Saturday, December 10, 2016

Cracked Flash: Year 2, Week 20!


Welcome to another round of Cracked Flash Fiction Competition!
Announcement: This'll be the last competition of 2016! The Saturdays following are major holidays, so we'll be taking a hiatus and return for Week 20 on the 7th of January 2017! 
 

Beware the Rules that Lurk


Judge this week: Ronel

Word count: 300 words max

How: Submit your stories as a comment to this post, along with your name, word count, and title (and Twitter handle and blog if you’ve got ‘em!). One entry per person.

Deadline: Midnight tonight, PDT!

Results announced: Next Thursday afternoon.

Remember: Your entry must begin with the prompt! The prompt can be mutilated, but not beyond recognition. (Pictures do not need to be incorporated into your stories, they’re for inspiration (and sometimes our amusement)).

Prompt:

Sometimes it was better to hide the unsightly with shiny things than to try and fix it.

Inspirational picture:

 

10 comments:

  1. Alva Holland
    @Alva1206
    300 words.

    Beat It

    Sometimes it was better to hide the unsightly things with shiny things than to try and fix it.

    You know, like the song says:

    ‘I keep your picture up on the wall.
    It hides a nasty stain that’s lying there.’

    A shiny red heart hangs in the window of the card shop in Main Street. When the door is opened, and closed again, the heart sways back and forth like a pendulum, as if to say – come in! We’re alive.

    Things become unsightly when we’re not looking. Things we can’t see go rotten. We think we’ve got it all sorted out. Paths are straight, a few forks in the road – choices made, directions decided. We make plans. Everything’s ok, right?

    Then this thing comes knocking, tapping at your heart, becoming more insistent until it’s a rap, it’s a beat, it’s drumming the valves, not leaving, not giving up. Until the pump decides it’s had enough and lays you flat. Wet-vacuuming the garage is what did it, they said. Standing up one minute, floored the next. Last straw, I said - the bale went before.

    Bright lights, shiny things, tubes, unsightly things, pumps – temporary ones, not mine but acting like they are. Family gathers. What? Can’t fix it? Replace it. Find one. Somewhere, anywhere – no, we don’t care about race or religion - a beat’s a beat.

    A shiny red heart hangs inside me now. It hides a nasty stain that’s lying there. Come in! I’m alive. They tried to fix the old unsightly thing but you can’t beat this shiny, pumping, throbbing pulse. Tomorrow, I fly out of state, to visit a house in mourning. To say, thank you and, I’m sorry.

    His heart beats quicker than mine ever did. Maybe he’s telling me something about shiny things.

    I’m listening.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Words: 299
    @CarinMarais
    www.maraiscarin.wordpress.com

    The Sewer Rat

    Sometimes it was better to hide the unsightly with shiny things than to try and fix it, I thought as I traced a crack in the porcelain of the mask with a brush, pressing goldleaf into the imperfection.
    Across from me sat the owner of the mask. His own face had been pressed into a grotesque gargoyle-like visage by the mask he wore. I wondered who had made the mask for him, but daren’t ask. Money that could afford porcelain as fine as this did not take any questions into the secret lives of their owners lightly.
    “Is this going to take very long?” His voice was silky smooth, charismatic. The kind of voice you wanted to listen to, that you believed no matter the vile rhetoric it spewed. The voicebox around his neck bobbed up and down as he spoke.
    “It is a long process,” I sighed and rolled my shoulders. “It takes as long as it takes.”
    He harrumphed, drank more of the coffee he clasped in his hands.
    “You know,” he said after a while, “you lot should really be kept an eye on. You can’t just go making masks for just anyone who asks. There should be -” he paused, “standards. Look at me. I deserve that mask. Sewer rats should stay where they are.”
    Sewer rat. Someone once called me that and he left crying and with three less teeth. But my mask ensured that I escaped that life. Not many had the chance. Especially with a slum lord like the one sitting across from me.
    I went outside, scraped soot from the outside of the building, pressed it into the last part of the crack. Soon all would see the man for whom he really was. The sewer rat behind the mask grinned.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Words: 292
    @callow_explorer

    Confessions of a Directionless Youth (Relatively Speaking)

    Sometimes it was better to hide the unsightly with shiny things than to try and fix it. I'm a pathological liar. Don't believe me? It's true, but only when it comes to myself. Thoughts erratically bounce around inside my head, all laced with a truth that I try to cover to up with paltry lies and poor excuses. When one of those truths tries to surface I isolate the thought and smash it into tiny pieces, sifting through the wreckage looking for the only the bits I want. Suffices to say I kintsugi the shit out of that thing. I've never been one to embrace Japanese culture, origami didn't do much for me but kintsugi I can get behind. There is an endless chatter between me and my brain that I'm so convinced we're two people making it more of a dialogue than a monologue. Once I've gathered the bits I want, I bond them together with metaphorical bows and paint them in glitter in order to present to myself exactly what I want to hear. I'll give you an example. As much as a cartography enthusiast as I am, I haven't yet been able to find a map that leads me where I want to go. I'm 32 years old and waiting for directions to jump out at me as I stare at the maps that adorn the walls of my room. That's when it happens. I take the thought, the ensuing depression and hit it with a hammer. By the time I've pieced it together I come up with: "I'm still relatively young. I have plenty of time to figure out what I want". I've been saying that for the last ten years or more with no end in sight.

    ReplyDelete
  4. The Prettiest
    300 Words
    @GriffithsKL

    “Sometimes it’s better to hide the unsightly with shiny things than to try to fix it,” said the mother. “Grab that box of Christmas tinsel from the attic. And a fork.”

    The child’s noisy rifling through the silver drawer induced a clamorous tune, followed by staccato thudding on the attic stairs. She returned breathless, holding a fork in one hand, a dusty red box in the other.

    “This?” She asked, fingering the wayward silver strands.

    The mother took the bright silver lengths and held them to the light. The tinsels flashed and shimmered, squirming in her arms like a lightning strike. She gravely handed the tinsel to the child. “You do the honors. It’s your first time.”

    The child wrapped the silver noodles around her fork and jammed it in an eye socket.

    “Yes, that’s it,” counseled the mother, “Now hold the tinsel down with your fingers and gently slide the fork out. Now the next one.” We can stuff her mouth with dryer sheets soaked in cinnamon oil, so she doesn’t stink. Grab the red sequins and we’ll sew her mouth closed, but we’ll leave slits like a sachet. See?” The mother beamed with pride as her daughter bent to the work, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

    “Yes, like that. Sew her mouth into a smile. You just have to pull hard on the thread. She can’t feel anything.”

    “I think I hear her crying,” the child protested. See, where she’s coming apart?”

    “Just use more tinsel. Wrap it like a necklace and no one will know her throat is cut.”

    The child obeyed, her eyes widening at the transformation. A slight smile played at the corners of her tiny mouth.

    “This is the prettiest Christmas doll ever, Mommy.”

    “Almost as pretty as you,” murmured the zombie.

    ReplyDelete
  5. The Rainsville Burn

    Sometimes it was better to hide the unsightly with shiny things than to try and fix it. Sometimes. Other times, there was no earthly way to gloss over the hideous, the forever, doomed to be an unsightly blight on the landscape.

    On those rare occasions, extreme measures were called for.

    At least, that’s what we told myself. After.

    The encampment out by the Old Rainsville Elementary School had grown incrementally. In the beginning, Zack Holmquist, a local man, suddenly down on his luck, developing a taste for intoxicants, scorning the few friends and family he had left, set up an antique canvas tent in the field next to the old school. A few viper tongues wagged but we let it pass. It was almost none of our affair.

    Then, quicker than stink, more tents were set up. Small, temporary inconveniences, we thought. We hoped.

    And then it snowballed. Must have been over one hundred structures.

    The derelict school was on the old highway. The local school board had considered selling the land for housing but the economy was on the downswing, one of our two plumbing parts factories had closed. They saw no advantage in selling in a slow market.

    The word about the camp must have spread up and down the S and O Line.

    Rainsville awaits.

    Bring your sorry homeless asses.

    It’s better than nothing.

    Our climate was west coast gentle, winter, barely a word mentioned in polite company. The sea was over the next mountain. Citrus groves were a plenty. They were saving our depleted economic engine.

    But something ugly was brewing.

    Local yobbos assembled at Delany’s Tavern.

    Soulless men with rusty hearts.

    That night, we saw the thick smoke, shining with flames, heard the screams, as if hell had come a visiting Rainsville.

    We were lost.

    300 small town nightmares

    @billmelaterplea

    www.engleson.ca



    ReplyDelete
    Replies



    1. The Rainsville Burn

      Sometimes it was better to hide the unsightly with shiny things than to try and fix it. Sometimes. Other times, there was no earthly way to gloss over the hideous, the foreve, doomed to be an unsightly blight on the landscape.

      On those rare occasions, extreme measures were called for.

      At least, that’s what we told ourselves. After.

      The encampment out by the Old Rainsville Elementary School had grown incrementally. In the beginning, Zack Holmquist, a local man, suddenly down on his luck, developing a taste for intoxicants, scorning the few friends and family he had left, set up an antique canvas tent in the field next to the old school. A few viper tongues wagged but we let it pass. It was almost none of our affair.

      Then, quicker than stink, more tents were set up. Small, temporary inconveniences, we thought. We hoped.

      And then it snowballed. Must have been over one hundred structures.

      The derelict school was on the old highway. The local school board had considered selling the land for housing but the economy was on the downswing, one of our two plumbing parts factories had closed. They saw no advantage in selling in a slow market.

      The word about the camp must have spread up and down the S and O Line.

      Rainsville awaits.

      Bring your sorry homeless asses.

      It’s better than nothing.

      Our climate was west coast gentle, winter, barely a word mentioned in polite company. The sea was over the next mountain. Citrus groves were a plenty. They were saving our depleted economic engine.

      But something ugly was brewing.


      Local yobbos assembled at Delany’s Tavern.

      Soulless men with rusty hearts.

      That night, we saw the thick smoke, shining with flames, heard the screams, as if hell had come a visiting Rainsville.

      We were lost.

      300 words requiring a slight edit or two
      @billmelaterplea
      www.engleson.ca



      Delete
  6. Word count: 273

    My Abuse Kit

    Sometimes it was better to hide the unsightly with shiny things than to try and fix it. Full cover concealer worked best. But only if you detracted attention away from the eyes with glossy lip balm. A glittery silk scarf worked best for the neck and chest areas, while full sleeve blouses covered the “unsightlies” on the arms. I was like a mom with a first aid kit, ready for disaster. Only my kit contained the essentials of a battered woman: Sun glasses, make-up and accessories. A mirror to see what the world would see, and a list of well-rehearsed excuses to use. I never lied to anyone about it. I simply omitted some truths. The wall was too thick and too high to gain entry and eventually I got lost in the maze of my realism. I walked around with an air of strength, when the truth is that the gentlest puff of air blown in my direction would have flattened me. I heard it said that a woman is like a teabag. You only know her strength when you drop her in hot water. Right. What if you scald the layers of her essence until she no longer looks or acts or is what she once was? Here is the ultimate truth. He didn’t like what he had created and so despised it. One day, things were different. I walked out on him. As I stepped into my new life the scabs of being burned alive fell off and I was made new again. I dropped my emergency kit into the nearest bin and carried on. It really was that easy.

    ReplyDelete
  7. Word Count: 300

    Knife-Edged Smile

    Sometimes it's better to hide the unsightly with shiny things rather than trying to fix it.

    As Steve sat in his booth he gazed at the gorgeous young lady a dozen thoughts, twisted with innumerous perversions, flooded his mind. Rope, a flame, a candle and hot sticky wax, a knife and the slow trickle of blood. A naked corpse swinging lazily back and forth suspended above the star speckled shallows below the Aurora Bridge.

    He averted his gaze, reigning himself in. Steve had issues, issues far beyond those of the ordinary person. Most of us were plagued by daily tribulations such as meeting our deadlines, to take the northern bypass or try cut through traffic on back roads, and the ever imposing existential question of regular or decaf.

    Instead of the par for the course conundrums Steve was plagued each day with greater animosity. Shaving became a struggle between life and death, a mere twitch suffusing his skin with a blossom of crimson. Driving was a game of cat and mouse, a do or don't, with each and every pedestrian. It would be all too easy to simply take the precious things from another and in an eye blink remove all hope they'd ever held dear as if a rug from under their feet.

    Steve struggled each day to hide this facet of his personality.

    Steve struggled now with such a dilemma. The dilemma being 5'9, resplendent in a golden evening gown, and potentially drop dead gorgeous. Unspeakable thoughts crossed his mind as he considered laying his hands on her curvaceous body.

    His eyes dropped again as hers had met his for a whisper in time. 'It can't be all bad,' he told himself.

    He raised his gaze and met her eyes. He smiled a knife-edged smile. She smiled back.

    ReplyDelete
  8. To see or not to see?
    300 words
    Teodora R.
    @teo_rog19

    Sometimes it was better to hide the unsightly with shiny things than to try and fix it.

    The doctor was ushered in the room after midnight, but the lamp almost blinded him in the beginning. He tried to look up, but they said it was impossible to switch off the light.

    “Can we dim it a little?”

    Once the light went low, he could turn towards his patient – a young back lying down on the makeshift bed, his stubble making him older than he was. He looked towards the patient’s face and to his horror, although he was sleeping, one of his eyes was open, watching him. His third eye.

    “What is this?” The doctor tried to keep the disgust out of his voice.

    “I hoped you would be able to tell me… The patient is my brother” Apparently he had been complaining about migraines for a while, then developed a bump on his forehead. They were afraid of cancer, but then the consistency changed, and one day he woke up facing his third eye, which looked exactly like the normal pair, even had the same colour – green. There was a problem though, this eye never closed – it lay awake even in the night, and thrived in light, that is why they needed to keep a lamp on at all times. Other than that, it did not bother the patient.

    The doctor had seen many curious things during his life – but needless to say, nothing like that. He examined the sleeping/conscious patient, all the time feeling the scrutiny of the latter’s third eye. In the end, he turned to the door, as to leave, but not before throwing a rag to the men:

    “There! Use this as a turban – sometimes it’s easier to hide the unsightly than to fix it!”

    ReplyDelete