Feeling brave? I am. So here goes:
Write a flash fiction story inspired by the above gif, post it at your blog, and link it back in the comments of this post. Any genre, or no genre. Word count range is 100 – 1000. Time limit is noon on Friday, September 30, EST. I will be posting my own story here by then.
If one or more people participate (besides me), I will choose one of those entries at random, and critique its strong points in the comments of this post. And of course other readers are invited to join in the friendly critique. I’ll put a link to this post in my next post, so those interested can simply click to revisit this challenge.
See you Friday!
p.s. If you are really brave, my first flash fiction challenge is still open!
Here’s my “Dancing” entry:
Happy Birthday, Ida
I don’t remember life before the bombs. But I remember the first time the bombs exploded. B-day, 1981. The window light got very bright, and then there was no window. Then part of the wall disappeared. Quick and easy. And the bombs kept exploding.
If only you would turn around, and see you finally have that sunroom you always wanted. Happy birthday, Ida. The sunset is beautiful- glowing purple and pink.
The bombs made your hands grow big and strong, and now you “knit one, purl two” all day and all night. You finally have the time and energy to knit. Your hair grew too. Big and billowy. High. Puffy. You finally have that bouffant hairdo you always wanted. You looks so nice on your special day.
The bombs closed the agency, so I don’t go to work anymore. I get to spend more time with you, Ida. You do nothing but knitty knit-knit since B-day. But that’s what you love, so I don’t stop you. I love you, Ida. I have another birthday surprise for you.
The bombs made me stronger. I dance all day and all night. I feed off their energy. If I can get out of these office clothes and into my dancing clothes, we’ll go out dancing for your birthday.
The bombs made my necktie big and strong as a mallet. And awfully heavy. It pulls tight on my neck, growing and swinging. I’ve been dancing since B-day with a mallet-tie around my neck. I can’t loosen it. I have to hold it up to keep from strangling.
If it weren’t for the bombs, I’d dance with you, dear Ida. If only you’d turn around and see me dance in front of your new sunroom, glowing pink and purple.
But the bombs are too strong. And big. And billowy. High. Puffy.
Oh hell, here’s another one. You don’t want another bomb on your birthday.
I’ll drop this damn mallet on it.