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  1. Lilly James Haro

    Lilly James Haro The Grey Warden

    Apr 26, 2014
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    Kirkwall, Free Marches, Thedas

    Past Contest Flash Fiction Contest #32 - 'The Island'

    Discussion in 'Monthly Flash Fiction Contest Archives' started by Lilly James Haro, Mar 22, 2016.

    The theme for Flash Fiction Contest #32 is "The Island” which was chosen by previous winner @SethLoki. Remember the word limit is 150-450 words and all entries must be posted anonymously in this thread by 6:00 pm EST April 10th. 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."

    Please do not use the same name as another entry as it makes it quite confusing for voting, thank you :)
  2. doggiedude

    doggiedude Contributor Contributor

    Feb 15, 2016
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    Florida, USA, Earth, The Sol System
    Shipwreck - [450 words]

    Seven of us landed on this island last year, four men and three women. I’m the only one left now. I don’t know if anyone will ever find my wrecked ship, or discover what happened to us. I needed to leave this message in the hope that someone, sometime will find it and let our families know what happened. I may be responsible but it wasn’t my actions that led to our disaster.

    We crashed onto the rocks on September 26th of 1964. There was a storm that blew us off course. My first mate hadn’t been able to drop the sails fast enough. That was his first mistake, there would be more.

    We all made it to this island without being injured and we were fortunate enough to have a lot of recoverable supplies. However, there wasn’t enough food. There are some coconut trees here but they don’t replenish fast. After the first month we had trouble catching fish and we started to starve. The two married people in our group were elderly, they went first. After they died, well... you can just imagine what we did. It wouldn’t have been so bad except my first mate used up all our matches the first week here. It had rained non-stop the previous week so we had no way to cook anything.

    A few weeks later one of the younger women died. She had been famous once. A beautiful thing when I first met her. By the end, she was a half starved lunatic. I think my partner killed her but he never admitted it to me. We found her hung from a limb of a tree that we had been using to play basketball. It was our only entertainment.

    Then the following week the other man died. I think he was a teacher but I’m too dizzy to remember his name. He was always yelling and arguing with my first mate. Once again I suspect my mate was the one who did it. The man was discovered beaten to death. His body was near a group of gorillas that live on the other side of the island so again, I couldn’t prove anything. I think the man was smart enough to stay away from the troop but he could have been searching for food.

    A few days after that, I caught my partner attacking the last woman. She was the sweetest girl you would ever want to meet. He was trying to rape her. I attacked him while it was happening but he slit her throat. I killed him with my bare hands.

    It’s time for me to die now. Please let everyone know it was all Gilligan’s fault.
  3. frigidweirdo

    frigidweirdo Member

    Nov 13, 2015
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    Borges Island (La isla de Borges) - [448 words]

    When the body washed up on shore that day, it was a similar day to when my own body would wash up on the very same shore. A blustery day, short sharp showers, the clouds looming ominously overhead threatening further violence.

    The older folk of our small fishing village retreated inside. Nothing good would come from being outside when a body washed up on shore, they told us. Old man Perkins sat in the safety of the village pub telling us all stories of other days the bodies had washed up. We young ones laughed as if he were a senile old man.

    James, my best friend, and I sat inside around the next few days, waiting for the body to be washed away by the tides. We felt we the surge of adventure within our bones. Every time the old people warned us to stay inside, the more we felt the need to go outside, to dare the gods to do their worst, for we knew we were invincible.

    We did go outside those days. We saw the grey wrinkled body, all bony and unhuman like lying there willingly, almost smiling. Nothing happened to us, we didn’t get taken away by the sea serpents as the old man Perkins said we would.

    So James and I got bolder and more adventurous. When we asked where the bodies came from, old man Perkins hesitated. It was almost as if he didn’t want to even mention it for fear it would sweep him away. Then he muttered “Borges island”, it was almost comical that a gust of wind came through the pub and blew all the candles out at the same time.

    That summer James and I took off for the Island. We’d spent months building ourselves up for this, pure peer pressure too. Each time we dared the other to be braver and bolder, and then we reached a point where we had to prove to the other that we weren’t cowards, that we were the men we believed we were.

    On the island we saw one of these bodies. Still alive, we really believed ourselves invincible by now. We got close enough to it to realise it was breathing. Such a lethargic, grey wrinkled creature it was. We asked him many question and found out that he wanted to die and was heading for the river of death. We were incredulous. Then he told us about the fountain of eternal life that lay on another island. We sought it out. Only after drinking the bitter sweet waters of that fountain, did we understand why our grey wrinkled bodies were destined to wash up on our home shores.
  4. AdDIct

    AdDIct Active Member

    Dec 31, 2015
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    Welcome to Stalebrook [450 Words] (Language)

    "So where are you headed?"
    "The Island?"
    "Oh. Man, I wouldn't go there."
    "Bad shit, man, bad shit. Like people dying bad shit."
    "That's nothing I haven't heard before."
    "Well if you say so man."

    "Well hello, can I get you a drink?"
    "Oh I suppose."
    "What's your poison?"
    "A scotch on the rocks."
    "You got it."
    "Thank you."
    "No problem."
    "Mind if I ask where you're going?"
    "From a pretty lady like yourself? Not at all. I'm heading to Stalebrook."
    "Yes, Stalebrook."
    "Oh, ma'am, you shouldn't go there."
    "Bad things happen on Stalebrook Island. Bad things."
    "What type of things, you know besides dying. People die everyday. Unavoidable fact of life."
    "No one ever comes back from Stalebrook."
    "That's it?"
    "I know. Do not go to Stalebrook."
    "No. Wow, just like, you have that on your tourist pamphlet? Beware Stalebrook Island, you won't come back alive! Sounds like a trumped up horror attraction."
    "If you say so... Also this scotch is very good."


    "Hey! Hey! Wait up!"
    "Uh... yes?"
    "You're the chick looking to go to Stalebrook Island right? I think you were hitting on my sister in the bar last night?"
    "If your sister was the pretty blonde with a scotch in her hand then yeah. I was."
    "Okay well, you seem nice enough. So I just thought I'd pitch in my two cents."
    "Going to Stalebrook."
    "Oh god."
    "Seriously. Bad things happen in Stalebrook. Don't go."
    "Why the hell not?"
    "Stalebrook screws with your head."
    "If this is the part where you offer to come with me to save your fragile masculinity, I'm going to have to decline."
    "Everything else about this has seemed like a cliche movie, I'm just waiting on my doomed sidekick now."
    "Look, I'm just trying to help, no need to be a bitch about it."
    "Whatever man."


    "What's the matter?"
    "Nothing. Paper cut."
    "So, when are you going to Stalebrook Island?"
    "Stalebrook. You're the girl going right?"
    "How'd you know?"
    "Small town, word travels fast. Especially when the newcomer hits on the mayors daughter."
    "Well shit."
    "So when you heading out?"
    "Was thinking bout tomorrow. Got bout everything else settled."
    "That's good. Good."
    "That's it?"
    "Not gonna warn me off about the dangers of Stalebrook?"
    "Nah, you're fucked either way by now I bet."


    "Bad shit, man, bad shit. Like people dying bad shit."
    "No one ever comes back from Stalebrook"
    "Stalebrook screws with your head."
    "Bad things happen on Stalebrook Island. Bad things."
    "Seriously. Bad things happen in Stalebrook. Don't go."


    "Figure it out?"
    "That knife looks sharp."

    "Welcome to Stalebrook."
    Last edited: Mar 28, 2016
  5. zoupskim

    zoupskim Contributor Contributor

    Jan 11, 2015
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    Space Marooned [379]

    I regard the damaged star fighter with irritated cynicism, hands on hips, blue space suit charred and smoking, my bowl helmet shattered at the top. They just don't make intergalactic space superiority fighters like they used to. Too much plastic, not enough metal. "Well." I slap my hands together perkily. "Plan B time."

    "Plan B?!" The pilot of the star fighter yells in my direction, his hands twisting into rage-fueled claws as he falls to his knees beside me. I can't remember what color his space suit is, it is too blackened and burned, and whatever helmet he had seems to have been transformed into a modern art nightmare around his head. "Plan B?!" He grabs at my arm, pulling me down a little as he collapses in a pile of fear and sorrow-induced pitifulness. "Plan B is you fixing the ship while we're still in orbit! Plan C is the repairs taking longer than usual..." He releases me, gesturing crazily at the small volcanic island of black igneous rock and blood red quartz, a sea of molten lava surrounding us as far as the eye can see. "... But this! This is plan negative X triple Z, you crazy halfwit, wrench twisting, red headed freak!

    "I'll thank you not to talk about bra sizes in the presence of a lady, sir." I pull my Gorilla wrench out of a holster in my tool belt, waltzing over to the damaged ship. I look back at my fellow maroonee. The pilot is staring at me, mouth open, eyebrow raised, looking pretty darn stupid for some hotshot space pilot.

    "Oh my sweet space Jesus, I've heard of you." I climb onto the back of the fighter, flicking a obliterated heat-shield panel off of the tail fin. "You're that freaking crazy engineer with a death wish." I work the bolts on the access panel to the engine's primary compression chamber, trying to ignore the pilot's defeatist attitude and rude choice of words. "Beatrice... Betsy Buster... No, Betty!" He points at me rudely. "Betty Baxter!"

    "Hey!" I glare at him, lifting the panel off of this ungrateful jerk's fighter. "You wanna be stuck on this island forever, or do you want to go home and have a taco!?"

    The End
    Last edited: Mar 30, 2016
    Kinzvlle likes this.
  6. Fawky

    Fawky Member

    Mar 1, 2016
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    The Island of My Mind [258]

    «Imagine an island.»

    It was small, but not too small. The kind of small you see in commercials, with a single palm tree standing up from the perfect shade of yellow sand. The kind you could take three steps in the same direction and walk into the water (and who knew what was in there).

    «Are you scared?»

    «No,» he replied. His voice was hoarse, a side effect of a long-lasting relationship with cigarettes.

    «Imagine a shark.»

    The shark was majestic, on the contrary of what he thought of himself. The likely unrealistic, perfectly white teeth could cut through his skin in a matter of seconds. Ignoring this fact, he bent down to get a closer look. Over the right eye it had a scar, it would be invisible if you weren’t paying close attention. He figured it was the result of a feude with another of the same species, or maybe an attempted capture from his own? The thought disgusted him, and he immediately pushed it away. Instead he reached out to the shark, his hand reaching for the creature's nose.

    «Are you scared?»


    The shark seemed uneasy, unsure of what the man would want from it. He had a nice smile, his teeth almost as white as the ones in the mouth of the animal. After realizing his mind wouldn’t let him comfort the shark, he retracted his hand and instead sat there peacefully, simply gazing upon the creature.

    «Are you scared?»


    «Open your eyes.»

    Ever so reluctantly, he obeyed.

    «Are you scared?»

    Last edited: Apr 4, 2016
  7. KokoN

    KokoN Active Member

    Mar 7, 2016
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    Her Island - [450 words]


    She sat at the fountain, one hand on its smooth, marble surface, the other on her phone as she pretended to scroll through Facebook. She was looking up, around, at the people walking around the mall. Interesting people. Young and old, short and tall, loud and quiet. Who were they? What did they want? Why did they want to be here?

    Minuscule droplets from the fountain felt cool on her bare arm. It was a good cool, in the heat of summer. No one ever sat on the benches by the fountain. She always sat on the fountain. It was her island, her safe place, where she couldn’t be touched.

    She glanced down; almost 7:00pm. There were no windows, but she could feel the darkness creeping in from outside, taunting her with its imminent return. She knew she must go back soon. When everything stopped, and the blackness returned to fill her with questions. Who was she? What did she want? Did she want to be here?

    Ten minutes to close, she quietly stood up, phone dropped in her pocket, and slipped through the dwindling crowds, head down, and out of the mall.


    “Love-it makes life worth living.” Really?

    “It will fill the emptiness.” Really?

    Once, it seemed somewhat true. Now, so far away from the world, it seemed like a fascinating premise. What did they have, the people who walked around her island all day, off to different places? What did they have that she was missing?


    She sat again, scrolling, watching, wondering.

    A person walked up to the fountain and sat down.

    She stared harder at her phone as her heart stopped. Everyone was SUPPOSED too busy to notice her, doing their own thing.

    She stole a few glances. What was he doing? Drawing? Writing? He looked up and smiled. She looked back down, and within the next few minutes had jumped up and headed for the door, even though it was far from 7:00pm.


    He kept coming back! With his notebooks, and pencils, and bright smiles and sunny countenance. It was HER island. He had no right to take it away from her! (Well, sort of.) She had cried herself to sleep that night. She had to go back. She couldn’t abandon the island, even with this strange creature.

    One day, as she stood up to leave, she heard a voice. It pierced through the silence, shocking her to her core.

    “Hi,” the voice said.

    The darkness fell away and she felt something inside of her that she hadn’t felt in a long time. It was life. She wasn’t sure if she liked it, but something told her it would not go away.
  8. Marsh

    Marsh Member

    Feb 5, 2016
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    Null Land (449 words)

    2/27 The island isn't an island. It is not anything, but we have to call it something. It is not anything until it is described officially by a recognized authority. It is not anything until it stops being what our deepest parts want it to be. You taught me that.

    Oddly, because there is nothing to tell, no sailor can bear to hear it told. No one has ever returned. As good a reason to fear it as any, I suppose, especially if it isn't real.

    So how do we know the island exists at all? We don't. No latitude. No longitude. No sat images or radar pings. No evidence at all to convince we, the rational. No evidence at all except the dread and shivering certainty of every sea dog and bush pilot in every single port up and down this decrepit coast.

    3/14 It's their dreams!

    7/22 Administrators of madhouses have begun to take notice. There's talk of a syndrome, yet no one wants to claim the naming rights. Surely, a first in the history of syndromes. For now, they simply call it 'Null.'

    The dreams grow worse the closer you get to the island and they slacken as you tack away. The least of them will fill your head with spinning knives for weeks. Then, one day, they'll never stop. Many of the permanently affected have become mentally divergent, unable to distinguish between dream and what we term reality.

    Oddly, they all describe the island in similar terms even though they've never met or communicated online. They even describe changes at nearly the same time though none recognize any other when shown file photos or Facebark pages. They aren't humans on the island. They won't say who they are or what they do to any outsider, not even their own kin. ( A staggering fact once you get to know these hardy souls well and true. Family and tide is all they believe in.)

    7/31 I write to you now, far too late, because you must make the capital understand, the Admiralty must be made to hear or all will be lost and that right soon. The island's growing, in size and strength. It will soon become impossible to fly or ship goods along our easterly trade routes. I doubt it will stop there.

    The world as we know it is about to come grinding to a halt. Innovation, exploration and discovery will come at too great a cost as the island grows ever larger in our minds and we fall back into ourselves, into fear and shadow. I know this to be true.

    I've seen it in a dream.
  9. BruceA

    BruceA Active Member

    Feb 7, 2016
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    (470 words)​

    I find the water’s edge, easily: it glitters in the light from the moon and the stars. The sand against the skin on my back is warm, soft and I push my feet through it, until I feel the cool water lick my toes. A tingle runs up through my body, and I smile, watching the stars above dance in time to the pounding beat of the music from the bar, far behind me.

    The smell of a cigarette tells me I am no longer alone. On a Saturday night in Playa d’en Bossa, you’re never far from someone. I turn my head towards the scent, and see the silhouette of a man sitting beside me. I see moonlight reflected in his eyes, and the glint of his teeth as he smiles.

    “Hello”, he says. He is English. From the North I think, but I am no good with accents so can’t be more specific. He offers me one of his cigarettes. I take one and as he leans in to light it I catch the scent of his aftershave. It’s not one that I recognise; pleasant, delicately spiced, possibly expensive.

    “What’s your name?” he asks, as I inhale deeply, letting the smoke trickle through my nostrils.

    I shake my head, to free my hair of sand. He blinks against the flying grains.

    “Sandy,” I say, and laugh. He laughs too. “And yours?”

    “My name is Ibiza,” he says.

    “No man is an island,” I say, and laugh again. There is a glimmer of a smile and I realise it would not have been the first time he’s heard that line.

    “I am,” he says. “Like this island I am full of contradictions: popular, tacky and obvious like San Antonio; classy and rich like Ibiza Town; and I have isolated spots of beauty hidden from those who don’t know where to look,” he pauses to stub his cigarette into the sand, and carefully puts the butt in a tin. ‘This island is in my DNA,” he says, “I was conceived here. Eighty-eight: the second summer of love.”

    We share more cigarettes, stories and jokes. We sit here, on this beach for what seems like minutes, but it might be for hours. It might even be forever.

    Overhead, something roars. A plane, coming into land at the nearby airport, flies so low I can see the detail on its undercarriage. A shiver runs up my spine into my brain. A cheer erupts from the people on the beach around us: they wave and shout woo hoos, come ons and let’s ‘ave its into the nights sky, welcoming the latest bunch of party people to our island.

    I leap to my feet.

    “Come on, Ibiza,” I say. “We need to dance.”

    He takes my hand and we run back up the beach.
  10. HelloImRex

    HelloImRex Senior Member

    Jan 26, 2014
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    Coconuts Are Stupid (366)

    You take a coconut. You crack open the coconut. You’re eating the coconut. You wonder how irradiated the coconut is and if consuming it will eventually give you cancer. You realize how silly that is. Of course you’ll get cancer, that’s how the world works now. You can fall out of the world onto an island far away from it all, but you can never escape the reality of the fallout.

    So you are probably asking yourself how this happened. Let’s lay it out from start to finish. The world starts off with some nomadic monkeys chasing around their dreams. They only dream of food. They decide to eat meat and the protein makes them smarter. Eventually, one figures out how to wash a coconut. He tells the others so they can wash the coconuts for him. The others decide coconuts are stupid and go pick some berries and mushrooms. Then comes the need for society. You need a community to harvest the berries, the mushrooms, then the wheat and rice, eventually anything that’s not a coconut. Now, to sustain all this agriculture you’ll need leaders, religions, and nations. With that it all becomes too easy. Dreams are no longer of food. They are of wealth, power, and heartburn when you eat too much before going to bed. Society is suddenly too good to harvest berries and mushrooms, they upgrade to harvesting ballistics and mushroom clouds.

    And with that, here you are at the finish line, stuck on the island with the stupid coconuts no one ever wanted. You see the mushroom clouds in the distance and wish you had bought an island a little further from the shore. If only you had sold more steaks, built a huger wall, and gotten a few more small loans of a million dollars. You could’ve been a winner. Well, to be fair, you were a winner, at least for a little while.

    You’re eating the coconut. It tastes terrible. Coconuts are stupid. But then something clicks and you begin to see the similarities. Coconuts are round, hollow on the inside, and have something stuck to the outside that vaguely resembles hair. Your head is the biggest coconut of them all.
    Last edited: Apr 7, 2016
  11. Raven484

    Raven484 Contributor Contributor

    Jan 6, 2016
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    A Father Remembered (448 words)

    Karen hugged her teenage son, Jacob, tighter to warm herself from the cold December wind. Jacob wanted to know more about his father who died when the towers fell in New York on 9/11. She decided to start at the beginning.

    Coney Island seemed like a deserted wasteland in the winter. All the shops were closed and the amusement park was shut down. It always depressed her being here in the winter time.

    As they walked slowly on the boardwalk, Jacob began his interrogation.

    “So you guys first met here,” he asked.

    “Yep, just over there,” she said pointing to an old ice cream stand. “Your father bought me an ice cream while he bragged about finishing college.”

    “Was it love at first sight?” Jacob asked.

    “If you asked him, he would say yes,” she replied with a shiver, “he just seemed very cute to me. I gave him my number and we started dating after that.”

    “Do you miss him?” Jacob asked as he lowered his head.

    “Not so much anymore,” she said raising his head with her hand. “You have his eyes. So it’s almost like I can see him every day.”

    Jacob’s smile seemed to brighten her face.

    “Do you think he would have been a good father?” He asked.

    She laughed at the thought. “You two would be like peas in a pod. Both of you would drive me crazy on a daily basis.”

    Jacob smiled.

    “You are smarter than him,” she continued, “he probably would be intimidated at that, he never liked to lose an argument.”

    “I’m not that bad,” said Jacob. “Why have you never brought me here before.”

    Karen was quiet for a moment. “Before now it just hurt too much. I can handle it better now.”

    Jacob noticed a small tear start to roll down her face. She gave him a small smile as he brushed it from her cheek.

    “I am sorry mom, I did not want this to upset you. I was just curious where you met.”

    “It’s okay Jacob, you deserved to know. I am sorry it took so long. If he were alive, he would have brought you here all the time. He loved this place.” She replied.

    “That would have been cool,” he said, “did he like the roller coaster?”

    “Damm fool always tried to get me on it.” She complained. “Was one of his favorite things.”

    “I will have to try it out someday, hopefully when it is a lot warmer.” Jacob replied.

    They laughed and walked awhile in silence.

    “Where would you like to go next?” She asked.

    “I’m good for now,” he replied, “Let’s get you home.”
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