Copyright csknotts 2020
Copyright csknotts 2020
Guide for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers
1. A prompt photo will be provided each Monday pm to be used as a base to your story. Please include photo prompt with your story.
2. Linking for this challenge begins on Monday pm and runs to the following Monday pm.
3. Please credit photo to photographer.
4. The story word limit is 100 – 150 words (+ – 25 words). Please try to stay within this limit.
5. Please indicate the number of words in your story at the end.
Sunshine glittered off shimmering waters, reflecting in his sunglasses; beach silent but for the soft whisper of waves. Back in the cottage, his phone would be ringing, but he didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to even be in the same universe as anybody he knew.
“You know,” he said to the salt and the sand, “I’m not crazy.”
The salt and the sand didn’t answer, nor had he expected them to. That would be crazy.
A seagull flew overhead, silent.
Water lapped his toes.
He could almost hear the ringing. Ringing. Ringing.
“I don’t need any help.”
Which was true, but not honest.
How could such a beautiful world be so ugly inside?
He imagined diving into the crystal water and swimming away forever.
A seagull flew overhead, screaming.
Slowly, he turned and headed back towards the cottage, footsteps trailing behind in the sand.
Ringing. Ringing. Ringing.
Chilling winds raced beside us, hooves on sand reverberating like a heartbeat, roar of the ocean endless white noise. The wind smelt of salt, sand and leather.
Sandersun pulled against the bit, but I held him steady. Mr. Gallager would throw a fit if he lamed before the race. Hurting million dollar racehorses was not the way to remain gainfully employed.
Darknessrising drew head-to-head. Sandersun pulled harder on the bit. God, this horse loved to run. Hoof beats melding with heartbeats. Power between my knees.
The dark bay surged ahead. So much for a controlled ride. Giving Sandersun his head, the stallion leapt forward, body stretching to the powerful stride which made him a champion.
Nearing the mile end, I pulled him in, cantering him cool. Susie did the same. At the next quarter-mile, we pulled to a walk, bumping fists and grinning like fools.
“I love the beach,” she laughed. “And riding.”
And I love you I thought, but didn’t say.
Exhilarated, we turned for home.
“Writers begin with a grain of sand, and then create a beach.”
― Robert Black
The disagreement hung there, all those years, between them with the solidity of an invisible brick wall. He went to war for a year, and when he came back, it was still there, that damned wall. Spent a year drifting here and there across the ocean. Still there. Missionary work in a country where the very faces of the children made him cry. A year spent roughing it deep in the Canadian forest. Even a year with her, trying for a way to be found.
Her last punishment happened where it had all begun. As she drifted away on her blow-up raft, he watched from the beach; watched until the tiny speck of her was gone. He hadn’t tried to save her because she hadn’t wanted to be saved. All her life, she’d been planning the coup de gras, spear from her heart to his. This time, she’d let the pain destroy her. Hating him, flowers, trees, cars. Happiness.
With a deep sigh, he picked up his towel and walked away, back towards their house. Their home.