Or perhaps you should kill the pup I once was. But he’s long dead, I’m afraid. I’m all that’s left. Time moves on. I was him. But he is not me.”

    There was a knock at the door, and Red jumped like a startled deer.

    “Give me twenty minutes please, Julia,” Mr Wolf called.

    Red’s eyes narrowed. “Why did you do that?”

    Mr Wolf leaned back, resting his paws on his belly. “Because in the next few seconds, you’ll need to make a choice. It could be the time you shoot me, or it could be the time you walk away. One of these choices will mean you regret the next few seconds forever, and I honestly couldn’t tell you which one that is. But it’s a choice you should make.”

    Red’s hand twitched. She looked at the door. She looked at old, fat Mr Wolf.

    Tick. Tick. Tick.

    “So… what’s the time, Little Red?”
     
  7. edamame
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    edamame Contributing Member Contributor

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    Tahra of Cursed Time (432 words)

    A teenage girl flung herself headlong through the maze of the fishing district. She scrambled over barrels of squid and mackerel. Her heart leapt with her feet and her ears strained to catch the sound of armored footsteps behind her. She jerked, skidding, as advancing Royal Guards bullied and pushed protesting merchants out of their path. Ducking into an alleyway, she crouched behind a pile of discarded crates and peeled off the sash tied to her waist. Its fluttering skirt dropped, revealing twin throwing knives sheathed in her leather belt.

    A guard’s voice, threatening and masculine, echoed through the alleyway.

    “Did she come in here?”

    Tahra inhaled the sour air of the wharf. Her sweaty palms rested tensely on the cool hilt of her blades.

    “I’m sure I saw her,” said another guard.

    They approached cautiously over the cobblestones, their heavy mail shifting with each movement. She could hear only two footfalls; the main group must have gone north to hunt for her in the Thieves’ Den, a notorious district where the king’s men had little authority. Tahra pressed her tongue against her top teeth and thought. She could make it there through the sewer, if only she could get past.

    Her quarry neared, closer and closer until one armored toe -- Tahra sprung!

    “The girl!”

    She struck the speaker dead in the neck.

    The other guard shielded his face with a gauntlet as she threw another knife. Its fine point failed to find purchase against the metal, but she jumped on him, knocking him blindly to the ground. She leapt away, intending to run when he grabbed her right ankle and wrestled her to the ground. They struggled against the stones. One of the guard’s arms wrapped around her throat and began to strangle her.

    Tahra choked. She turned and bit his right ear. He screamed and tried to throw her off, but she hung on like a terrier.

    Under her glowing red eyes, his body convulsed and withered. His hair whitened as time ravaged through him. When the guard was a frail, incoherent husk, Tahra kicked him away and rose. She wiped the blood from her mouth against her sleeve, noticing the hem now hung one inch past her wrist. Her clothes folded loosely around her.

    Tahra snorted and tightened her belt. Another year younger in exchange for fifty years older for the guard. What an imbalanced curse! But enough of self-pity, she had to see if any of her comrades in the Rebellion had survived the failed coup. Pulling her hood over her plumper face, Tahra ran for the Den.
     

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