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Deviant for 7 Years
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Literature
All Ducked Up
Location: the bath
Statement taken from: the sponge

His name’s Duckie.
Yellow; little sailor hat.
Been missing three days.
And I don’t want to tell any tales but you might start by talking to a ‘friend’ of his who visited every day...
Naturally I’m trustworthy.
Me, an ‘old soak’? You’re keeping me in custody until I dry out?
That’s discrimination!
I don’t see the flannel being treated like this.
Location: the bath
Statement taken from: ‘Ben-Ben’ Frobisher

No, I don’t know where Duckie is.
I’m suspected of ‘assault and battery’...? I don’t understand!
No, I really don’t understand. I’m only three.
Well, I admit there was some chewing, and squeezing until he quacked but…
Until further notice I’m banned from coming within one metre of the bathroom?
That’s a shame.
A real shame.
No, it’s a sad smile.
Location: SW coast
Statement t
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Literature
Pie Increases Your Circumference
It’s a dawn I think equalling (oo, cirrus cloud! And early sunshine cascading through!) standards set in any painting. Cows mooing, an absurd bird has its chirping set to maximum—harmonies newly announcing my fiftieth birthday!
With a delighted chortle I survey gleefully the presented offerings. Two amusing books. A thoughtful token, accepted at everybody’s favourite website… Much chocolate… This gift… tough packaging… is… pie!
Implements quickly gathered, I pierce firm, nutritious pastry. An epicure’s sliver, my delectably precious, favourite chinaware—together making an artistic masterwork. Now some trimming… Oh, cream! And… well, my chocoholics’ ganache? Spattering sweets merrily. Drizzling angelica. Mm.
A huge spoonful! Passionate munching begins. Cream—I nod—is flawless. So too garnishing sweets.
Indeed, only blemish despoiling happiness…
It’s peculiar. This pie’s formed
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Literature
Something Personal
Doctor de Silva and Doctor Visser were going through the records at The Museum of Contagious Diseases.
“So this lady got hepatitis A… this gentleman got gastroenteritis… and this lady got chlamydia!” Doctor de Silva beamed. “Excellent!”
“Are you sure…?”
Doctor Visser smiled weakly.
“I really think we need to rethink the museum’s gift shop.”
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Literature
Tea Up
The Tea Trolley had arrived at the accounts department. Its Priestess handed out the mugs, intoning: “Thanks be to the Urn!”
“Oo, lovely Cuppa!” intoned Dinah and Prudence in reply.
They took a sacred slurp together, followed by the ceremonial cry of ecstasy: “Aaah, I needed that!”
The CEO put his head round the door. “Hi, you don’t mind if I just interrupt your worship, do you?”
“Well,” said Dinah, startled. “Actually—”
“Excellent!”
He came fully into the room.
“Now, here at Balshaw and Backley, we like to think of ourselves as a tolerant employer. And hey! I was once a Tea Drinker myself, before I found Smoothies.”
He took a slug of green sludge from his sports bottle.
“Mmm. But the fact is, these Tea Breaks are interfering too much with productivity. So, from now on, it will not be permitted to worship Tea in the office. I must ask you to stick to Smoothies or bottles of
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Literature
A Fairy Tale
It was Fairy Meadowflower’s fourth birthday, and her mother Fairy Bouvardia had arranged a little party. Just a few friends from fairy playgroup and their parents.
“Aw, aren’t they all so sweet?” Fairy Petunia smiled at her daughter Heartsease playing wand tag with Meadowflower and a few other girls. “Just look at them all dressed up as mortals! With their non-shimmery skin and wings hidden away, and their plain, straightforward clothes!”
She looked over at where Meadowflower’s three year old brother, Fairy Moonlightcobweb was wrestling with getting his wings back under his Pokemon t-shirt.
“Oh… I see your son has dressed up as a mortal too.”
Bouvardia stared at her.
“Yes. Yes, he has. And why shouldn’t he? Why should dressing up as mortals only be for girls? He’s just a little boy—we shouldn’t be forcing these being roles onto him.”
She pointed her wand at Petunia, jabbing it forwards to em
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Literature
Add To Dictionary
“You’re asking the Full Stop for help?”
DISCREET stared at MANAGE.
“It’s not a letter! It’s not a word! I would have said its position matters very little indeed.”
“Don’t you believe it,” said MANAGE quietly. “It may seem small and insignificant but it wields a fair amount of power in this top secret document.”
It looked over at the door as the Full Stop entered.
“Ah, thank you so much for coming. Do take a seat.”
“Right.” The Full Stop made itself comfortable. “So, why am I here? What can I do for you?”
“It’s about the Spellchecker.”  
MANAGE gestured to its companion.
“It won’t recognise DISCREET. Keeps insisting only its cousin DISCRETE has the authority to pass. I need DISCREET to get through the checkpoint, and I need it to happen soon.”
“Not interested.” The Full Stop shrugged. “Anything else? I am quite busy.
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Literature
Bloody Hell
“And so,” said the werewolf, “we will all now share our blood in a solemn blood oath to cement our monstrous alliance!”
“Um,” said the mummy.
“Er, yes?” said the werewolf.
The mummy shrugged. “Well, it’s kind of in the name. I’ve been mummified. I don’t have any blood. Oooh! I do have my brain in a jar somewhere though. Perhaps you could all stick your fingers in that?”
“I don’t think that’s quite—”
“And what about me?” said the vampire. “I really shouldn’t go about sharing my blood willy-nilly. I could end up turning the lot of you.”
“OK, OK…” The werewolf looked pensive. “What about… we all share a kiss to cement our monstrous alliance?”
“I hardly think so!” said Frankenstein’s monster primly. “My lips went through their entire life not snogging random strangers and they’re not about
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Literature
Crackers
It was lunchtime at Santa’s workshop.
“Is it the inspection today?” asked Oliver Elf. He prodded at one of his Brussels sprouts. “Thought I saw the official from the Labour Board heading into His Nibs’ office.”
Sydney Elf nodded morosely. “Today’s the day! And I bet she gives Santa another glowing report. ‘Oh, everything’s just perfect in Santa’s workshop! It’s so much fun in Santa’s workshop! It’s Christmas every day in Santa’s workshop!’”
“It would be a lot more fun if Santa fed us something other than turkey for every meal…” Barbara Elf started slicing up her roast potatoes. “I would kill for a slice of quiche.”
“At least be grateful he’s stopped insisting we call him Father Christmas.” Sydney rolled their eyes. “Talk about a patriarchal society.”
Barbara swallowed her mouthful of potato. “And the way he goes o
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Literature
Pronounced Success
It was a lovely day in the dictionary, and PRUNE had decided to go for a wander. It didn’t normally go so far, but it was in the mood to explore and somehow ended up in the B’s.
The noun BANG was outside too, sprucing up its definition with some new paint.
“Hello!” called PRUNE.
BANG waved back. “Hello! Gorgeous day!”
PRUNE stopped and nodded approvingly at the noun’s work. “That’s a great definition you’ve got there.”
BANG smiled. “Thank you. I like to take good care of it.”
“I can see that.” PRUNE stepped closer to admire the definition more, and stooped to read the IPA symbols on the letterbox. “/bɑŋ/… That’s a distinctive pronunciation for you, isn’t it? Isn’t it usually /bæŋ/?”
“Oh,” said BANG lightly. “Well, I think that was just a small error made when the dictionary was being constructed AND OH GOD I CAN’T KEEP
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Literature
The Wonderland: 5 stars - its clientele is growing
It was six o’clock at the Wonderland Restaurant—time for the tea-time rush. And the queue for tables was already to the door.
“Oh, God,” whispered Kat as they shuffled forwards one place. “I really wish I hadn’t that cocktail at the bar before we started queuing. I feel so conspicuous.”
“Have another nibble,” suggested Dora, proffering a bowl of peanuts.
Kat took one and chewed anxiously. “How tall now?”
Dora whipped out her tape measure. “Six foot… eight. You’re down another inch!”
“Hand over that bowl. I’ll keep going.”
Dora passed the bowl to Kat, and leant sideways out of the queue to try and look ahead. “I think someone has finished and is coming out. The maître d' definitely seems to be saying goodbye to somebody.”
She craned her neck.
“She’s finished saying goodbye but you know, I still can’t spot anyon—”
There was a po
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Literature
The Golden Girl
Jen adored being in the ring—the buzz of adrenaline as she leapt and somersaulted from horse to horse, cries of delight coming from crowds of people that had sometimes travelled halfway across the world just to see her perform.
But this had its own quiet pleasure too—after they had been brushed and fed, spending some time alone with her two Palominos before she went to sleep.
She’d been distracted, rubbing Ash’s ears when Amber spooked. And looking over, she’d found Amber staring at nothing that Jen could see. Horses could spook at the smallest of things—she knew that. But it unsettled her a little—a horse that could cope with being in a circus ring suddenly afraid of her own shadow. It sparked a tiny sympathetic and irrational fear deep inside.
The next morning when Jen approached the stable, she found herself oddly on edge. She found herself checking and rechecking the stable, reassuring herself all was as it should be.
The stable door had si
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Literature
The End
The soul stared down.
“Is that two undertakers arguing? At my funeral? Hey! Time and place, kids! Time and place!”
They turned to their companion.
“Do you know what they’re arguing about? Well, yes, I suppose you do.”
The companion leant forward to gaze down at the pair. “The employer is berating her employee for taking too many days off. To attend funerals.”
“Hah! Life’s little ironies!” The soul considered the gathering congregation. “Not that I know about that any more.”
The companion scanned the congregation too. “Lot of people here in bright colours. You told them you didn’t want a traditional funeral in black?”
“Well, no.” The soul made a gesture that in a human would have been a shrug. “Not exactly. I said it was up to them what they wore—that they should wear whatever they felt like wearing. Look, there’s my great-niece Angie in black. And that
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Literature
When People Are Monsters
There were three of them.
“I am Albert, called ‘The Hero’, said Albert.
“I am Simpkins, called ‘The—” Simpkins screwed up his eyes. “Oh, it’s on the tip of my tongue. ‘The…”
“‘Communicator’...?” said Albert.
“Yes!”
The third of them stepped forward. “And I am the Fool,” said the Fool, “called—” There was a dramatic pause. “—‘The Fool’.”
“Right,” said the client cautiously.
Albert straightened his shoulders. “We right wrongs!”
Simpkins furrowed his brow. “We, um, fight evil!”
The Fool smiled a charming smile. “And we work for half what everyone else charges.”
“You’re hired.” The client leant forward in his chair. “This is my problem. Outside my village stands a large house that has been empty for a generation or more. And now… a sinister presenc
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Literature
Green
The demonstration of motors powered by bacteria excreta had been interesting. The discussion about green roofs had had its moments. Still, it hadn’t been the most invigorating of conventions.
Sigsten checked his watch.
Just one more talk on solar power and he could get back to his lab.
As a UK speaker made her way to the front, he clapped politely.
Then paused.
There was a determined gleam in the speaker’s eye.
Three hours of solar panels later, and the light had rather gone out of Sigsten’s life.
He’d forgotten how much the British liked to talk about the weather.
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Literature
The Flatmate
The first note stuck on the fridge doesn’t bother me at all. I’ve been working such long hours, never seeing anyone outside of work—back home far into the night, out again at the crack of dawn. I’m still halfway between reality and dreams, so I don’t even read the note’s message. The angry tone permeates through but that’s all. I just throw the scrap of paper into the bin as I leave.
The note when I get home does upset me though:
There wasn’t much food in. Why don’t you ever do the fucking shopping? You’re the one who’s out near the shops all day.
There may not have been much, but it was my food. I’m hungry and that makes me anxious. I check the whole flat over and over before I go to bed but everything’s as it should be.
The message on the fridge next morning berates me for leaving the place looking like a tip. Why don’t you tidy it then? I think, though it’s pointless to exp
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Literature
Sod's Law
“It’s a new initiative,” said the interviewer, leaning back in his chair and toying with his pen. “The job title will be ‘National Scapegoat’, and your role would be to… take the blame for everything.”
“Oh, yes?” said Murphy cautiously.
The interviewer nodded. “Essentially you’d just be a figurehead—a focus for blame, if you like. But you’d still be expected to write the odd letter of apology… appear on TV to read out statements of apology… And you would have to serve the occasional prison sentence.”
He smiled encouragingly.
“What do you think?”
Murphy’s shoulders slumped. “I’m desperate, so... I’ll take it.”
“Excellent!”
The interviewer put down the pen and sat up straight.
“Now, we’ll have to start you on minimum wage, naturally—”
“Naturally,” sighed Murphy.
“—but in three months, if
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Favourites

Journal
FFM 2018 Community Feature
Welcome to the Flash Fiction Month 2018
Community Feature!
Almost a thousand stories were produced for Flash Fiction Month this year, and that's a lot to sift through, even for a multi-headed quasi-immortal fiction entity like ourselves. ;) (Wink) That's why every year we ask the participants to send us their favorite stories, so that we may gather them together for a final feature.
All the stories below were suggested by the FFM participants (or by a Hydra), so if you weren't sure where to begin catching up with your reading, this is the place to start! We aren't omnipotent (alas), so there's bound to be a few gems that escaped our notice, but you're still welcome to suggest them to us in the comments section.
:iconbookcrusher:

:iconcamelopardalisinblue:

:iconCassi
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Literature
FFM 2018: The Fall
“For I am he who dwells in burning light.
Hold back the darkness.
Do not fear the night.”

Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. Alastair flicked the pages of the ancient journal back and forth, looking for something useful, anything really. But Brother Mathew and the greater mysteries of the Maleficarum had nothing to offer him beside vague conjecture and iambic pentameter, all useless in the greater scheme of things.
He’d outlasted the night, and when he looked through the arched windows of the library Alastair could already see the sunrise spreading across the city like a stain. Stealthy remnants of the night still clung here and there, marooned like lonely islands between the peaks and valleys of the artificial landscape. But the daylight was remorseless, just another reminder that he was running out of time.
The markings around his arm shifted, coiling a little tighter in response to the light. Alastair grimaced, and pulled the sleeves of his shirt d
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Literature
Disco Inferno
Ever since his death, Richard Nixon's crystallised heart had remained in the possession of the CIA – until tonight. The full strength of the Demonic Neutralization Coalition smashed into the CIA convoy: hulking armoured veetolls blocked the neon skyway ahead, while military and civilian cabs alike crashed in from all angles.
Bootsy flicked her electric blue hair out of her eyes, gritted her teeth, and joined the fray, slamming her Charger up alongside a sleek black sedan. Before they could even trade paint, the sinister mirrored windows burst outwards in a hail of bullets, but the car was already empty. Going toe to toe with the suits was suicide, and the objective was elsewhere – she landed with a roll on the roof of the transport at the centre of the convoy, and cut her way through. Rain and bullets pelted the hull around her as she hurled herself into the belly of the beast.
Bootsy was outfitted with what had, until recently, been state-of-the-art military biointegrated
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Journal
Congratulations FFM 2018 Winners!
You've made it. It's been an incredible year, with amazing stories written by the deliriously unstoppable you. Yes, you. It doesn't matter whether you participated all 31 days, done every single challenge, or if you've written maybe one or two stories. You were here, you wrote, you participated, and if not for you, we wouldn't be here at all.
We'd like to say thank you to everyone who made this possible:
Thank you to the donors, anonymous and otherwise, responsible for our winners receiving a prize (the fabulous mug!);
Thank you to our esteemed judge panel for reading and reading and reading;
Thank you to the community for reading, judging, favouriting and commenting;
and thank you to the writers who wrote their hearts out.
In the years past, writers have been judged by a secret panel of volunteers and the multi-headed Hydra on a week by week basis. That has remained the same. This year, you all have truly upped the ante as far as quality and consistency goes, therefore we are proud to
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Literature
Bedtime Stories for Conformists' Children
    Once upon a time, there was a zebra named Gracie. She was different from the other zebras. Instead of stripes, she was covered in spots. Even though the other zebras didn't like them, she was proud of her spots. She thought they made her special. "One day, my spots will come in handy," she would say.
    One day, a pride of lions attacked the herd. The zebras all gathered together, using their stripes to confuse the predator. Gracie stood out, proud as ever.
    Because she wasn't hard to see like the herd, the lions ran her down and ate her.
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Literature
FFM 2018: Fated
There was no time in the cave at the root of the world. No weeks, no days, no hours, or minutes. The Weaver sat at her loom, watching as mortal men grew and died, and their children rose to take their place. But time did not move for her, and she remained unchanged.
She was not one of the Fates, she did not decide the course of history. The Norns would send her messages through the red threads of fate, a tug here, a severing there, and the Weaver adjusted her work accordingly. But sometimes she wondered what it would be like to truly hold the fate of someone’s life in the palm of her hand.
Time did not pass for her in the typical sense, but she did other things in-between her loom work. She had a small garden, growing in a patch of sunlight that filtered down through the roots of the tree. She cooked, and cleaned, and sometimes she would rest in her small bed at the back of the cave, her blankets the old tapestries of bygone ages. She did not sleep, but sometimes she did dream, a
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Literature
FFM 16: Mondays
Susan frowned at the frogs falling outside her window. Mondays were always a bit of a sore spot as it was and driving through the amphibious rain would likely make traffic more of a chore than usual. She supposed it was better than the horrible heat wave that had been drying up the crops. The scorching flames in the sky were making the A/C in her car act up something fierce.
Susan sighed, and poured her coffee in her leaky travel mug.  She had ordered a fancy new one off from Congo, using their Integer shipping program; however, it took three entire days to arrive--something about the rivers turning into blood delaying the freight. What’s the point of two day shipping if it takes three days to get somewhere? 
Some days, it just feels like nothing can go right.
__
 
Well, she was right about the traffic.
Sixty minutes late, she finally arrived, only to discover that half of the staff had called out sick on account of their entire bodies being covered in
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Literature
Layers
She wore layers. I don't just mean her clothes, though she was well layered up in those. She'd come out in a hat, a backpack, an undershirt, an over-shirt, jeans, socks, shoes, and to cover it all, a giant flannelette top that wrapped around her like a hug; and then under all of that she hid the layers of her true self. When she talked, it was a whisper. When she laughed, her mouth quirked upwards and opened in a quiet huff of air.
Six months in, she was starting to thaw. A layer dropped -- her backpack fell from her shoulders and crumpled at her feet. At the same time, she started to talk. It wasn't much of a change, just a slight increase in volume, and a tendency to verbalise a little more frequently; but I noticed it all the same.
Another three months and the hat came off. That day, I heard a real laugh peel out of her. It echoed in my head that night when I showered, and my thoughts started to change. I'd written her off before -- she was too small, too quiet, too innocent, too pr
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Literature
How to Pain Your Dragon
“Foolish knight,” hissed the dragon. “Did you think this place would be unguarded? Did you think the moat its only defence? None who pass through those gates return alive, for all who do must face me.”
     “Okay,” said the knight. “Why?”
    “What do you mean ‘why’? Obviously I’m gonna fight anyone who comes here. Do you really think they’d leave a dragon in a tower just to welcome people in?”
    “Who’s ‘they’?”
    The dragon made an annoyed little noise. “Only Queen Harriet the Third and the nobles of her court. Geez! You don’t see a lot of dragons guarding pubs, do you? I mean, it’s pretty much royalty or nothing, innit?”
    “Why?”
    “Because dragons guard treasure and the cash box at the Dog and Pheasant i
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Literature
FFM 2018, July 21 - Like Dolphins Fly
Ziva had lived next to the Wall all of her life. Her family were shepherds, and their sheep liked to graze in the shadow during the hottest summer days. It wasn't a Wall at all, supposedly, but rather something buried in the ground, but to her - seeing only a small bit of it - it always looked like a Wall. Her father said the King's men came once a generation to study it, but so far no-one was any the wiser. She remembered them coming once, when she was very small.
So far, they hadn't found the Shaking Man.
Her dog, that she liked to call 'the Buzz' for how hyperactive he was for a sheepdog, was always the better shepherd, so when things looked calm and the sheep were grazing peacefully, she would sneak off to see Him. He was well hidden in the moss and grass that grew all over the jagged surface of the Wall, and even if you stood right next to him, you might not see him unless you were looking.
He had no eyes, no mouth, his body naked and green-and-grey like the wall itself, except fo
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Literature
DBD challenge day 21
The house is as old as the sins of the ghosts inside. A gaping mouth in the soft fields by deep woods by the fat and lazy river, a boy and his mother grow up in the absence of a man.
“I married Atticus Finch,” the mother holds his hand. She in a white dress, he in soft pajamas, they walk through the fields listening to the crack of the wind, the echo of whips, and the burden of history in the dirt, in the walls, in the air. “And he brought us straight into the belly of hell.”
But the boy grows up good and kind. Barefoot and brown and bold and breathing questions like air.
“The boys on TV are killing each other, ma,” he says.
“They are,” she nods to the rhythm of her rocking chair. “But you're not the killing kind of boy.”
In a way, she's wrong.
In his notebooks, lying on his belly in the sweet grass, he imagines sky tall beasts with gaping mouths, sirens singing in the deep of the tangling woods, and storms bringing phantoms w
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Literature
2018 FFM Day 21: On Ganymede
As the sunrise stream flickers in, Eskivver shoots a prayer of thanks to Syreen. The light hits and reveals the glorious depths of her artwork. Having the artwork face the east window was a brilliant idea because the shifting rays of sun through the aperture allowed for full appreciation of Syreen’s craftmanship.
Eskivver knows there is nothing that quite compares to live skin works - the pale skin giving way to glistening raw red patterns, the muscles writhing like snakes underneath, warping the landscape and creating the design afresh every second. It is divine.
The pieces are so difficult to come by, and so hard to maintain, but worth every effort. He was thankful Syreen had taught him her preservation technique. If not for her, Eskivver would be struggling in the deep infinity of space, missing the sun that pins branches to sky, the moon that builds bridges on the sea, the breeze that kisses better than a lover.
But here, he could at least have this beauty in fr
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Literature
Laurels
The Band of Laurels rode the path to the arched city where further rewards and adoration waited. Clad in the charmed cloaks and coronets of ages past, they joked and gamed, discussing and dismantling their latest adventure, cataloguing every daring feat and unlikely incident, honing their story to perfection. The buzz of the kingbees and the chirrup of the crickets slowed their pace to match that of the lazy river that ran alongside them.
If a woman's hips are ample
Then I want her in the hay
Skirt and stocking all a rample
-” sang Cieron, for no other reason than that the sun was shining.
The Laurels joined in, looking forward to a heroes' welcome – save one.
Bale was silent, oblivious to the birdsong and merriment around him. A looted wreath crowned his tangled hair. An ancient king's pauldrons rested upon his sloping shoulders. Amulets of unknown providence hung around his neck; fashioned, he presumed, for someone of much nobler blood than he.
The Band of La
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Journal
FFM 2018 Write-Up and Features
FlashFictionMonth has come to a close, which makes this – for me – five years. July has become an indispensable highlight of my year, and once again I’m very pleased with what came of it: not quite every story was a winner, but close to it.
My biggest obstacles this year should, perhaps, have been the three extra challenges heaped on top of the official ones – but in fact they were the heat (which essentially limited my writing to nighttime) and a certain motivational problem around week 2. Of the challenges, I was surprised to find that the anonymously contributed “every character is queer” one made things hardest. Several reasons for that: 1) flash fiction is short enough that usually it just doesn’t come up, meaning that I had to write a lot of transition- or relationship-focused stories in order to make room for it; 2) its influence made the fairy tale challenge harder than it otherwise would have been: I had to select stories to rewri
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Literature
Shadows and Mist
She broke down and agreed to marry him after only a week, and he was so pleased by this that when she said she had conditions he agreed immediately.
“I am the daughter of a king,” she said. “The ceremony must be appropriate to my station, and my attire just as I have always dreamed.”
And over the next seven days she described in minute detail the decorations, the music, the feast and more, and the sorcerer-prince had attendants note every particular and begin preparations at once.
On the eighth day, she made her final demand.
“For the morning of the wedding and the ceremony, I wish for a dress of soft woven sunlight and a veil made from the mists of dawn. For the afternoon and the celebration, I wish for a dress of summer rain, and dancing shoes made from clouds. And for the evening, I wish for a dress of shadows and night air, and a crown of captured stars.”
He then understood the game she was playing, and though it displeased him to know that she w
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Literature
FFM 20: The Avoided Sun
There is singing outside your window.
The noise wakes you up, although you are used to the constant noise of traffic and car horns and loud-talking drunks. Perhaps its the strangeness of the sweet sound, and perhaps its the fact that its late in the afternoon.
But you’re up, with a few hours of sleep holding open your eyelids, and you might as well see what’s going on.
Besides, your last bit of food has spoiled, and the roaches have enjoyed more of it than you have.
Out the door in yesterday’s clothes, you barely manage to juggle your keys and your phone to get down the stairs. There’s a few dollars in your pockets – mostly tip money, a wad of ones that gets you weird looks.
You blink furiously, shielding your eyes from the sudden brightness, and when your vision clears, you see them. A throng of people, with glimmers of resemblance – here a nose, here a flash of brown eyes – tying them together. They flood the building two doors down with a ri
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SCFrankles
Frankles
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United Kingdom
Profile picture made at www.peanutizeme.com/
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The Lord gathered all the writers and divided them into four groups.


To the first group He said, “You will be novelists and you will make a living from your work.”

To the second group He said, “You will be poets and people will admire and be moved by your work.”

To the third group He said, “You will write short stories and people will enjoy your work.”

And to the final group He said, “You will write flash fiction and… Yes, well, sorry about that.”


My name is Frankles. I'm a writer specialising in flash fiction.

(When I get called home, there are going to be words.)
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Unless a man is in part a humorist, he is only in part a man.
GK Chesterton
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:iconhypermagical:
hypermagical Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2018
Happy Birthday, Frankles! :iconheartlaplz: Hope you're taking a moment to celebrate yourself. 
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:iconscfrankles:
SCFrankles Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so much! ^____^   Daisy thank you 
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:icondown-flower:
Down-Flower Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy birthday! Enjoy the virtual cake!
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:iconscfrankles:
SCFrankles Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so much for the cake - that's very kind ^___^ :cakerun: 
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:icondown-flower:
Down-Flower Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
You're welcome. You deserve it for all the great writing you do.
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:iconpennedinwhite:
PennedinWhite Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Happy Birthday! May it be a wonderful one! :heart:

:cake:
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:iconscfrankles:
SCFrankles Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks so much! There'll be chocolate cake at least ^___^  :funnydance: 
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:iconpennedinwhite:
PennedinWhite Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
YES! Chocolate! :hooray:
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:iconteague-drydan:
Teague-Drydan Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2018  Student Writer
Happy birthday! I hope you have an amazing day!
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:iconscfrankles:
SCFrankles Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks so much! ^__^ Maracas 
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