wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.September 15, 2012 - 7:20pm
I am painfully aware I haven't written anything yet. Seriously.. it hurts!
I will try my hardest to get something in by the end of the month.
Cool to see there's an alternate prompt. That might get the creative juices flowing.
Fritz
October 29, 2012 - 10:27pm
Seeds to Heaven
EDIT: took it out... may develop it into something worth a shit...
Fritz
September 16, 2012 - 2:32pm
Yeah - thought I'd throw one down.
may give the medical miracle one a go as well - there is a plethora of flashes with that one. Keep at it - everybody. And good luck with your writing!
Covewriter
from Nashville, Tennessee is reading & SonsSeptember 16, 2012 - 7:59pm
Germ Attack, by Covewriter
GUYS THIS HASTELY DONE BUT FUN IT GETS THE WRITING JUICES FLOWING
Did it happen when she touched her index finger on the "up" button of the rickety elevator, a button pushed by countless others whose hands had been anywhere? Fresh, clean flesh, porous and accepting, on a germ portal that was the elevator at the Queen's Hotel in New York City? Or did it start earlier? Somehow this seemed important, placing the beginning of the end, as she felt her way nauseous and winded, stumbling, held up by a stranger, down 18 flights of stairs to fresh air.
She felt weak Monday morning after preparing until midnight for the meetings, then catching an 8 am flight, a day of airport delays, a day spent popping vitamin c tablets, using hand sanitizer after flushing airport toilets, then finally checking into the Queens at 11 pm.
She rolled her carry-on into the tiny elevator, the kind of elevator only found in old hotels in classic cities, and stood touching arms with a young guy in an expensive camel coat and black angular hair hanging over one eye. A Jewish couple, exactly the same height and level with Anne's shoulders , followed her into the box. Anne, standing by the number board, touched all the numbers for them. They let her do that,not even considering the risk
"Fifteen please,"Camel Coat lsaid.
"What's ours Bubby?" Asked the tiny Jewish woman with jet black spongy hair.
"You have the key how should I know?" Bubby asks.
"Fourty- two," she shouts. " We're way up high. Hope we got a view."
Then, Anne sneezes. The sneeze rocks her off balance. She covers her mouth, but Camel and Jewish couple stare at her like she had set off a bomb.
"Sorry" she offers.
Anne drags her bag and computer to room 1847 and crashes on the bed, the stiff bedspread scratching her legs, the hotel cleaner smell nauseating. By 3 am she has pinned her legs around the toilet and cannot move from the spot for throwing up airport pizza, wine, airplane peanuts, then pure bile.
The room spins like a kaleidoscope as she makes her way back to the strange bed, pulls down the covers and lies shivering underneath. Water, she should have taken water , but too tired to get back up. The blinds are drawn. She has not looked at New York city blinking and shining, a little wet with rain.
The city means nothing at the moment. The worry of tomorrow's business presentations pale in comparison to just feeling better. The ring of fire around her abs will not be quenched. "Is it gas ? ," she wonders, but it hurts more than that.
"It was pushing the button," Anne thinks, tossing in the hotel sheets, sweating, throwing them off then huddling under them once again for warmth.
"I caught someone's germ," Anne thinks. "A germ on the elevator up key."
It is 5 am when Anne hears sirens in her sleep. A dream, or real?
It is 10 am when pounding on her door jars Anne awake. There is yelling also.
"Open up!" the voice screams. " I know you are there and you are Anne. Please open," the voice screams, then breaks to crying. It is the crying that brings Anne out of sleep. She struggles to the door, finishing the dregs of Evian water to stop the dryness as she reaches for the door.
In front of her Camel Coat stares wildly, hair sticking out, eyes wild.
"Did you see the news?" he asks. His voice is horse and parched. "they put the virus on the New York elevator buttons. You touched them," he gasped. "Then you sneezed. The other couple is dead already."
He had walked in the room and was working the tv controls, but his coordination was off. He seemed drunk to her, and she seemed in a dream. Then she saw it, all the sudden. The blond newscaster brought the words home .
"If you have been in a New York elevator in the last 24 hours report to the emergency room immediately. You could be the victim of a terrorist attack, the most vicious we have seen since 9/11
"Let's go," Camel Coat said, and grabbed her arm. " We have to use the steps."
"Or jump," Anne said.
He glanced at the closed curtains and said no, they won't open. So they fled down 18 flights, clinging to each other, stumbling, blacking out, needing water.
When they burst to the open air an ambulance stood waiting. She saw for the first time he was in boxers only and she was nude.
Later, after she watched the news reports and saw that 15 people died in the attack in New York City, after she took the needed drugs to off set the germ, after she learned she would not have children, she called Camel Coat.
They cried on the phone.
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.September 17, 2012 - 2:34am
Okay so I went a bit (a lot) vague with the prompt but I have my entry!
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazSeptember 20, 2012 - 3:53am
Fuck Yes! You guys are the troopers. Lisa, you really want a frothy prize? Okay. But it is going to tingle.
Martin. Fritzle. You two kick tits. Damn.
Lisa, I know...it has been quiet...I have been, but I intend to turn up the volume in the fall...and, here we are. Fall.
Covewriter
from Nashville, Tennessee is reading & SonsSeptember 21, 2012 - 10:25pm
We need to get people flashing more. I wish you could urge people on without having to start a whole new thread. ( Apologies my day job is in marketing.)
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.September 22, 2012 - 5:16am
*kicking tits* Yeah, that's right. All the ladies be queueing for that.
In other news, what Covewriter said.
.
September 22, 2012 - 7:37am
Summer Vacation by Dakota Taylor
I grab a Guinness from the fridge but my hand instantly releases the bottle like clock-work. Forgot to sanitize it. My hand is tainted, microscopic organisms crawling around on it, breeding, making its own colonies. The sink is only a few feet from the fridge but the distance feels longer than a death row inmate's last walk. I gag. Tunnel vision sets in, waiting for the feature presentation. My hand no longer feels attached to the rest of my body, it floats in the air, as far away from me as it can.
With my clean elbow, I knock the handle of the sink upward and thrust my tainted hand under the water.
Steam rises, the moisture covering my face like morning dew. I remove my hand and inspect it, the water still blasting. It looks like a lobster, freshly boiled. Severely burned, but no longer foreign to me.
The pool of foamy, brown ale races towards my feet. My knees shake, threatening to give out. Head is dizzy. Eye twitches.
"Wassa matta? Afraid of a few germs?" Cassie laughs, grinning. When she takes off her frayed jean shorts, her body doesn't match the one in my spank bank. Her legs are too pale, freckled with infection-yellow bruises. Her toe nails: unpainted. Cassie's orange panties are too loose fitting and her thighs, smooth but not muscular.
She turns to me, excitement and fear mixing around in her grey eyes. I can see her ribs when she inhales and she breaths out loudly, cueing that she is ready to jump. Her eye brows raise, her fists and smile clench harder than her sphincter and without warning she pivots on her callused heel and sprints toward the murky, green water that looks black under the full moon. For a second, she is airborne, hugging her knees to her chest.
Splash. Ripples.
The rain starts with a slow jazz rhythm, warming up to the Earth. The rain drops speed up their tempo until they are pounding the dry rotted deck, riddled with bent nails, begging to be stepped on.
Cassie never comes back up.
I bandage my hand with gauze but not before I mop up the spill on the floor with a tattered rag. The house smells like bleach. A smell I've come to enjoy. It sanitizes everything.
Fritz
September 22, 2012 - 10:28am
germs and / or medical miracle - any genre you want - have some fun people - it's not like you're getting a grade - this is pure creative engineering... and good practice.
Covewriter
from Nashville, Tennessee is reading & SonsSeptember 22, 2012 - 10:50pm
The site is way too quiet. Woekshops are good but we need something.
Covewriter
from Nashville, Tennessee is reading & SonsSeptember 23, 2012 - 7:52pm
Oh these are getting good!
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazSeptember 24, 2012 - 2:59am
Starting new threads? Do you drink Scotch?
Look at the age?
How many weeks has this thread been going?
New threads die fast.
Yes...summer is a quiet time. You know it was 90 degrees in Portland last week? Just be patient.
LitReactor had not even launched yet at this time last year.
How many threads on the board say 52 weeks?
Eh?
Bear with me.
Lisa, I am aware that you have a background in marketing. However, you may be underestimating everyone else's marketing backgrounds. Some are quite well versed in the art of popaganda.
Keep these fucking sweet stories comin'.
voodoo_em
from England is reading All the books by Ira LevinSeptember 25, 2012 - 1:44am
Just so you know I'm working on a little something for the "Germs" prompt.
Hope to get it finished in time :)
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazSeptember 25, 2012 - 4:50am
Oh, and I look forward to it voodemily. We all do. How do you like the 'remix.'?
voodoo_em
from England is reading All the books by Ira LevinSeptember 25, 2012 - 6:18am
very cool.
(and even cooler is the fact that this post is number 666)
voodoo_em
from England is reading All the books by Ira LevinSeptember 27, 2012 - 4:23am
As promised, here's my story from the prompt: Germs.
Enjoy :)
Friendship and other Germs (993 words)
“S’alright,” Molly says, her arm stretched out holding the bottle towards me, “I don’t have germs.” With the kind of snort-laugh that exits the body more through the nose that the mouth, she adds, “At least, none you haven’t already got and besides, what are best friends for if not sharing?”
Reaching forward I close my hand around the bottle’s thin neck and take it from her. Something alcoholic and bright blue sloshes against the glass, the smell of bubblegum teasing my nose. Already Molly’s turning away from me and back to the mirror, focused fully on the task in hand. Using my shirt sleeve I wiped the lip of the bottle anyway.
Just in case.
Sat at my dressing table, her right eye half closed, carefully layering eye-shadow, she says, “What’s yours is mine, and all that.”
Instead of replying I tip the bottle against my lips, swallowing a good mouthful. The taste of blue raspberry freeze-pops coats my tongue. Childhood nostalgia, only lukewarm, the way they tasted if you drank them instead of freezing them.
And Molly, her reflection watching me, says, “I know you went out with Seth a few times but it was never serious and, well, he asked me.”
I shrug and look at myself in the mirror, the blue of my eyes so much brighter against the bloodshot pink of inebriation.
This is after I told her how much I liked him. How my skin got a shock of goose-bumps when he kissed me. How he’d held my hand practically the whole night, and maybe I had a chance, because maybe he actually liked me too.
Still watching me, Molly says, “Oh-my-God. Are you mad at me?”
And this isn’t any kind of apology.
She says, “Because it’s not my fault you know, men just see something in me.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s your peanut butter legs”
“My what?” The mascara wand halfway to her face she pauses, our reflections look at each other.
Swallowing another mouthful of blue, I smile, “Easy to spread.”
“Bitch!” She takes a half-hearted swipe at me and our laughter entwines, only it’s not so much a joke. More déjà-vu, because this is hardly the first guy she’s stolen.
Eyes on herself again, Molly tilts her head slightly to check her side profile and says, “Be grateful, tomorrow I’ll fill you in on all the sexy details, see if he’s worth the effort.” She smirks, “You’ll get week’s worth of masturbation material.”
In the mirror, my eyes hold a caged storm. Instead of biting my tongue I swallow another mouthful and watch her pursed lips, her fingers run the plastic spatula from my lip gloss over and over her mouth till it’s candy-sticky. Blotting on a piece of tissue, she says, “I came into the store, you know? Thought you could get me a discount on a new dress for tonight, but you weren’t there.” Her reflection raises an eyebrow and says, “You ditching or something?”
“Or something,” I say.
Truth is I’ve spent the last two days shitting myself.
Literally.
What I’ve had is Gastroenteritis, the Norovirus variation rather than the kind caused by bad food, which means I get to feel doubly sorry for myself because it’s not self-inflicted. According to the internet, the infection messes with the intestines ability to absorb water, which leads to so much watery diarrhoea. Think: hosepipes without any kind of fancy nozzle attachment, turned up full. Think: the stream of hot water pouring from the large faucet on your bathtub. It’s the equivalent of pissing through your asshole. Bent double, sat on that toilet, a tsunami of sharp stomach cramps roll in as nausea surfaces, because in this day and age it’s all about the ability to multitask. A symphony of vomit, frothy sunset orange splashes up the sides of the plastic bowl usually use for cake-mix, now balance precariously on trembling knees. Long hair sticking to the sweat on the back of my neck, falling forward across my face, with every jerking heave the ends dips into the sick-bowl. Gagging and choking, vomit comes out of my nose, and still I shit. The wet echo of liquid hitting liquid.
According to the internet, the doctor can’t help, this is one of those stay-at-home-and-ride-it-out illnesses. Not that I’d risk being more than twenty frantic steps from the comfort of my own bathroom. Everything you eat makes an encore. Bulimia without the effort, an anorexic’s wet dream. What the internet doesn’t say is how hungry you’ll get after your body’s finished its evacuation. The thundering pulse of a dehydration headache. The fact that you can’t cough, you can’t sneeze without the risk of forcing a shit out. And don’t even think about farting. Uncontrollable self-defecation’s the sure-fire way to shatter anyone’s self esteem.
Work was so out of the question.
That, and it’s also highly contagious.
To Molly I say, “Crazy-painful period pains, you know, so thick and heavy, like runny golden syrup, only blood coloured. May’ve been a blockage, because...”
Stopping me with a raised palm she says, “Urgh, too much information,” and stands to smooth the creases out of the short black dress clinging to her every curve. “At least I found this killer dress in your wardrobe, and damn it looks good on me.”
Because what are friends for.
Arching her back, sticking her breasts forwards, Molly says, “I know you’re not a hardcore lesbian, but you still would, right?”
“I’m not even a softcore lesbian.” I say moistening my lips and taking one last wet mouthful from the bottle.
“Yeah but you would though.” Molly says, checking out the reflection of her ass.
Passing the alco-pop back to her I say, “Sure, what are friends for.”
With sticky lip-gloss staining the rim, Molly tilts the bottle back, swallowing hard until there’s nothing left.
In the mirror a Cheshire cat smile steals across my face.
Because what’s a few germs between friends.
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazSeptember 27, 2012 - 7:38am
666.
You pretty devil, you.
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazSeptember 28, 2012 - 2:10pm
Congratulations to one of our own! J.Y. 'Hip-Hoppy' Hopkins! Winner of the September Flash Smackdown. For the record, let it be known that Hoppy cut his teeth right here in this very thread. Train people, train!
Covewriter
from Nashville, Tennessee is reading & SonsSeptember 28, 2012 - 6:36pm
Congratz J.Y. I can't find it in the posts. Would love to read it. Where is it?
Fritz
September 28, 2012 - 6:48pm
Congrats!
Cove - hit the link. Its posted there
.
September 28, 2012 - 8:19pm
Congrats J.Y!!!
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazSeptember 29, 2012 - 6:16am
Lisa...are you drunk again?
I even highlighted it with my own blood.
Covewriter
from Nashville, Tennessee is reading & SonsSeptember 30, 2012 - 12:43pm
Ah, got it. Interesting story. Should we post under that link in future or just here? I have just been posting here. That's me, not following directions again.
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.October 2, 2012 - 1:34am
@ Lisa - the smackdown and Flash Me! are two different competitions. J.Y. won the smackdown this month so that's what Chester linked to. If you want to use the Flash Me! prompts, you should post here.
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.October 2, 2012 - 1:36am
Also - it's October!
You got enough stuff there for putting a poll together now Chester? The roll-over, germs & medical miracle poll!
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazOctober 2, 2012 - 2:40am
I do. Even one is enough. And Octo-horror is on soon.
Fritz
October 2, 2012 - 5:32am
Poll poll poll
Fritz
October 3, 2012 - 10:12am
Bump
.
October 4, 2012 - 7:48am
Take a bump.
And let us vote.
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazOctober 5, 2012 - 1:10am
he-he
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazOctober 5, 2012 - 2:05pm
Okay, I have been slammed but I will have the Augsept poll up this weekend. Thank you for your patience litpeeps
Moderator
Utah
from Fort Worth, TX is reading Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtryOctober 5, 2012 - 2:21pm
Whatever, Chester. Just...whatever.
^^^Not sure why I said that. Just seemed the right moment.
Fritz
October 7, 2012 - 7:53pm
Bump
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazOctober 8, 2012 - 3:17pm
Hey everyone,
I have realized that I cannot give Flash Me! the attention it deserves and will be, at least for the time being, turning the reins over to the venerable Martin Garrity. Of course I will still read and vote and all of that good stuff. Love you fuckers.
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazOctober 8, 2012 - 3:19pm
Oh yeah, and Martin will be setting up the poll for the last two months as well. Thanks M.G.!
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.October 9, 2012 - 8:57pm
Oki dokie, mofo's. I am the aforementioned venerable one (ha).
I am like the son of Chester, here to continue the good work. Don't worry, Bring-da-motherfucking-Pane will be back when he is good and ready. Until then lets do him proud and keep this sucker rolling on!
It's October and it seems fitting we have something creepy. So.
WITHOUT FURTHER ADO
Flash Me! October.
Prompt: "They mostly come out at night."
Wordcount: anything up to 750 words
Prize: A copy of Stephen Graham Jones' new slasher-horror novel, The Last Final Girl, which I will buy as a gift copy from Amazon for the winner.
voodoo_em
from England is reading All the books by Ira LevinOctober 9, 2012 - 2:02am
sad to see you go Chester, you did an awesome job.
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.October 9, 2012 - 2:22am
He is a bit like Gandalf, when he comes back he will be all blingy and uber.
voodoo_em
from England is reading All the books by Ira LevinOctober 9, 2012 - 6:05am
^ haha, yes.
Congrats on your "promotion" Martin, I have already set my brain to start ticking over October's prompt, but alas it appears to be broken...
sean of the dead
from Madisonville, KY is reading Peckerwood, by Jed AyresOctober 9, 2012 - 3:23pm
hey, i've never written anything for this one...just post straight onto the thread, right?
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.October 9, 2012 - 3:35pm
Yep :)
At the end of the month the best (my favourite) few go up for a public poll.
Class Facilitator
Emma C
from Los Angeles is reading Black Spire by Delilah DawsonOctober 9, 2012 - 8:49pm
Allo! My first time, as well. Do we have to include the prompt phrase in the story?
Covewriter
from Nashville, Tennessee is reading & SonsOctober 9, 2012 - 8:52pm
Love Chester he was awesome, but so is Martin, and everyone needs a break. Did we get results from Sept/ Ovt one?
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.October 9, 2012 - 8:55pm
@ La Em - Nope. The prompt is what you make of it. Go crazy.
@ cove - the poll has a thread up now. Tough call, getting it down to three. Hopefully the WAR will be stirring up a bit of fun here this month. People got the fight in them!
Covewriter
from Nashville, Tennessee is reading & SonsOctober 9, 2012 - 9:01pm
Ok I see the poll thread now.
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazOctober 10, 2012 - 1:19am
Blingy and uber. The thing I like about this new arrangement is that I am now qualified to submit. Aha. That is right. I am going to mindfuck some clitcocks.
Moderator
Utah
from Fort Worth, TX is reading Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtryOctober 10, 2012 - 7:40am
Chester, whatever you need to do to warm up for some WARfare.
Class Facilitator
Emma C
from Los Angeles is reading Black Spire by Delilah DawsonOctober 10, 2012 - 10:59pm
October Glaring
Eyes in the dark, the swish of tails against paper takeout litter. Beneath the sodium streetlamp each wears a golden mantle as the old tom jumps atop the dumpster.
The gathering complete, his lieutenant stands and arches his back, a signal to attention.
“It’s fire-tree season, and the festival is coming,” he begins. They narrow their eyes in agreement. “Are any of the night-coats missing?”
Heads swivel, taking stock of the neighbours, looking for gaps. A seal point female steps forward. “Bangface is missing, but I think his humans keep him inside during the season.” Heads nod, confirming.
The tom speaks. “Where’s Whispertop? She doesn’t have humans. She should be here.”
There is silence, followed by a low hiss as the group understands what’s become of the shaggy old molly. The tom huffs, and they move on.
“When the moon is half-faced the humans will hide themselves and walk. It’s best you find a place to wait this out, be it in your human-home or your own. During the last festival some of us were taken. The human-kits in particular are most likely to snatch you; they will catch your tail if you aren’t fast.”
A wave of teeth and tongues passes through the gathering as the veterans yawn. The tom misses it but his lieutenant doesn’t. He puffs his chest out, posturing.
“It behooves you to remain vigilant if you value your freedom. Whispertop was older than any of you here! Catches Frogs was bored by this lecture last festival; how many of you now see him trapped behind the glass, crying to be set free?”
The tom pans the crowd with his menacing glare, underscoring the words. Too independent for their own good, these. He clears his throat and attention snaps to him.
“The greys have returned as well. They mean us no harm, and remember to do them a kindness if you see them. Many are lost and confused, and we are their guides.”
A young tuxedo turns to his neighbour. “What are the greys?” This is his first festival. The neighbour, a fat calico with a permanent scowl, whispers in his ear and his eyes widen.
“The birds have been spouting some silliness about a winged demon but I’ve not seen such a thing. My ringtail cousins have seen the sewer dragons, and say their numbers grow.”
A slim brown tabby in the front flattens her ears. “I know the demon. It has a nest in the big nut-tree by my human-home. It is a rat, with the body of a man and great skin wings. Its eyes are red. I do not trust it.”
The tuxedo speaks up once again, still timid. “I saw it, too. It took away the dog that lives by me. It screams—” He breaks off, each hair standing on end, too afraid to continue.
The tom lashes his tail as he considers the small cat. “Mind yourself, then, child. It will be safe again once the icefall begins.”
“Any other reports?” The lieutenant’s steel grey ears twitch, restless.
“Lazy Ear is dead. I saw when the monster crushed him.”
There is a moment of silence before another speaks up.
“The green human-home by the over-water has food, lots of it.”
“Thank you, Grizzle.”
“There is a new monster-home in the alley next to the park. On cold days it’s warm inside, if you can get into the mouth when it’s open.” The crowd murmurs appreciatively; warm monster-homes are a luxury when the big white comes.
Business complete, the glaring adjourns. The tom’s people scatter back to their homes, their boxes and hunting grounds. A group drifts north to the green home with free food.
Alone at last, the tom leaps down, feeling the arthritis in his forelegs crunch. He approaches the tan door at the back of the building and rakes his claws against it, following the well-worn grooves. When it creaks open, releasing clouds of salty-smelling steam, a hand sets down a chipped bowl full of pork and chicken and scratches him around the ears.
One of the greys is drifting along the alley when he leaves. He brushes against it, electricity crackling blue against his fur. Come with me. He leads the way.
He ambles into that ebbing space and wonders who will be there to guide him when the time comes.
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.October 10, 2012 - 11:10pm
@ La Emme - nice one. A rat with the body of a man. Fucking aye.
I am painfully aware I haven't written anything yet. Seriously.. it hurts!
I will try my hardest to get something in by the end of the month.
Cool to see there's an alternate prompt. That might get the creative juices flowing.
Seeds to Heaven
EDIT: took it out... may develop it into something worth a shit...
Yeah - thought I'd throw one down.
may give the medical miracle one a go as well - there is a plethora of flashes with that one. Keep at it - everybody. And good luck with your writing!
Germ Attack, by Covewriter
GUYS THIS HASTELY DONE BUT FUN IT GETS THE WRITING JUICES FLOWING
Did it happen when she touched her index finger on the "up" button of the rickety elevator, a button pushed by countless others whose hands had been anywhere? Fresh, clean flesh, porous and accepting, on a germ portal that was the elevator at the Queen's Hotel in New York City? Or did it start earlier? Somehow this seemed important, placing the beginning of the end, as she felt her way nauseous and winded, stumbling, held up by a stranger, down 18 flights of stairs to fresh air.
She felt weak Monday morning after preparing until midnight for the meetings, then catching an 8 am flight, a day of airport delays, a day spent popping vitamin c tablets, using hand sanitizer after flushing airport toilets, then finally checking into the Queens at 11 pm.
She rolled her carry-on into the tiny elevator, the kind of elevator only found in old hotels in classic cities, and stood touching arms with a young guy in an expensive camel coat and black angular hair hanging over one eye. A Jewish couple, exactly the same height and level with Anne's shoulders , followed her into the box. Anne, standing by the number board, touched all the numbers for them. They let her do that,not even considering the risk
"Fifteen please,"Camel Coat lsaid.
"What's ours Bubby?" Asked the tiny Jewish woman with jet black spongy hair.
"You have the key how should I know?" Bubby asks.
"Fourty- two," she shouts. " We're way up high. Hope we got a view."
Then, Anne sneezes. The sneeze rocks her off balance. She covers her mouth, but Camel and Jewish couple stare at her like she had set off a bomb.
"Sorry" she offers.
Anne drags her bag and computer to room 1847 and crashes on the bed, the stiff bedspread scratching her legs, the hotel cleaner smell nauseating. By 3 am she has pinned her legs around the toilet and cannot move from the spot for throwing up airport pizza, wine, airplane peanuts, then pure bile.
The room spins like a kaleidoscope as she makes her way back to the strange bed, pulls down the covers and lies shivering underneath. Water, she should have taken water , but too tired to get back up. The blinds are drawn. She has not looked at New York city blinking and shining, a little wet with rain.
The city means nothing at the moment. The worry of tomorrow's business presentations pale in comparison to just feeling better. The ring of fire around her abs will not be quenched. "Is it gas ? ," she wonders, but it hurts more than that.
"It was pushing the button," Anne thinks, tossing in the hotel sheets, sweating, throwing them off then huddling under them once again for warmth.
"I caught someone's germ," Anne thinks. "A germ on the elevator up key."
It is 5 am when Anne hears sirens in her sleep. A dream, or real?
It is 10 am when pounding on her door jars Anne awake. There is yelling also.
"Open up!" the voice screams. " I know you are there and you are Anne. Please open," the voice screams, then breaks to crying. It is the crying that brings Anne out of sleep. She struggles to the door, finishing the dregs of Evian water to stop the dryness as she reaches for the door.
In front of her Camel Coat stares wildly, hair sticking out, eyes wild.
"Did you see the news?" he asks. His voice is horse and parched. "they put the virus on the New York elevator buttons. You touched them," he gasped. "Then you sneezed. The other couple is dead already."
He had walked in the room and was working the tv controls, but his coordination was off. He seemed drunk to her, and she seemed in a dream. Then she saw it, all the sudden. The blond newscaster brought the words home .
"If you have been in a New York elevator in the last 24 hours report to the emergency room immediately. You could be the victim of a terrorist attack, the most vicious we have seen since 9/11
"Let's go," Camel Coat said, and grabbed her arm. " We have to use the steps."
"Or jump," Anne said.
He glanced at the closed curtains and said no, they won't open. So they fled down 18 flights, clinging to each other, stumbling, blacking out, needing water.
When they burst to the open air an ambulance stood waiting. She saw for the first time he was in boxers only and she was nude.
Later, after she watched the news reports and saw that 15 people died in the attack in New York City, after she took the needed drugs to off set the germ, after she learned she would not have children, she called Camel Coat.
They cried on the phone.
Okay so I went a bit (a lot) vague with the prompt but I have my entry!
Prompt: medical miracle
Here's my flash: Exhibit 31B
Fuck Yes! You guys are the troopers. Lisa, you really want a frothy prize? Okay. But it is going to tingle.
Martin. Fritzle. You two kick tits. Damn.
Lisa, I know...it has been quiet...I have been, but I intend to turn up the volume in the fall...and, here we are. Fall.
We need to get people flashing more. I wish you could urge people on without having to start a whole new thread. ( Apologies my day job is in marketing.)
*kicking tits* Yeah, that's right. All the ladies be queueing for that.
In other news, what Covewriter said.
Summer Vacation by Dakota Taylor
I grab a Guinness from the fridge but my hand instantly releases the bottle like clock-work. Forgot to sanitize it. My hand is tainted, microscopic organisms crawling around on it, breeding, making its own colonies. The sink is only a few feet from the fridge but the distance feels longer than a death row inmate's last walk. I gag. Tunnel vision sets in, waiting for the feature presentation. My hand no longer feels attached to the rest of my body, it floats in the air, as far away from me as it can.
With my clean elbow, I knock the handle of the sink upward and thrust my tainted hand under the water.
Steam rises, the moisture covering my face like morning dew. I remove my hand and inspect it, the water still blasting. It looks like a lobster, freshly boiled. Severely burned, but no longer foreign to me.
The pool of foamy, brown ale races towards my feet. My knees shake, threatening to give out. Head is dizzy. Eye twitches.
"Wassa matta? Afraid of a few germs?" Cassie laughs, grinning. When she takes off her frayed jean shorts, her body doesn't match the one in my spank bank. Her legs are too pale, freckled with infection-yellow bruises. Her toe nails: unpainted. Cassie's orange panties are too loose fitting and her thighs, smooth but not muscular.
She turns to me, excitement and fear mixing around in her grey eyes. I can see her ribs when she inhales and she breaths out loudly, cueing that she is ready to jump. Her eye brows raise, her fists and smile clench harder than her sphincter and without warning she pivots on her callused heel and sprints toward the murky, green water that looks black under the full moon. For a second, she is airborne, hugging her knees to her chest.
Splash. Ripples.
The rain starts with a slow jazz rhythm, warming up to the Earth. The rain drops speed up their tempo until they are pounding the dry rotted deck, riddled with bent nails, begging to be stepped on.
Cassie never comes back up.
I bandage my hand with gauze but not before I mop up the spill on the floor with a tattered rag. The house smells like bleach. A smell I've come to enjoy. It sanitizes everything.
germs and / or medical miracle - any genre you want - have some fun people - it's not like you're getting a grade - this is pure creative engineering... and good practice.
The site is way too quiet. Woekshops are good but we need something.
Oh these are getting good!
Starting new threads? Do you drink Scotch?
Look at the age?
How many weeks has this thread been going?
New threads die fast.
Yes...summer is a quiet time. You know it was 90 degrees in Portland last week? Just be patient.
LitReactor had not even launched yet at this time last year.
How many threads on the board say 52 weeks?
Eh?
Bear with me.
Lisa, I am aware that you have a background in marketing. However, you may be underestimating everyone else's marketing backgrounds. Some are quite well versed in the art of popaganda.
Keep these fucking sweet stories comin'.
Just so you know I'm working on a little something for the "Germs" prompt.
Hope to get it finished in time :)
Oh, and I look forward to it voodemily. We all do. How do you like the 'remix.'?
very cool.
(and even cooler is the fact that this post is number 666)
As promised, here's my story from the prompt: Germs.
Enjoy :)
Friendship and other Germs (993 words)
“S’alright,” Molly says, her arm stretched out holding the bottle towards me, “I don’t have germs.” With the kind of snort-laugh that exits the body more through the nose that the mouth, she adds, “At least, none you haven’t already got and besides, what are best friends for if not sharing?”
Reaching forward I close my hand around the bottle’s thin neck and take it from her. Something alcoholic and bright blue sloshes against the glass, the smell of bubblegum teasing my nose. Already Molly’s turning away from me and back to the mirror, focused fully on the task in hand. Using my shirt sleeve I wiped the lip of the bottle anyway.
Just in case.
Sat at my dressing table, her right eye half closed, carefully layering eye-shadow, she says, “What’s yours is mine, and all that.”
Instead of replying I tip the bottle against my lips, swallowing a good mouthful. The taste of blue raspberry freeze-pops coats my tongue. Childhood nostalgia, only lukewarm, the way they tasted if you drank them instead of freezing them.
And Molly, her reflection watching me, says, “I know you went out with Seth a few times but it was never serious and, well, he asked me.”
I shrug and look at myself in the mirror, the blue of my eyes so much brighter against the bloodshot pink of inebriation.
This is after I told her how much I liked him. How my skin got a shock of goose-bumps when he kissed me. How he’d held my hand practically the whole night, and maybe I had a chance, because maybe he actually liked me too.
Still watching me, Molly says, “Oh-my-God. Are you mad at me?”
And this isn’t any kind of apology.
She says, “Because it’s not my fault you know, men just see something in me.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s your peanut butter legs”
“My what?” The mascara wand halfway to her face she pauses, our reflections look at each other.
Swallowing another mouthful of blue, I smile, “Easy to spread.”
“Bitch!” She takes a half-hearted swipe at me and our laughter entwines, only it’s not so much a joke. More déjà-vu, because this is hardly the first guy she’s stolen.
Eyes on herself again, Molly tilts her head slightly to check her side profile and says, “Be grateful, tomorrow I’ll fill you in on all the sexy details, see if he’s worth the effort.” She smirks, “You’ll get week’s worth of masturbation material.”
In the mirror, my eyes hold a caged storm. Instead of biting my tongue I swallow another mouthful and watch her pursed lips, her fingers run the plastic spatula from my lip gloss over and over her mouth till it’s candy-sticky. Blotting on a piece of tissue, she says, “I came into the store, you know? Thought you could get me a discount on a new dress for tonight, but you weren’t there.” Her reflection raises an eyebrow and says, “You ditching or something?”
“Or something,” I say.
Truth is I’ve spent the last two days shitting myself.
Literally.
What I’ve had is Gastroenteritis, the Norovirus variation rather than the kind caused by bad food, which means I get to feel doubly sorry for myself because it’s not self-inflicted. According to the internet, the infection messes with the intestines ability to absorb water, which leads to so much watery diarrhoea. Think: hosepipes without any kind of fancy nozzle attachment, turned up full. Think: the stream of hot water pouring from the large faucet on your bathtub. It’s the equivalent of pissing through your asshole. Bent double, sat on that toilet, a tsunami of sharp stomach cramps roll in as nausea surfaces, because in this day and age it’s all about the ability to multitask. A symphony of vomit, frothy sunset orange splashes up the sides of the plastic bowl usually use for cake-mix, now balance precariously on trembling knees. Long hair sticking to the sweat on the back of my neck, falling forward across my face, with every jerking heave the ends dips into the sick-bowl. Gagging and choking, vomit comes out of my nose, and still I shit. The wet echo of liquid hitting liquid.
According to the internet, the doctor can’t help, this is one of those stay-at-home-and-ride-it-out illnesses. Not that I’d risk being more than twenty frantic steps from the comfort of my own bathroom. Everything you eat makes an encore. Bulimia without the effort, an anorexic’s wet dream. What the internet doesn’t say is how hungry you’ll get after your body’s finished its evacuation. The thundering pulse of a dehydration headache. The fact that you can’t cough, you can’t sneeze without the risk of forcing a shit out. And don’t even think about farting. Uncontrollable self-defecation’s the sure-fire way to shatter anyone’s self esteem.
Work was so out of the question.
That, and it’s also highly contagious.
To Molly I say, “Crazy-painful period pains, you know, so thick and heavy, like runny golden syrup, only blood coloured. May’ve been a blockage, because...”
Stopping me with a raised palm she says, “Urgh, too much information,” and stands to smooth the creases out of the short black dress clinging to her every curve. “At least I found this killer dress in your wardrobe, and damn it looks good on me.”
Because what are friends for.
Arching her back, sticking her breasts forwards, Molly says, “I know you’re not a hardcore lesbian, but you still would, right?”
“I’m not even a softcore lesbian.” I say moistening my lips and taking one last wet mouthful from the bottle.
“Yeah but you would though.” Molly says, checking out the reflection of her ass.
Passing the alco-pop back to her I say, “Sure, what are friends for.”
With sticky lip-gloss staining the rim, Molly tilts the bottle back, swallowing hard until there’s nothing left.
In the mirror a Cheshire cat smile steals across my face.
Because what’s a few germs between friends.
666.
You pretty devil, you.
Congratulations to one of our own! J.Y. 'Hip-Hoppy' Hopkins! Winner of the September Flash Smackdown. For the record, let it be known that Hoppy cut his teeth right here in this very thread. Train people, train!
Flies Also Like Beer by J.Y. Hopkins
Congratz J.Y. I can't find it in the posts. Would love to read it. Where is it?
Congrats!
Cove - hit the link. Its posted there
Congrats J.Y!!!
Lisa...are you drunk again?
I even highlighted it with my own blood.
Ah, got it. Interesting story. Should we post under that link in future or just here? I have just been posting here. That's me, not following directions again.
@ Lisa - the smackdown and Flash Me! are two different competitions. J.Y. won the smackdown this month so that's what Chester linked to. If you want to use the Flash Me! prompts, you should post here.
Also - it's October!
You got enough stuff there for putting a poll together now Chester? The roll-over, germs & medical miracle poll!
I do. Even one is enough. And Octo-horror is on soon.
Poll poll poll
Bump
Take a bump.
And let us vote.
he-he
Okay, I have been slammed but I will have the Augsept poll up this weekend. Thank you for your patience litpeeps
Whatever, Chester. Just...whatever.
^^^Not sure why I said that. Just seemed the right moment.
Bump
Hey everyone,
I have realized that I cannot give Flash Me! the attention it deserves and will be, at least for the time being, turning the reins over to the venerable Martin Garrity. Of course I will still read and vote and all of that good stuff. Love you fuckers.
Oh yeah, and Martin will be setting up the poll for the last two months as well. Thanks M.G.!
Oki dokie, mofo's. I am the aforementioned venerable one (ha).
I am like the son of Chester, here to continue the good work. Don't worry, Bring-da-motherfucking-Pane will be back when he is good and ready. Until then lets do him proud and keep this sucker rolling on!
It's October and it seems fitting we have something creepy. So.
WITHOUT FURTHER ADO
Flash Me! October.
Prompt: "They mostly come out at night."
Wordcount: anything up to 750 words
Prize: A copy of Stephen Graham Jones' new slasher-horror novel, The Last Final Girl, which I will buy as a gift copy from Amazon for the winner.
sad to see you go Chester, you did an awesome job.
He is a bit like Gandalf, when he comes back he will be all blingy and uber.
^ haha, yes.
Congrats on your "promotion" Martin, I have already set my brain to start ticking over October's prompt, but alas it appears to be broken...
hey, i've never written anything for this one...just post straight onto the thread, right?
Yep :)
At the end of the month the best (my favourite) few go up for a public poll.
Allo! My first time, as well. Do we have to include the prompt phrase in the story?
Love Chester he was awesome, but so is Martin, and everyone needs a break. Did we get results from Sept/ Ovt one?
@ La Em - Nope. The prompt is what you make of it. Go crazy.
@ cove - the poll has a thread up now. Tough call, getting it down to three. Hopefully the WAR will be stirring up a bit of fun here this month. People got the fight in them!
Ok I see the poll thread now.
Blingy and uber. The thing I like about this new arrangement is that I am now qualified to submit. Aha. That is right. I am going to mindfuck some clitcocks.
Chester, whatever you need to do to warm up for some WARfare.
October Glaring
Eyes in the dark, the swish of tails against paper takeout litter. Beneath the sodium streetlamp each wears a golden mantle as the old tom jumps atop the dumpster.
The gathering complete, his lieutenant stands and arches his back, a signal to attention.
“It’s fire-tree season, and the festival is coming,” he begins. They narrow their eyes in agreement. “Are any of the night-coats missing?”
Heads swivel, taking stock of the neighbours, looking for gaps. A seal point female steps forward. “Bangface is missing, but I think his humans keep him inside during the season.” Heads nod, confirming.
The tom speaks. “Where’s Whispertop? She doesn’t have humans. She should be here.”
There is silence, followed by a low hiss as the group understands what’s become of the shaggy old molly. The tom huffs, and they move on.
“When the moon is half-faced the humans will hide themselves and walk. It’s best you find a place to wait this out, be it in your human-home or your own. During the last festival some of us were taken. The human-kits in particular are most likely to snatch you; they will catch your tail if you aren’t fast.”
A wave of teeth and tongues passes through the gathering as the veterans yawn. The tom misses it but his lieutenant doesn’t. He puffs his chest out, posturing.
“It behooves you to remain vigilant if you value your freedom. Whispertop was older than any of you here! Catches Frogs was bored by this lecture last festival; how many of you now see him trapped behind the glass, crying to be set free?”
The tom pans the crowd with his menacing glare, underscoring the words. Too independent for their own good, these. He clears his throat and attention snaps to him.
“The greys have returned as well. They mean us no harm, and remember to do them a kindness if you see them. Many are lost and confused, and we are their guides.”
A young tuxedo turns to his neighbour. “What are the greys?” This is his first festival. The neighbour, a fat calico with a permanent scowl, whispers in his ear and his eyes widen.
“The birds have been spouting some silliness about a winged demon but I’ve not seen such a thing. My ringtail cousins have seen the sewer dragons, and say their numbers grow.”
A slim brown tabby in the front flattens her ears. “I know the demon. It has a nest in the big nut-tree by my human-home. It is a rat, with the body of a man and great skin wings. Its eyes are red. I do not trust it.”
The tuxedo speaks up once again, still timid. “I saw it, too. It took away the dog that lives by me. It screams—” He breaks off, each hair standing on end, too afraid to continue.
The tom lashes his tail as he considers the small cat. “Mind yourself, then, child. It will be safe again once the icefall begins.”
“Any other reports?” The lieutenant’s steel grey ears twitch, restless.
“Lazy Ear is dead. I saw when the monster crushed him.”
There is a moment of silence before another speaks up.
“The green human-home by the over-water has food, lots of it.”
“Thank you, Grizzle.”
“There is a new monster-home in the alley next to the park. On cold days it’s warm inside, if you can get into the mouth when it’s open.” The crowd murmurs appreciatively; warm monster-homes are a luxury when the big white comes.
Business complete, the glaring adjourns. The tom’s people scatter back to their homes, their boxes and hunting grounds. A group drifts north to the green home with free food.
Alone at last, the tom leaps down, feeling the arthritis in his forelegs crunch. He approaches the tan door at the back of the building and rakes his claws against it, following the well-worn grooves. When it creaks open, releasing clouds of salty-smelling steam, a hand sets down a chipped bowl full of pork and chicken and scratches him around the ears.
One of the greys is drifting along the alley when he leaves. He brushes against it, electricity crackling blue against his fur. Come with me. He leads the way.
He ambles into that ebbing space and wonders who will be there to guide him when the time comes.
@ La Emme - nice one. A rat with the body of a man. Fucking aye.
The ball is officially rolling now.