Saturday, July 1, 2017

Cracked Flash: Year2, Week 45

Welcome to another round of Cracked Flash Fiction Competition!

Judge this week: Ronel

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.

Midnight tonight, 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).)

Two thousand warriors drew their swords for a war they would not win.


  1. 300 Spartan words

    The Art Class of War

    Two thousand warriors drew their swords for a war they would not win.

    It was downright embarrassing.

    “Two thousand,” I explode. “TWO THOUSAND!”

    “Shush, Moog,” someone says from a desk, three rows over. It’s Gorge the Hammer. I give Gorgie my best battle-weary finger and whisper, “You’re fine with this?”

    “Shush, both of you,” someone further back chimes in. And then that shush-happy soldier adds, “Stick to the task at hand.”

    “Frigging Pols,” I mutter, and return to my sketch, remembering how this all came about.

    Was it only a month ago that General Scourge revealed the new policy from our superiors.

    “Men,” he had said, in that deep gravelly voice that we all associated with the glory of attack, “We are in uncharted waters. Glimp the Younger, Prime Minister of Dampmania, has decreed that the glorious battles of yore, the ones once fought bravely, ferociously, and quite bloodily by our fathers and their fathers are no more. It is said that Glimp the Younger could not sleep one snowy night a few months ago. He went for a walk and upon reaching a small hill had an epiphany…”

    “A what?” I blurted out.

    “Moog. Is that you interrupting me?” the General demanded to know. The boar fat was in the fire now, I thought.

    “Yes, my General. Two Thousand apologies.”

    “You still have one serviceable ear, right Moog?”

    “Yes, my General. Most of it.”

    “Then use it. Listen and learn. Glimp saw the future. Our fighting men, all earless. All limbless. He saw that war would continue but perhaps Dampmania could profit by it, provision the armies of the world who continue to engage in pointless bloodshed.”

    “Phooey,” I had said.

    That was last month.

    I refocus and continue drawing the Moog Blade.

    It will be a masterful prototype.

  2. Word count: 297

    Honor in dying

    Two thousand warriors drew their swords for a war they would not win. Rain poured down in silver sheets and mist descended like a shroud. They could hear the blood rushing in their veins and their breathing was shallow in anticipation. Their minds were still. The smell of smoke hung in the air as if trying to claw its way into the atmosphere. A war cry sounded. It was time to die valiantly.

    They approached each other, silently, respectfully almost. Beads of sweat rolled down their faces mingling with the rain. They lunged forward, others side-stepped. Swords clanged as they struck metal on metal. Others drove silently into soft flesh. The warriors relied on instinct. Some were eviscerated and others decapitated. They used everything they had been taught. Thrust. Slash. Turn. They moved in unison as if in dance, each having his part to play. To the left a warrior was slashed from stomach to sternum and to the right another did the same. They saw him then. The leader. He was bigger than the rest and stood at least a foot taller than his men. He stood with confidence, a sneer on his face. The first strike of his blade to our leader, Jung Ting, was so powerful that he fell over backwards. Jung rolled and jumped up behind him. Jung grazed his arm, above the elbow. He looked surprised and smiled. He swung his sword. Jung ducked and lunged. He sidestepped. Thrust. Parry. Turn. Sweat poured off them both and they were breathless but neither would give up. Jung got distracted. The leader thrust his sword upwards with all the force he had left. Jung stilled, a single tear rolling down his face. The rest fell on their swords, dying as they should, in honor.

  3. The End.
    Word Count: 298

    Two thousand warriors drew their swords for a war I knew they would not win. How had it come to this - the last battle. When the computers first came on the scene two generations ago, we had the illusion that we were the ones in control. I think back on those days as I sit here in the dust watching a sea of much younger and capable men began a battle. The hope on their innocent faces that is the hardest to see. I remember having hope once too.

    I scan the cobwebs of my brain. The younger version of the now skeleton like me was passionate about progress at any cost. Sobs choke my throat. How little I knew then. There were naysayers then, at least that’s what I thought they were. I was so focused I wasn’t willing to evaluate their arguments.

    There are so many ways we commemorate firsts - the day we were born, the day we got married. But how often do we live a last moment unaware that it's our last? I didn’t know it was the last time when I kissed my wife that night. But worse than that, I don’t even know which day in my life I was in control and which day the computers were.

    We used to stand in line for hours for the newest -what did we call them? Phones. Ah, yes. Wretched things that they were. It was the beginning of the end. Little did we know. Dazzling us with endless new features as our souls were slowly and undetectably enchained.

    You’ve seen all the old movies; computer rises up against man. This is worse than anything anyone could have ever imagined. This will be the bloodiest battle yet - and all the blood will be ours.

  4. The Adventures of Darius: Chapter 17 in which Darius Complains about the Color of a Sword, which was Supposed to be Red, but turned out Blue Because of the Lighting; however, things are Fixed by Electrical Tape
    By T. O. Davis
    236 Words

    “Two thousand warriors drew their swords for a war they would not win.”

    “Stop,” Jerry said. “That’s not believable.”

    Ron threw the manuscript on the table. It was getting late. “Face facts, man, it is what it is.”

    “What if we made the warriors big-breasted women with funky teeth? I know a dude at Sports Illustrated,” Mike said, and tossed an imaginary basketball into the equally imaginary hoop across the room.Everyone in the room said swish in their minds except Ron, but he was not a basketball fan.

    “It will just be the same sort of schlock that people have been expecting. I mean, you saw that fan fiction site, right. Girls with giant breasts, and they wouldn’t stop moaning for some reason.”

    “Ridiculous,” Ron said, and picked up the manuscript. He rolled it into a tube and tapped his thigh with it, which was a sign to the other members that he was onto something. “What about animals, right? No one is doing this with animals?”

    “That might work,” Jerry said.

    “What about the animal rights groups?” Mike said.

    “They can get in line,” Ron countered, and unrolled the script. He laid it out on the table, smoothing the curled edges as though it were his baby boy’s blanket; he knew right now that same baby boy, Leonidas, or Leo, was waiting on him, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

  5. Title: The Miracle
    Name: Neha Srivastava
    Word Count: 329
    Twitter: @nehasri
    Two thousand warriors took guard even though they knew it was a for a lost cause.
    The skies were overcast, the collision of clouds caused deafening thunder. In the distance, the lightning had already burnt a few thatched huts.
    The soldiers knew that the weather was laying siege on their valiant effort. They also knew that they were the last hope for their people, if at all, unless of course they were blessed with a miracle.
    Yes, miracle. The soldiers knew they were up against an indomitable adversary, a sorcerer of limitless power, who had conjured up the drastic weather conditions. The mud beneath the soldiers feet was already turning to slush. Holding ground was becoming increasingly difficult.
    The warriors created the lotus formation to hold guard. Lotus was their religious symbol and they revered it. The warriors hoped for a miracle, for the lotus to come to their rescue. They had two strong weapons - faith in the lotus and fervor for their kingdom.
    As the falsely conjured raindrops glided down from the warriors' bodies, they started germinating lotuses. The lotuses grew instantly into full bloom and floated around the soldiers in the slush. The soldiers watched in amazement.
    Soon there were thousands of lotuses and the mud beneath the soldiers feet became more stable. Now they had a strong footing on the ground they stood on. They joined their shields above their heads, forming a very huge lotus. As soon as the lightning hit this lotus, it was reflected back into the skies with a force that was unimaginable. The soldiers didn't know what just happened, but soon the skies cleared and a body fell on the thousands of lotuses. It was the sorcerer. He was dead. The lotuses all joined together to form a massive lotus, shrouded the body into the petals that assumed a bud shape again and then disappeared into the ground.
    The warriors were ecstatic. They had just won through a true miracle.