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Young Writers Society
Freestyle Flash Fiction
Mon Jul 19, 2010 5:58 pm
Don't think, just write.
Although since this is flash-fiction, try to keep the character count to below 500 (roughly 100 words).
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Sun Aug 08, 2010 11:36 pm
Apologies if I've gotten the wrong idea here...
This goes a bit over 500, but oh well.
(Spoiler for possibly a T rating.)
I was angry beyond a better description. I didn't exactly speak or shout my words; I spat them.
"You two-faced, sadistic piece of scum!"
His trademark smirk. "Oh no, she's mad at me. Save me," he sneered to an imaginary friend. "I take it you've not had your meds yet?"
I pointed the pistol towards him, and swallowed, attempting to regain what was left of my composure. "Tell me where my sister is."
"You really like jumping to conclusions, don't you."
"I know it was you," I hissed and shot in the rough direction of his neck. It resulted in nothing but a bit of damage to the glass table in front of him. Christ, this wasn't like me.
... Unless it's a farm.
Wed Jan 04, 2012 4:39 am
Based on my poem "French Lessons":
He did not say that he loved me. He only asked me if I knew how to say "I love you." Then he taught me:
and I wondered, pink-faced and too shy to meet his gaze at that moment, why French?
As we tripped lightly down the stairs from the school library that afternoon, our hands barely touched and the heat rose from our faces. And I only thought of his shaggy dark hair and his brown eyes and long dark lashes and swimmer’s build and how handsome he was and how proud I was to be here with him, and I wondered if he loved me like I loved him.
Not great but there you go.
Wed Jan 04, 2012 9:57 am
It's obviously not great since I wrote it in two minutes flat or something. But, whatever.
They called him a rogue or a rebel. I called him an honest man. He was unkempt, that was for sure, with a splotchy white shirt and a pair of almost-too-short trousers. The other women said his hair had the colour of a ratty rag soaked too long in dish-water, but I thought it was ruggedly handsome. Or I'd read too much Diana Gabaldon.
I liked to romanticize him as a modern-day James Dean, cigarettes but no car. And when I walked up to him that one fateful day, there was that smile. A charming and revealing twist of the lips.
What is to give light must endure burning. – Viktor Frankl
Saturn: A Project in Sentimental Prose
Fri Jan 13, 2012 3:34 pm
Ah, I needed this. Great idea!
Raven ran, auburn strands whipping behind her. Her worn converse slammed against the damp sidewalk as she weaved between strangers. She could feel their glares on her, but she ignored them and kept running. Politeness would not help her.
Her breathe came in painful huffs, the white mist hitting her face the moment it left her mouth. The stitch in her side ached, begging her to stop just long enough to catch her breath, and for a second she was tempted.
Raven glanced over her shoulder. The man in a black pea coat was half a block behind her and shoving his way closer. His gray eyes locked with Raven’s and she felt an icy chill slither down her spine.
Who do I belong to?
Not evil, not
-- Project 86
Mon Feb 13, 2012 6:29 am
I'm definitely doing this more often! Excellent!
She spun around quickly to face me and drew her sword, holding it defensively in front of her. I blinked in shock and ducked to miss one of her blows. I quickly snatched my sword and began to defend myself. The clashing of the swords echoed through the cave and with each slash I became more determined that this devil wouldn't beat me.
I remember looking into her sullen eyes and gasping as she plunged her sword into me, whilst cackling softly as I fell limply to the floor. “Good bye sister.” she snarled as I shut my eyes for the last time.
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If you want something badly, you just gotta believe it's gonna work out.
— Andy, Parks & Rec
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