Over at the GoodReads M/M Romance group, they have a twice-weekly flash fiction challenge. It’s a great way to flex the writing muscles before the day’s run, and I’ve been having a lot of fun with it. The way it works is they post a photo every Wednesday and Saturday, and you have one week to write 100 words of something. Precisely 100 words – no more, no less. I thought I would post some of the pics and my corresponding pieces here. Feel free to contribute your own in the comments!
Too close to the sun. It was Ike’s thing.
Jealous of the ravens, their cinder-black wings bearing them up, over the clouds. Desperate to soar above the maze of skyscrapers, the bonfires burning night and day, the inky smog blotting out the stars. Eager to breathe new life into one of his father’s experiments. Not that anything would bring him back.
The rustle of the faux feathers. The rush of adrenaline as he climbed. The toothy spike of the tower. The running leap… The sky. The scorch. The fall.
The thud. The mocking bird on his shoe.
The stupid bird.
Gone. Finally, gone!
Curses, who knew? One day, you’re getting barreled off the Banzai Pipeline with your brah, when boom, splash, craaaaaaack! You’re both splooshed against the inner-tubes of Nā-maka-o-Kahaʻi, sea goddess and hot momma, searching for her very own pair of love-puppies.
You say, “No way.” She says, “Yes, way, or you’ll never ride another wave.” You say, “No way.” She twiddles a finger, your boards turn into great whites. You say, “Woof.” Leashes and lashes it is.
Thank Kāne for jealous husbands. Least until he torched the island with his magic hula skirt. Still, freedom. Time to party!
Nikolai held on to Vitaly as tight as he dared, giving himself to the moment, to their kiss. As he reveled in the plush of his lips and the smoke of his taste, he vowed that this sunrise wouldn’t be their last.
When they’d planned it that morning—the ultimate middle finger to the government that was forcing them apart—it had seemed like the perfect act of defiance. Now that he was here, in a place that had seen countless revolutions rise and fall, there was only the vital, passionate man in his arms.
Vitaly’s name was his bond.
“Oh, darling,” I sighed, rubbing my bestie’s cueball. Allan was dopey as a puppy when it came to matters of the heart. “That grotty gnome practically had ‘wanker’ tattooed on his forehead.”
“Cute forehead, though. Not to mention his ass.”
“He can lick mine after curry and booze night, the way he treated you.” That got a snicker out of him, for a start. “At least now we know why they call him Wee Willy, the tit.”
“Oi! It’s not the size.”
“Dodged a bullet there, I reckon.”
“Mmm. Feels like it.” Allan nudged closer, caught me by the waist.
Hope you found these as inspiring as I did!