1. thirdwind

    thirdwind Member Contest Administrator Reviewer Contributor

    Jul 17, 2008
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    Current Contest Flash Fiction Contest #67 - Theme: Blood donor

    Discussion in 'Monthly Flash Fiction Contest' started by thirdwind, May 15, 2019.

    The theme for this contest, courtesy of @Scot, is blood donor. You are free to interpret the theme however you wish, but please make sure your story takes the theme into account in some way.

    The entries can be no longer than 500 words. Please post the entries directly in this thread. All entries will automatically be anonymized by the system. The deadline for submission is May 31.

    Good luck to everyone who enters! Hopefully the info above covers everything, but if you have additional questions/comments, please post them here or PM me.
  2. Anonymizer

    Anonymizer New Member

    Nov 15, 2013
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    Hark! Hark! Murderer on the loose! (499)

    Warning: Potentially disturbing

    There are ladies who, through inborn beauty or excessive decoration, stand out from the most distinguished crowd. She was not such a one.

    The debutante was an extraordinary jewel, eclipsing even a gathering composed solely of the aforementioned, their splendor the mere backdrop and frame for her graceful activity.

    Her pearlescent dress flattered her pallid complexion, and displayed her feminine attributes without being quite vulgar. It was modest, though not so simple as to invite scorn.

    The young Marquess of Würiken, that infamous connoisseur of womanflesh, watched her throughout the evening. Her neck was easily her finest feature; swanlike, with two closely set beauty marks. It was lust at first sight, and he was seized by a longing he knew would not subside until he had plumbed her mysteries and wrung out every last possible drop of pleasure.

    A fawning viscount had the lady under siege, and assaulted her with platitudes and champagne for a quarter hour. The moment it seemed the battle might start swinging in the viscount's favor, the marquess took it upon himself to stage a rescue.

    Under the pretense of wishing to show her the full moon, he escorted the lady out to a balcony.

    The marquess smoked a cigarillo while studying the cleft of her ample bosom. The faint blue veins in her white breasts made him think of marble.

    “Your city is most handsome,” she said, leaning over the balustrade. “But I heard such terrible things.”

    “Did you?” The marquess leaned in to smell her neck. He felt the heat of her, and heard the surging blood. It drove him mad. There was nothing he despised worse in a woman than life, and heat, and blood.

    “A murderer and worse is at large,” she said, and shuddered. “He waylays poor women in alleyways, to kill and... have his wicked way.”

    “Thrilling, is it not?” The marquess licked her neck. She turned, an act made awkward by his arms fencing her in.

    “My Lord, do you aim to start a rumor?”

    “Your skin. So soft. I wish I had riding boots in half so supple leather.”

    There was no alarm in her eyes, though he thought he saw a twinkle of mischief.

    “It is getting late,” she announced. “Would you walk me to my uncle's? He is away, and I have the run of his townhouse.”

    Midway through an obscure alley, the marquess twisted the top off his cane and unsheathed the hidden dagger. He stabbed her twice in the back. She gasped and fell swooning into his arms. He held her as she bled out, his loins aching with the throb.

    He was tearing at her stubborn corset like a starved dog when he felt warm breath upon his cheek. He jerked his head up and found her eyes. They shone like garnets.

    “There you are,” she whispered. In the silver moonlight, her wet fangs gleamed. The marquess shrieked as they sank into his neck.
    Last edited by a moderator: May 23, 2019 at 8:47 PM
  3. Anonymizer

    Anonymizer New Member

    Nov 15, 2013
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    Blood Lust (486 words)

    Most of all I remember the belt. Dark brown leather ,wide, with a bright brass buckle. It hurt like hell. I can imagine that other people remember better things, they think of their father’s twinkling eyes or warm hugs, or even scary voice when he got angry. At least think of the person.

    I just see the belt.

    He was always mad or ready to be mad, laying out rules only he could see. And when I crossed that imaginary line, accidentally when I was little, intentionally -- more often than not -- when I was older, he would shove me into a room, slowly take off the belt, and tell me to turn around. Once I didn’t and he slapped me across the face with it, so hard it raised a huge welt and he kept me home from school for two weeks till it went down. He didn’t want outsiders to know what he was really like.

    I don’t know what they thought of him or us, only that they stayed away and left us to him. The other part of us is my kid sister. I don’t know exactly what he did to her, because he never did anything while I was around, and she wouldn’t tell me, just got this horrible blank stare and seemed to disappear into her own skin.

    I don’t know exactly what happened to my mother, who died a year after my sister was born, but I know enough. I remember cops, and a kind but clueless lady from Child Protective Service. She was clueless, but I wasn’t -- I remember that night, him yelling, her crying, the screams, the banging, the silence, the sirens. He said if I told anyone it would be even worse for me. I believed him and kept quiet.

    I left when I was 16, and later he got sick, and had to let my sister go into foster care. I hope it wasn’t too late.

    Now I get this call from the hospital. The old man needs major surgery and needs blood. Or he will die.

    Problem is our grandparents emigrated from India, probably the only East Indians in a dozen counties around, maybe in the whole state. Certainly in our little town, and now he and me and my sister are the only ones. Here’s the kicker: our family came from Bombay, and lots of people there have type HH blood, the rarest blood in the world. Our family has it. And type HH people can only accept blood from other type HHs. Sister and I are the only HH people anywhere near; it will take days to get more in, and he doesn’t have days. He has hours.

    I thought about being decent and forgiving. But then I see that belt again. And my sister sees even worse.

    He killed our mother and killed our souls.

    Now we return the favor.
  4. Anonymizer

    Anonymizer New Member

    Nov 15, 2013
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    Souls (500 words)

    I am a soul collector: horns, fangs and scaly tail, not to mention pitchfork. I am strolling through the blood-donor ward. And you are thinking why are they not all screaming:

    ‘Soul collector! The cloven hoofs and the horny head! Jesus save me!’

    Well that shows how much you know which is, apparently, slightly less than a gnat’s balls. Only people about to die can see me. Being honest, and when did you ever meet a demon from the fiery pit who was not totally bona fides and fido bones, some people squint out the corner of their eyes and get a teeny glimpse. On their way from the coffee machine and then whammo, there I am for a moment. So, they spin around, covered in foam and macchiato, looking into the corners, saying: ’Whah? Say whah?’. You have to laugh.

    Anyway, I hate these places. I take naughty folk down below to get up front and personal with You-Know-Who. So, what gives these do-gooding, sanctimonious assholes the right to give blood, and save one of my clients? The whole place reeks of smugness. Most soul collectors hang around graveyards, but I think, ‘Come on, those dudes are dead! Where is the sport?’. Here, the blood goes in a bag, the bag goes to some sick schmuck. So, I follow the bag, and hey presto-desto, there is someone desperately waiting for his Type O and possibly breathing his last. I spot a potential front-runner and follow the bag down into Ward 10. But my demonic spidey sense tells me he is an innocent soul. Shit. If I do not catch a break soon, I am heading for the graveyard.

    Just then a Doc wanders in. He glances over his shoulder, reaches into his pocket, and sticks a needle into the schmuck’s drip-feed. I can tell this is not a vitamin supplement, because the schmuck starts thrashing around. And I think:

    ‘Dumb, fucking luck! I got me one of those Munchausen-by-proxy doctor-killer dudes!’

    Doc is watching Mr Schmuck thrash around. I hate to say this, but Doc is getting a hard-on. However, his dick is apparently not the only place his blood is rushing to. He grabs his heart, slumps to the floor. I step over him - he looks up at me. He can see me 20:20, which for him indicates a severe lack of future career options. I pull the needle out of the IV bag. While el-schmucko is recovering, the Doc is having a massive coronary: I love when that happens to doctors with their ‘listen-to-me-the-doctor’ crap about vegetables and wholegrain humous. I lean over him and whisper:

    ‘Physician, heal thyself’.

    When he gets the genuine demon-up-close experience, his bowels evacuate. But that is as far as he gets before he croaks. As I pick him up for transport, I think to myself:

    ‘Don’t worry Doc, where you are going, the smell of shit is going the be the very least of your worries.’
    Last edited by a moderator: May 21, 2019 at 11:09 PM
  5. Anonymizer

    Anonymizer New Member

    Nov 15, 2013
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    Blind Faith (461)

    The lovers stumbled upon one another as they drank putrid water from the gutter. They’d been separated for more than a month, blinded, disoriented, emaciated. They’d called for each other every waking moment since the blinding. And then, by complete chance, they were together. Amid the screams and confusion, suffering within the scourge of humanity, they embraced.

    As they held each other tightly, they voiced their stories. They told of the fateful day and asked each other what happened. No one knew. There was speculation about God and terrorists and viruses. Some thought that electronic devices or social media had finally taken over. It seemed not one person had been spared. Rumors circulated that people roamed the streets throughout the world, trying to find their loved ones, their homes, their lives.

    On the day of the blinding, planes fell from the sky, vehicles crashed, and people lurched about, sightless and scared beyond their levels of tolerance. There was a constant din of hysterical voices, crying children and pure panic. Store windows were smashed in the search for food and shelter. People were rendered homeless, unable to gain their bearings. The wounded moaned and begged for help. Dogs growled and tore at the flesh of the dead and sometimes the living. The stench of human waste and blood and decaying bodies was everywhere. People fought viciously over everything of value: food, blankets, clothing, cigarettes, alcohol.

    The lovers found a quiet alcove and huddled together. One had a blanket and they wrapped themselves. She told him she was pregnant, that she had planned on telling him the day they were blinded. He was elated and horrified.

    “Will the baby be blind?” one asked.

    “I don’t know,” was the answer.

    Together they sat, each with thoughts of sightless babies and meager prospects. They wondered if being with each other was enough. But the warmth that was generated between their filthy bodies sparked hope.

    In the morning, they awoke together. Their feelings had changed. The baby would likely be blind. How could it not? And even if it had sight, who would care for it if they couldn’t. He produced a small pocket knife and felt for the pulsing vein in her neck. As her blood flowed between his fingers, he held her until she was still.

    He tried many times to let his own blood flow, but his hands trembled so badly, he couldn’t do it. A time later, as he walked the streets, he heard rumors. The blindness was reversing itself rapidly. He tilted his head skyward and saw the light of the sun, filtered by gauze-like tendrils, but light just the same.

    He found a recessed doorway, saw the glint of the knife blade, and finally managed to slit his own throat.

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