Saturday, August 19, 2017

Cracked Flash: Year 3, Week 4

Judge This Week: TBD

Word Count: 300 max

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

Deadline: Sunday 8/20 at 4 AM PDT

Results announced: Next Wednesday 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 amusement).)


I dropped my shield.


  1. 300 Spartan words

    From the Diary of Insolentus Backus, Somewhere in Gaul, Maybe 45 BC

    “I dropped my shield,” the old warrior running beside me cries out the incredibly obvious as he stumbles.

    Boo hoo, I think, but keep that cheeky thought to myself. If you can’t even hang on to your shield, what’s next…your sword?

    I rear up, extend a hand, and help him to his feet.

    I confess, I was a little winded too. It was almost time for our wine break. We get two five-minute breaks a battle. Lunch, well, you eat when there is a spare moment, eh! In olden times, before the King created the Warriors Union, you could go days without a break. Blood; battle; crazy yelps…a lot of stress. So even though it is a Company Union, we managed to squeak out a few perks. And get this this, the King supplies the wine. That counts for quite a lot.

    I guide the clumsy old trooper into a small depression where we can sit down, kick back, and sip our grape juice.

    “Whew,” he wheezes out, “I sure needed this break. Thanks, laddie.”

    “No skin off my nose, soldier. It was break time anyways.”

    He stretches back into the dirt bank and closes his eyes.

    “No time for sleeping, soldier,” I remind him. “Snoring can easily give away our position.”

    “Just restin’ my eyes. You know, back in the day, we never got a break like this. It’s such a joy.”

    He’s right, of course. But it was unfortunate that the key issue of pensions was scrapped. A pension plan would have maybe kept these old farts out of our way. War is for the young.

    “Well,” he rises, “back to the grind.”

    “Get a good grip on that shield, eh!” I say.

    He looks sheepish. “Won’t happen again, laddie. Leastwise, not today.”

    There’s always tomorrow, I think.