Saturday, October 3, 2015

Cracked Flash: Year 1, Week 15


Cracked Flash Fic is back for another awesome and mildly disturbing competition and it is happening NOW.


And this time, we're gonna be extra cracked because this is Si writing and Si is very, VERY sleepy.

Mars is legally intoxicated right now. YOU'RE STUCK WITH ME :D!
Are you guys also sleepy? Maybe you just want a nice calm CFFC tournament. Some cozy prompt, a cup of tea as inspiration. Understanding,  sane judges urging you on to write that sweet little story.

Throw off those blankets, toss that tea in the harbor, set your coffeecake on fire (and maybe your fruit bowl too). Grab your favorite Pencil of Doom or flip open your Laptop of Madness. Sacrifice your CTRL-Z to Flavio and let's get writing! INSANITY HERE WE COME!

Judges This Week: Rin and Mars

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!). Only one entry per person.

Deadline: Midnight tonight, PDT!

Results announced: Next Wednesday!

Remember: The prompt can be mutilated, but not beyond recognition. (You also do not have to include the photo prompt(s). They just amuse us. (A LOT) )


"Don't worry; you won't remember by morning."

Write, write write! LIKE THE WIND--*Si is dragged offstage*


  1. Acid Reign

    The midnight fog is chowder thick. Mostly a creamy New England soup with bloody streaks of Manhattan.

    Some wingnut shot out the street lamp weeks ago.

    It doesn’t matter when.

    City staff have been on strike for three months. If you get your rocks off sniffing garbage, this is the place. And if you have trouble sleeping and need to count rats the size of sheep, this street is a budget Valhalla.

    I look out her window, press my nose against the pane. She runs her fist down my spine and gives my tail bone a crunching twist.

    “Oooooh, that’s uplifting,” I groan.

    “Yeah,” she coos, “you look to be in need of a little resurrecting.”

    I shift position, hoist my nose from the glass, turn a tad, reach up over the short distance between us and stroke her cheek. Her long blonde hair hangs down to the blanket. I love its feel. Like a brand new corn broom. Clean.

    “Are you hungry?” she asks. And answers as well. “I am. I could eat a horse.”

    I remember the horse. We rode along the beach at Normandy. And took to the sea. She was a three year filly. Hi-Jinks. A prancer.

    “The smell?” I ask.

    “Rainbow. She‘s always burning jasmine.”


    The fragrance of incense swirls up the stairs from the ground floor. I turn again to stare into the night.

    Neon flickers. The midnight diner is alive. “FLO’S and MOE’S” beckons.

    Bobby riffs from outside. “Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear…”

    I beat him to the punch, flash my pearly whites. “Can we outrun the rat pack?”

    “Don’t worry; you won’t remember by morning. Neither will they.”

    “I see omelettes.” Her purple lips smack.

    We gallop to the diner.

    Only one rodent comes even close.

    300 night pangs

  2. Oblivion
    287 words


    Don’t worry; you won’t remember by morning. That was Oblivion’s unspoken promise. Emma traced the label’s extravagant calligraphy with her finger, leaving a crimson border around the embossed script. As an artist she appreciated the beauty in everything.

    The bottle itself was almost empty, its contents mixing with the blood in which she had just washed her hands. She licked her fingers and sighed, sinking further back into the soft-cushioned sofa. It was contentment, not oblivion that claimed her and she wanted to remember every minute, every heartbeat, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

    Her hand reached down and stroked Karl’s face, reassuringly cold even in the warmth of the fire still dancing merrily in the hearth, his body an image of blissful peace. In the background the melting tones of Mozart’s Laudate Dominum sang for the two of them. Could there be anything more perfect? Such times were meant to be treasured.

    Her eyes lazily roamed the room before settling on the portraits, each born of similar evenings. Should anyone reach out and touch these pictures, they would perhaps comment on the strangeness of the texture, be impressed by the realism of the work; ask if she would accept a commission. Emma would nod and smile, arrange a sitting.

    The phone rang but went straight to voicemail. Karl’s name was mentioned, he had recommended her. Could she call back? He left his name, David, and number. Rarely was it a woman. Not that she discriminated in any way.

    Emma stretched out, catlike. Her brushes and scalpels were already laid out in the studio, waiting for the morning, waiting for Karl. Life was good.

    She poured herself a glass of champagne and silently toasted the gods of Oblivion.

  3. Title: Campfire Stories
    Word Count = 298

    [b] Campfire Stories [/b]
    Smoke drifts into the star filled sky. Flame devils dance between the fire’s blackening logs.
    “And then.” Toby becomes a whisper, pulling his audience of five friends closer. “She was pushed into the oven and cooked alive.”
    His friends play along and all make the suitable scared noises. Only Sandra doesn’t play the game. She shrugs off her camp blanket and steps out, in front of everyone else.
    “That is just Hansel and Gretel.” She waves her end as if brushing them off into the fire. “Let me tell you a real horror story. They say that in woods like these,” her arms gesture at the ring of trees around them, “a mile underground there is a secret government bunker where an army of scientists develop new weapons. Not bullets or guns, genetic weapons. Some are gases that strip skin from people’s bones or send them so paranoid they think their own mother is trying to kill them. The really horrible stuff is the genre splicing, mixing shark with horse or vampire bat with monkey. Horrible mutant creatures that are in so much pain they attack anything that moves.”
    Sandra enjoys the shivers that roll through her audience like the waves on a rocky beach, the fire’s warmth no longer visible. “The next stage is moving to humans but this isn’t growing spliced embryos in jars, this is sowing bits of animal into humans while they are awake. They scream so loud they say you can hear them as you walk through the woods.”
    “Who’d volunteer for that kind of project?” Toby chucks an empty lager can into the fire.
    “People don’t, they are taken but don’t worry.” Sandra’s audience scream, dozens of hands pull them back into the wood. “You won’t remember any of this by morning.”

    1. Can the moderator please delete my attempts at adding bold tags to my title? If you make the words Campfire Stories bold as well that would be great! Thanks

    2. Alas, we have no way to edit posts. Also, some clever people have figured it out, but I still don't know how to do rich text in the comments XD

    3. Use "<" and ">" for your brackets and strong instead of b; use "em" for italics. "/" is still used in the same way. Hope this helps

    4. Thanks Steph. I'll remember that for next time.

  4. @firdausp
    (285 words)
    About drugs and dragons

    "Don't worry," he had said and she had believed him.
    Dawn was breaking, a faint light filtered in through the barn window.
    What was she doing in Ray's uncle's barn?
    Her brain was all fuzzy.
    "You won't remember by morning," Ray had said then he'd pricked her with the needle.
    As she lay in the hay, she had watched him walk around the barn telling her something. She couldn't remember what. He had then picked up an apple, rubbed it on the sleeve of his shirt and taken a bite. It had all gone crazy from there. The apple had stuck its tongue out at her and she couldn't stop laughing. Doubling up with hysterical laughter she'd walked to the window.
    "Your uncle's horse is odd," she'd remarked giggling. "He has a sharkface."
    "He's always had that face," Ray had grinned touching her hair and then brushing her cheek with the back of his hand.
    He was her best friend, she'd agreed to try the new drug because she trusted him.

    "Uncle's barn is the best place. The family is gone for the weekend. We can have some fun," he had convinced her.
    "I'll bring the apples," she knew how much he loved them.

    Her body was stiff, her clothes damp. Odd. Then she remembered diving into the pond to wash off the dragon's blood. She sat upright looking for the dragon's body. She found the pitchfork she'd embedded in his neck. Blood was all over the floor of the barn.
    Where was he? Had the dragon attacked him too.
    "Ray!" she called out looking frantically around, then running out.
    Oblivious to her Ray lay in a pool of blood behind a haystack.

  5. Conundrum
    88 words

    “Don’t worry; you won’t remember anything by morning,” Liam assured his wife as he checked the survival suit and made sure she was secure.

    “But… if you fail…”

    “Then everything is the same, except I’m not here. The real problem is ‘if I fail- you’ll never know’.”

    When she frowned he winked. “Occam’s Paradox… the most likely is a false memory.”

    He drew a deep breath and stood, realizing he was delaying the inevitable. He pressed the button and sensed nothing.

    “"Don't worry; you won't remember by morning…”