Welcome to Flash Challenge Week!
These challenges are open to everyone to read and use the prompts but only paid subscribers can post their stories in the comments to go into the prize draw to win a free place on my Flash Focus course starting in May. I will also pick a second name out of the hat to win a half price place.
So how does flash challenge week work?
Every day during the week the reading and prompt will go live at 10am.
Each prompt will specify word count and you can post your story in the comments below each prompt to win an entry into the prize draw
You can only post one story per prompt.
You do not need to post the story you write on the day the prompt goes live, but you must post it under the prompt it came from whenever you are ready.
Submissions will be accepted until Weds 3rd April 2024 so you have a few days after the last prompt goes live to write and post your stories.
I will announce the winners on Thursday 4th April. There are no alternative prizes.
Please cheer each other on and read and comment on people's stories!
Happy writing!
With love,
Your second prompt is to write a flash story of exactly 350 words set here:
Think about how you can engage the senses. Fairgrounds are a sensory overload - sounds, smells, sights, tastes - are all fired up. Make your story as immersive as fairgrounds are...
Read this flash story of mine, set on a fairground ride, for inspiration. It was published in Virtual Zine, which has now sadly closed down.
Whirl Away Into Nothingness
The lump rose into Annie’s throat as the car started its slow spin. She gulped it back down. Clenched her fists around the iron bar pinning her in place. Pulled it in tighter as if that could stop the lump from rising again. She wouldn’t let it out. Couldn’t look at its dense, writhing matter.
The car spun faster. Her head rolled back on a neck that felt too loose, disconnected. Lights strobed and flashed. Screams and shrieks surrounded her. Ryan grinned as he scooched up right next to her, leaving no space between them at all. Eyes shining. Loving it.
‘It’ll be okay. Relax. You might enjoy it,’ he said.
She forced herself to smile at Ryan as the carnie appeared at her side, intent on twirling their car harder, faster. He reached out to grab it close to her head. His grimy fingernails filled her vision. The stench of fags and diesel filled her nose. Just before he spun them, something in her face stopped him. His hands fell away and he moved on.
Whatever it was he saw, Annie was glad he was gone. She hunched into the corner of the spinning car, squeezed her eyes shut. Willed it to be over.
The song on the tannoy blasted her ears, too loud to recognise. Bass pulsed through her brain, vibrated her fingers and toes. The lump broke loose again, surged up through her chest. She gripped the iron bar as hard as she could. Felt Ryan’s hand fold over hers and squeeze gently. She couldn’t look at him though.
Spinning and whirling, reeling and twirling. Round and round and round and round.
Until she didn’t know where she was anymore.
Until her mind came untethered. Her limbs floated free.
Screaming.
Shouting.
Shrieking.
All around. Within and without.
She gasped and as she did Ryan peeled her fingers from the iron bar, gripped her hands in his lap. She thought she heard him whisper, ‘Let it go,’ but she was lost in the memories flashing across her mind.
The slaps. The kicks. The insults. The darkness of her world when she was just a tiny girl.
The lump was in her throat again now.
She let out a scream that would no longer be contained.
Wanting, needing, the carnie to spin them now.
As if summonsed, or psychic, or magic, he appeared at her side. Grinned when he saw the look on her face and whirled them, twirled them, spun them around. Harder and faster. Again and again and again and again. With each spin she screamed louder and longer.
She howled it all out.
Ryan’s love flowed into her veins through their clasped hands.
She turned to him and roared.
All of that stuff that she hadn’t been able to let go of.
All of that stuff that had been stealing her happiness.
Together they watched it all stream from her mouth and whirl away into nothingness.
Fairground Distraction
As I approach the fairground, a salvo of popcorn, candyfloss, and deep-fried dough assaults my nostrils. Kilt down to my fattened-up wooden calves. Bagpipes bedecked with spirited hues. Blue and white patterns daubed on my face. Feeling good, looking better, I stride into the organisers’ tent.
‘Ben Leggy, st…’
‘What’s the weather like up there?’
The events coordinator laughs like he’s the first person to think it up.
‘Ben Leggy, stilt walker, at your service. The height of nonsense, higher than a haggis on helium, funnier than a fart at a funeral…’
‘Yes, yes. Quite. Go round the fair. Hand out these leaflets. Easy enough. Even for a…’
Before I answer back, he shoves a pile of photocopied papers in the canvas paperboy sack I used as a sporran.
Excitement and wonder at your doorstep. Circus Stumbeloni.
Melted ice cream and liquified candy-floss transform the ground into a skating rink, so I steer well clear of Mr Whippy vans. Three metres is a long way down. We stilt walkers are the underdogs of the circus, a one-skill job. Jugglers are the top dogs, even if all they ever talk about is juggling. Clowns either provoke a laugh or a beating up. The acrobats get laid.
The higher you are, the easier it is. Gravity and all that. But if you fall… Despite my ex-partner still being in traction, his droning voice distracts me from the teacup poodle. The moment the miniature animal raises its tiny back leg to golden shower my tartan clad legs, an impulsive twitch jolts not only my stilt-extended limb but also…
One rubber-tipped peg pirouettes on the ground while the other twists at right angles. The yelping dog zooms past my head as I spiral out of control in slow motion. A loud crack reminds me to reinforce the stilts before Saturday’s County Fair. Up is down. So grateful for my new kneepads. Down is up. The tarmac path rushes to greet me. I close my eyes…
A high-pitched squeaking shudder beneath my body notifies me the soft landing isn’t thanks to my quilted hip protectors.