The entries for week six of the AOS flash fiction challenge are now posted for your voting pleasure. There are six scintillating offerings this week – how apropos for week six. Your mission . . . follow the link and vote!
The winner of Week Five of the Flash Fiction Challenge is the
amazing Paul Freeman and his entry Captain Blood.
Congratulations Paul – excellent work!
Paul Freeman
About the Author
Paul Freeman lives in Dublin Ireland. He remembers the first time he wrote anything of worth, he was nineteen and sheltering from the rain in a tent while on a camping trip with some friends in a place called Glendalough, a very picturesque corner of Ireland. He showed it to his girlfriend of the time and she burst into tears. He thinks that was a good sign. You can read extracts from his novel, TAXI, on Authonomy.
THE WINNING STORY
Paul Freeman – Captain Blood
A dark shape crawled out of the water and dragged itself up the beach, not quite reaching the powdery white sand beyond the high tide mark. Like a large sea creature stranded on the shore, it raised its odd shaped head with great effort, slowly looked around before dropping back to the sand. It lay still for a long time, while white foam waves gently lapped at it’s feet and legs.
Nathaniel Alphonsus Spencer opened one eye, then the other before pushing himself up slowly. His two hands came out of the wet sand with a great sucking noise. He brushed sand off his black velvet coat, tugged at the over-sized cuffs, smoothed out his black velvet breeches, settled the tricorne hat, which miraculously still sat on his head, albeit a little soggy, before turning towards the sea and glaring at it.
A low growl rattled in the back of his throat as he eyed the great blue ocean that had dared to spit him onto this deserted strand. The great expanse of calm water ignored him, defying the black glare that many a man had not lived long enough to regret seeing. A look that could silence a brawling mob, could freeze the blood of a battalion of the King’s finest, a stare that could frighten God Almighty’s own heavenly angels. For Nathaniel Alphonsus Spenser, was none other than, Captain Blood, the most feared pirate ever to set sail in search of booty and adventure. The meanest, nastiest, most coldblooded, evil cutthroat ever to defy Davy Jones and spit in the eye of Beelzebub. To the Spanish he was El Diablo, to the French he was, Diable De Mer, to the English he was a nightmare, no ship was safe, no cargo sacred. Captain Blood the Sea Devil.
Blood, twisted the great leather belt strapped around his waist, until the large silver buckle was front and centre, settling the cutlass that hung from it, until it sat comfortably at his side. He pulled out his two pistols, streams of water poured from both barrels. Another dissatisfied rumble rattled in his throat.
The great expanse of blue, for so long his playground, mocked him. The calm peaceful water, glittering in the sunshine, mirroring the cloudless sky, belied the violent drama that had resulted in him stranded and alone on an uncharted, island paradise.
He thought of his ship, the vessel that had made him King of the waves, now a wreck, destroyed and sunk. He hawked and spat, his head ached, his parched throat burned. Not from his ordeal, not from a great sea battle with the Royal Navy, not from his miraculous flight from certain death. No, nothing quite so heroic, the feared Sea Devil was hung-over. Rum, the very thought made him feel queasy. It had saved his life though.
He scratched at the coarse red bristles that covered his jaw. His crew were all gone, either lost in Davy Jones Locker or in chains aboard a Royal Navy frigate. He wouldn’t miss a single one of ‘em, rogues and rapscallions every last one. Slit your throat or cut out your eye while you slept for the price of a mug of ale. What hurt, though, what hurt more than Long John’s peg leg, in the fruits, was the sight of his chests being manhandled over the side into launches and off to fill the coffers of his Royal Bloody Majesty of Great Britain and Ireland. A lifetime’s work, doubloons, gold sovereigns, chalices, precious stones, the treasure he had guarded so jealously. Gone, all gone. His lips quivered, a snarl escaped.
He thought back to his escape, not his most gallant hour. He had missed the fight, too drunk, he’d past out under the table in his cabin. He woke to the smell of burning wood, the sound of screaming men. Somehow he had managed to slip over the side unnoticed, not before he saw what was left of the crew being lined up one by one, by red-coated marines and his beloved Jolly Roger being hauled down.
He turned then, away from the sea. White sand and then a wall of green. What waited beyond the trees? Wild animals? Cannibals?
A good captain would have gone down with his ship.
If he hadn’t been so drunk all night, he might even know where he was. He certainly would not have sailed his ship into the arms of the Royal Navy.
A curse on that bilge-sucking, first mate.
The trees parted and a line of black skinned natives strolled onto the beach. Some carried spears, others clubs that looked suspiciously like human leg bones.
Blood, straightened his coat, fixed his hat, loosened his cutlass.
“So, ye land-lubbers, is it me hide ye’r after? Come on then… is it me ye’ll be havin’ for supper, or have you scallywags got a new king?” With a roar he charged.
One hundred and fifty to one. They didn’t stand a chance.
Don’t forget to see more of Paul on Authonomy.
The Debt We All Pay
The wet sound of a fist impacting broken flesh shattered the silence in the small room. The blood streaked form on the table shuddered slightly but made no sound. “Nothing to say smart ass?” The hard voice matched the iron fists of the man currently ‘interrogating’ the prisoner, clearly the only information he was interested in was how loudly he could make his guest scream.
Paddy cracked open his swollen right eye to scrutinize his torturer. He struggled for a moment adjusting to the one-eyed view. ‘Guess I’d better get used to it,’ he concluded, knowing his other eye was nothing but a viscous trickle drying on his left cheek. He took in the black apparel and continued to muse about the man’s identity. ‘Too talented at this for the police, maybe army or special ops. Hell, they all want me dead, so I guess it doesn’t matter.’
He jerked back to attention when a strong fist squeezed the shattered fingers of his left hand. “I’m talking to you fuckhead,” the interrogator proclaimed flatly. “I expect you to pay attention to me.”
Forcing sound past his swollen throat he managed to rasp, “Like I have a choice.”
A strong hand wrapped around his neck and squeezed, making the world waver queasily as his brain screamed for oxygen. When it finally released him he slumped bonelessly back onto the table.
“I think he’s dead.” The voice rang flatly in his ears. ‘I’m not dead yet,’ he thought, but he couldn’t seem to make any sounds to back it up. His right hand twitched, bringing a broad smile to the face of the man in black. “Ah, very good,” he almost purred. “Throw some water on him . . . I’ll be back in an hour.”
Hmmm, apparently my choice last week wasn’t the most popular. Hopefully this week’s will light a creative spark!
I think you all know the rules, but for those taking the plunge for the first time, it’s pretty simple. One thousand words or less due by the end of Wednesday (that would be midnight EST). See, pretty simple. When you’re done e-mail them to me at flashfiction@authorsonshow.com. Thursday morning I’ll post the entries and the poll, so check back and make sure to read and vote, even if you don’t participate.
Visual cues seem to be very popular – so let’s try that again. The picture prompt is at the top of the post – interpret in any way you wish and have fun! I can’t wait to read the results 
It seems humor isn’t as popular as the darker topics as we only had two entries in this week’s flash fiction challenge. If you think I should move it to every other week, drop me a note and let me know please
For now, the two amazing entries are posted on the AOS blog. Please take a few minutes to read them and vote.
The entries for week five of the AOS flash fiction challenge will be up for voting tomorrow morning on the blog
The winner of Week Four of the Flash Fiction Challenge is the
multi-faceted T.L. Tyson and her entry Windows.
Congratulations T – excellent work!
About the Author
T.L Tyson hails from the land of maple leaves and beavers, in other words, Canada. Her hermit-like existence allows her to delve into her writing without worrying about someone knocking at her door. Sleep is a rarity for her and she spends the night hours conjuring up new characters and thickening plots. She is constantly being lead in new directions by demanding personas and quirky ideas. Her writings cover a broad range of themes and genres, from YA urban fantasy to sea-faring historical fiction. If you catch her without her laptop, you may find her curled up reading a book or expanding her music knowledge.
If you want to see more of her, check out http://tltyson.weebly.com
THE WINNING STORY
T.L. Tyson – Windows
The sun was unforgiving. It rose early in the morning and didn’t retire at night until well past the hour in which the children should have been in bed. Dezzie complained more than usual and Eric refused to wear clothes. The Head Of The House had been too busy to drag the paddling pond out from the cellar, so Mama went down to get it herself. When she finally managed to get it positioned under the massive oak with its arms reaching out to shade the grass underneath it, the kids rushed over, pushing one another out of the way.
Mama threatened, “Don’t be hitting each other. Smarten up or I’ll take this back down to the cellar.”
It was an idle threat. She was already sweating and red faced from her efforts and there was no way she’d be hauling it back down those rickety stairs. The kids hushed, not recognizing the lack of follow through in her tone, because they wanted nothing more than to submerge their heads under the cold water and freeze the heat from their brains. Mama grabbed the hose and started filling the pool. The kids didn’t wait for the water to reach the rim. They jumped in and sat down, their legs reaching into the center, their toes touching.
Once the kids were adequately soaked, Mama came inside and sat on the bench-seat, keeping an eye on them. The Head Of The House hadn’t returned at the usual time and so Mama saved him dinner in the stove. She sat on the porch, rocking in the chair and watching Dezzie and Eric who were still in the pool, laughing and yelling at one another. The Head Of The House’s truck rounded the corner and sped down the driveway, kicking up dust in its wake.
He slammed the door when he got out, signaling to the world his anger, and Mama yelled to the kids, “Dez, Eric, come inside babies, it’s time to get ready for bed.”
“Aw, Ma,” Dezzie whined. “Can’t we just stay out a coupla minutes longer?”
“Ya, Mama, a coupla minutes?” Eric, Dezzie’s junior by three years, often liked to repeat what his older and wiser sister said.
The Head Of The House swayed down the lawn and Mama noticed the scowl on his face, even with the distance between them. She darted across the lawn, slipping on the wet grass, and grabbed her children with frantic hands. With Eric on her hip and Dezzie’s hand locked in hers, Mama pulled them into the house.
Kneeling before them, Mama hissed, “You two listen to me, and you listen close. Go up to your bedroom and shut the door, don’t come out until I do the secret knock.”
With the secret knock on the table, the kids ceased talking and dashed upstairs, out of sight. Out on the lawn The Head Of The House shouted, “Darla!” that’s Mama’s name, “Darla get your fat ass out here.”
Mama returned to the porch. The Head Of The House came marching closer, but he didn’t see the pool and he stepped in the water, drenching his shoe and jeans. Ass over tea kettle he fell, legs in the air, water everywhere. The sight was hilarious, but Mama didn’t laugh, she remained rooted to the spot, watching as he struggled to his feet.
“What the fuck is this?” he shouted, kicking the pool off to the side.
“It’s a pool,” Mama replied, a smirk at the corner of her mouth.
His head snapped up. “You think this is funny?”
Serious as a heart-attack, Mama replied, “No.”
He darted over to her. Mama flinched from the stench of liquor and sweat clinging to him and cringed when he wrapped his hand in her glossy, brown hair. Without letting up, he pulled her over to the pool and kicked her feet out from under her. Once she was on her knees, he submerged her head under the water. Mama struggled, but The Head Of The House was too strong and even with her thrashing and fighting he held her down with little effort.
Just as Mama’s body stopped fighting and started twitching, a loud bang ricocheted through the night. The Head Of The House fell to his knees and the patter of little feet could be heard dashing across the wooden porch. Dezzie ran to Mama, pulled her from the water and pressed on her chest like she saw in the television programs she watched. Soon the neighbors swarmed the yard, having heard the gunshot, and an ambulance arrived to take both the kids’ parents away.
All of this happened before the sun went down.
The rain arrived the next day and washed the heat away. Dezzie and Eric sat on the bench-seat looking through me at the pool, pressing their foreheads against my cool pane. Watching the rain snaking its way down my glass, the two kids worried over Mama.
Under his breath so only Dezzie and I could hear, Eric asked, “Will you go to jail for shootin’ Daddy?”
“I don’t know,” Dezzie replied, her voice warbling like an injured sparrow’s.
They remained silent for some time, leaning against me, and then Eric asked, “Will you go to hell?”
Ten-year-old Dezzie shrugged. “If Mama lives, I don’t care where I go.”
“What happens if Daddy dies?” Eric asked.
She breathed on my face, fogging it up, and then ran her small finger over it three times: dot, dot, line. When she removed her hand a smiley face remained behind.
“We will be happy,” Dezzie said. “But don’t tell anyone, it’s our secret.”
But it wasn’t just their secret, it was mine to. Driven by the insufferable heat of the summer, the family I’d watched for over ten years reached their breaking point. I witnessed it all, helping hide it from the rest of the world. And I couldn’t help but wonder, what would’ve happened if the rain had come sooner?
Don’t forget to see more of T. at her website.
This is a piece from my story Wintersong from the Dancing in the Dark Anthology of Erotica.
“Come dance with me.” He looked up into sparkling cobalt eyes and shook his head to clear it.
“Excuse me,” Armand managed. “I didn’t hear what you said.”
“Dance with me,” the stranger insisted, pulling him up from his seat and flush against his hard chest.
“I don’t dance.”
“Everyone dances.” The dark-haired man towed him out onto the floor, effortlessly guiding him through the steps until he finally began to relax. “See, it’s not so bad.” The husky whisper next to his ear brought a blush to his cheeks and Armand buried his face in his partner’s broad shoulder as he attempted to will it away.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” the stranger continued. “I’d remember you.”
Armand turned wide chocolate eyes on the man holding him. “Why? There’s nothing memorable about me.” He slapped his hand over his mouth as soon as the words left him.
“On the contrary, that blush is memorable all on its own. The rest of you even more so. My name’s Peter, by the way, and you are?”
“Armand,” he mumbled. “I just moved here.”
“Well, aren’t we lucky . . . at least, I am.” Peter chuckled, dipping his shocked partner and then pulling him close.
Armand opened his mouth to protest, but a pair of lips were pressed to his. Soft, slightly chapped lips displaying a dizzying amount of experience. Slowly, gently, wonderfully, that sensual mouth moved over his until he swayed up against his larger partner as his legs threatened to give out. His hands moved to clutch broad shoulders, and he clung to the taller man as sensation flooded though him.
Somewhere in the middle of this perfect kiss, a tongue slipped into Armand’s mouth. He gasped as it caressed his, boldly tasting and teasing. All he could do was moan helplessly, not even feeling the hands drifting down his back to close over his ass. They squeezed gently, and Armand tried to push himself closer. He never wanted this to end, the amazing sensation could go on forever as far as he was concerned. Tentatively he pushed out his own tongue, and Peter made a satisfied sound in the back of his throat as he twined them together.
Finally he pulled away as they both needed to breathe. Armand was a panting, flushed mess, only held upright by the strength of his arms. “Now, that was a kiss.”
Armand stared at him out of dazed eyes. “You had no right . . .” he sputtered.
“Now, now, I know you liked it,” Peter purred. “And I know I liked it. What on earth is wrong with that?”
“I’m not in the habit of kissing strange men. You presume too much.” A dark scowl settled on his face as Armand crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not interested, sorry.”
“I think you’ll change your mind,” came the cocky reply. “In fact, I’m so sure of it I’ll agree to meet you here tomorrow.”
“You’ll be waiting in vain.”
“I’d much rather waste an evening than miss out on the chance to get to know you better.” Peter’s soft, husky baritone sent shivers running up his spine, and Armand knew he was in trouble.
Rather than risk answering he merely snorted, pushing through the crowd and out into the cool night air without looking back.
I can’t believe it’s week five already – the first month just sped by me I think you all know the rules, but for those taking the plunge for the first time, it’s pretty simple. One thousand words or less due by the end of Wednesday (that would be midnight EST). See, pretty simple. When you’re done e-mail them to me at flashfiction@authorsonshow.com. Thursday morning I’ll post the entries and the poll, so check back and make sure to read and vote, even if you don’t participate.
It’s been a rough month, I’m in need of some relief so this week’s challenge is to make me laugh (or at least smile). Write a humorous piece of less than 1000 words – good luck!
Well, this week, again, I missed Saturday – but it’s never too late for a good shout out!
This week’s is a bit different. It’s an opportunity for all of you with paranormal stories to have them interpreted and, perhaps, used in an upcoming book.
Author Lorraine Holloway-White, who you may know as the force behind Authors on Show, is writing a new book, a compilation of the paranormal, premonitions, and ghostly experiences shared by people from all over the world. She will then interpret the contributors’ experiences.
To read more about the project, visit Lorraine’s blog, MEDIUM, under top picks.
The entries for week four of the Flash Fiction Challenge are now posted on the Authors on Show blog. We had an amazing turn-out this week, ten wonderful entries, so follow the link, go to the Flash Fiction Week Four page, read and vote!