Dragons, it turns out, have extraordinary powers to move emotions, especially when they choose to write. On the last day in May, Albert The Dragon came up with a tale to make any human cry: tears of laughter, tears of sadness, tears of joy, all within the space of one hundred words. Reading back through it, Albert realised he had created his masterpiece, the greatest piece of fiction ever constructed.
“Ahhh,” he said, reading the printout of his story. Sadly, his breath set fire to the paper, and in the ensuing panic he forgot it completely, and for all time.
“This is a real crisis!” June panted.
“I’ll say,” Randy agreed. “The dragons have taken over the city, and now they’re making their demands!”
“But where are we going to find 1,000 cats to sacrifice? We can’t do that to the poor, innocent animals.”
“I have an idea! I wonder if the dragons would take Flash Fiction stories instead! That’s about how many we have on the websites.”
“It’s worth a shot!”
(Several hours later)
“We’re saved!” Randy crowed. “Humans and cats have been spared!”
“And the dragons even want to write Flash Fiction, too. Who’da thunk it?”
The stories were being counted, and some resented it. They bore signs saying:
“I am a tale, not a tally,” and “I am a story, not a fictographic.”
But others were jumping and jostling, shouting, “Count me, count me.”
Official FFF statistician Gordon was becoming frustrated. “Get in line,” he pleaded, to little avail.
At last, he realized he needed help – and that help was at hand. He drafted Flora, the dignified Doberman who had defused other sticky situations, and Ann Louise, mistress of the extreme solution. Should all other efforts fail, he had one last resort: that multi-talented cat.
“Ouch, my feet’re burning.” I yell, “The sand’s too hot!”
Jackie’s already perched on Dad’s shoulders, carrying him back to our blanket in the shade.
“C’mon,” Mom says, “We’re almost there.”
“It’s no fair! I wanna sit on Dad’s shoulders!”
I hate being the big sister.
We finish our sandwiches.
“Let’s go home. I’m tired.”
“Not yet”, says Jackie, “Last one in – is a rotten egg.”
“Wait, kids, you’ve just eaten.”
Too late. We’re already bouncing and splashing in the warm waves.
It’s great to have a little brother.
No, I don’t want to score a thousand in a golf game. That would take a week to finish. Furthermore my new hip wouldn’t last it, even riding, and I’d need to hire more than one cart. The cost – I’m of Scots decent! To score 1000 runs in a season and 1000 wickets in a lifetime would be OK. Writing – Let’s hope this exercise in FF leads us newbies in total reach one thousand yarns. I daren’t say books because of the electronic takeover. Emma and Gordon I hope you make your thousand and I’ll strive to make it 1000+..
This one’s for you Gordon!
A Thousand by the First Anniversary by Rejoice Denhere
“What honey? Make a thousand? Yes, no problem!”
Melvin buried his head in the paper but he could not longer concentrate on the article. A thousand by their first anniversary?
“You think so? We’ll hardly be indoors to do that sort of thing. It could be difficult what with it being summer and all.”
“Yes, actually, I was going to ask you what you think is a doable figure?”
“Well, if three of us got together every Friday we could come up with new ideas to spice things up and get us going.”
“No, really, I couldn’t!”
“I feel comfortable with you. I can’t say that about everybody. Most people never even try to have a conversation with me.”
“I know how you feel. I don’t make friends easily either. People can’t seem to be able to relax around me, and they certainly don’t make an effort to get to know me.”
“Two peas in a pod. That’s why we understand each other. I only have one other friend. Her name is Alice.”
“That’s because you’re her cat, and she knows you can talk. How many people would ever think a cat could talk?” said the dragon.
Donny’s flight was in three hours. Loretta watched the ritual of “the final pack.” This was an important concert.
He wore a black golf shirt with a discreet ESPN logo topping a pair or black golf shorts with black Nike socks but he was wearing his flannel slippers.
“Light meter?” She reminded.
“My iPhone has an app.”
“App with The Cloud.”
Donny kissed his wife as he grabbed his case and ran for the hired car.
Loretta wondered when exactly her Lighting Designer would notice he forgot his shoes. No, worry.There was probably an app for that.
Betty didn’t expect her son home until late, so she was surprised when the door opened.
“Josh! How did you get here so early?” she asked.
“I hitched a ride,” he said.
“How often have I told you not to do that? It’s dangerous.”
“Aw, mom, I know Drake. He’s good guy, you’d like him. He doesn’t even smoke.”
“Even so, Josh …”
“Don’t worry so, mom. He’s not like his hot-tempered kin. Besides, I have my fire-proof vest on.”
“Son, you know I’m not a bigot. There’s good in every kind. But you just can’t trust dragons.”
Smelling of beer from the night before, they sat in the booth like old friends. Tats crawled up his massive arms into a wifebeater and spilled out onto his neck. Her cleavage sprouted two withered roses; she had two names inked on her neck.
“What’s your name again, cowboy?”
“I’m Lucy Gallagher. What’s your line of work, Mr. Justin no-last-name?”
“Ranch work here. Roofing back in California. Those your kids names?”
“I ain’t seen ‘em since they sent me to the lockup.”
“I served five years.”
“Where to now?”
“Your place again?”
She dropped a twenty; they slid out.