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October Flash Fiction Draw: The Results

I’m late getting this posted, so let’s cut right to the chase, shall we? Here are the stories written based on this month’s Flash Fiction Draw writing prompt:

Loving Lines by E H TimmsFields of Gold by Iara WarriorfeatherDot Your I Love Yous by ’Nathan BurgoineCan’t This Cow Go Any Faster? by Jeff BakerAnd my own story, which is still in search of a title (and an ending… and maybe a beginning)

Did I miss anyone? Comment below or send me an email, and I’ll add a link to your story.

October Flash Fiction Draw: The One Without a Title

It occurs to me now (and it’s probably occurred to me before) that everything I do with the Flash Fiction Draw stories I write is exactly what I think I shouldn’t do. I write these with no plan, no idea how they’re going to end, and then I throw them up on the internet with practically no revision.

OK, most of the times? Less than practically no revision.

This week’s is a case in point. The prompt was romance, set in a farm field, with a fountain pen. Did I manage to get all of that in? Well…

Admittedly, the romance here is implied. This is sort of the meet-cute part—well, if getting yelled at and called a damn tourist counts as cute. It’s also about six hundred words too long, has no title, no ending, and I kind of want to keep writing it.

Will I? Keep writing it, I mean. If you know my track record of starting things and leaving them unfinished, then you’re not going to hold your breath. That said, farmer Nick may be a mountain Adam wants to try climbing.

Without further ado…

The One Without a Title

Take a vacation, they said. It’ll help you get over Charlie, they said. A working farm will be quaint and charming, they said.

They were wrong.

Unless the constant smell of manure is your idea of quaint, and the screech of the rooster in the morning counts as ambient charm. (You would think they crow at dawn, right? Wrong. Try three thirty, a full two hours before the sun even hits its snooze button.)

Then there’s the owner, who has to be the gruffest, surliest, most disagreeable thirst trap I have ever had the misfortune to encounter in my entire life. And after Charlie, that’s saying something.

Our first interaction doesn’t bode well for the rest of my stay. It’s shortly after I’ve parked in the guest lot—they even have a hand-lettered chalkboard marking my space, which is sweet. The farmhouse itself looks rambling and homey from the outside, with a wraparound porch dotted with white rocking chairs all along it. I pause in front of the door, my hand on the doorknob, looking around and taking in the cool snap in the air that helped me ignore the smell of farm animals. I’ve come to a working farm, so I’m not about to complain.

At least, not until a voice behind me practically bellows, “In or out, but get out of the way.”
I turn around just in time to avoid getting knocked on my ass by a wall of a man in jeans, a red flannel shirt and a Carhartt hat. I stumble out of the way as he grabs the doorknob and mutters, “Damn tourists.”

“Excuse me?” Who the hell does he think he is?

He turns on me, red faced and dark browed. “What?” He says it like a dare.

“Nick.” Behind him, a woman’s voice, sharp, draws his attention faster than I can let fly with the insult that waits on the tip of my tongue. At a reception desk stands an older woman, blonde, in a lemon yellow sweater set that’s far too matronly for her. She glares at the man, presumably Nick.

“Would you mind not antagonizing the guests?” she asks, her tone frosty.

He marches up to her and holds out his hand. “Gimme your phone.”

She frowns. “Where’s yours?”

He shakes his hand. “I lost it, just give me your phone. Molly’s going into labor and the calf’s turned sideways, and I need Lawrence here five minutes ago or else they’re both going to die.”

Blanching, she fumbles in the pocket of her skirt and, after unlocking the screen, holds out her phone. “The code’s 090139.”

“I know.” He snatches it and lurches toward the door. I move out of the way before he gets there.

I’m not sure how long I stare at the door after he slams it. I’m tempted to walk back out and get in my car, but then the woman clears her throat and I turn to see her outstretched hand.

“I’m Margot. Welcome,” she says. “You must be Adam?”

“How did you guess?”

“This is the slow season and everyone else has checked in already.” She glances over my shoulder toward the door. “Don’t mind my brother. He doesn’t get up on the wrong side of the bed so much as the wrong side of the planet.”

I look behind me, though he’s long since out of sight. “Is he always like that?”

“Only my entire life.” She smiles, her face radiant. How can they be related? And what would that smile look like on his face? I can’t imagine the superhuman effort it would take to make that happen.

Margot starts to tap on the laptop keyboard in front of her. “So, it’s just you for the weekend, right?”

I sigh. “Yeah, just me.”

She glances over her glasses at me. “I’m… sorry?” As if she’s trying to gauge whether my solo stay is a good or bad thing.

“Don’t be. I’m better off without him.” I had to keep telling myself that. I knew it was true, but try convincing my stepped-on heart of that.

She gives me an appraising look as the printer behind her whirs and spits out a sheet of paper. “You were too good for him.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“Don’t have to. I know these things.” She hands me the paper and a fountain pen, along with a key. “You’re in room four, top of the stairs on the right. We have wine, cheese, and cocktails at five if you’d like to come down and meet the other guests.”

I take the key and pick up my bag. “Thanks. I just might.”

*

My plan is to spend the weekend reading and not thinking about work or Charlie. I have no intention of going down to meet and mingle, but five thirty the light is slanting golden through the window opposite the bed, where I’m lying with the latest N.K. Jemisin novel, and I want to go out on the porch and hope that it’s just a little too cold to stand out there without a jacket.

Halfway down the stairs, muffled voices from the sitting room opposite the reception desk drift up to me. There’s no way I’m getting out without being noticed. I resign myself to the agony of small talk and head in.

Margot stands behind a bar filling a glass of white wine for a short, elderly woman, who thanks her before joining a group mingling near a table of cheese and other finger food. Three couples, so I’m the only singleton, and I’m singlehandedly bringing down the average age in the room.

At least, I assume that until I catch sight of Nick by the fireplace. He leans on the mantel, a tumbler of something that looks like scotch in one hand, engrossed in conversation with another man carrying a black bag and wearing scuffed boots.

“I wasn’t sure if you were coming,” Margot says. She’s accessorized her sweater set with a tan shawl threaded with gold. I lean against the bar.

“I wasn’t sure either, but I wanted to go out and catch the sunset, so I figured I’d stop in.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. What can I get you?”

I glance over the collection of bottles in front of her. “I don’t suppose you have any scotch, or maybe whisky?”

She holds up a bottle of single malt. “Good choice. That’d score you points with Nick.”

I almost laugh. “I doubt that.”

“You’ll have to give him a chance. Despite what I said earlier, he’s not a complete jackass, at least not all of the time.”

I do laugh at that. “I’ll try to remember that.” I hold up my glass, and she picks up a glass of wine and taps our drinks together. “Cheers.”

A man comes up for a refill, so I drift over to the cheese tray as well, say a couple hellos, and grab a cracker and a slice of what I think is Havarti before ducking outside.

The air has a bite, just as I’d hoped. Bonus: the wind has shifted, carrying barnyard smells somewhere other than the house. I lean against the porch railing and take a sip from my glass. The peaty warmth does its job, and I don’t regret leaving my jacket upstairs. The leaves on the maple to the left, turning red, rustle in a gentle breeze. A couple break free and float to the grass. As fall days go, it’s perfect.

And then the front door creaks open and Margot’s brother comes outside, followed by the other guy—Lawrence, I assume. I don’t turn to look at them. Their conversation stutters, then Nick says, “Thanks for everything today. I owe you one.”

“Darn right you do,” Lawrence says, but his tone is good natured. “You could set me up with your sister.”

“Not on your life.”

“What, I’m not good enough for her?”

“Nobody’s good enough for her.”

I move further down the porch to give them some privacy in case they’re going to talk longer. A few moments later, though, Lawrence climbs into an SUV and drives off. I turn around to find a rocking chair and settle in, and there’s Nick, glass in hand, frowning.

“I owe you an apology,” he says. “I took my stress out on you and that wasn’t fair.”

You could say I’m surprised. You could also say I’m suspicious. I grip my drink tighter.

“Your sister put you up to that apology?”

He looks down at his feet. “Doesn’t make it less true.”

I could let him dangle in the breeze—it’d serve him right. When he glances up, his brown eyes have a tense look like a kicked dog, and… I’m just not that guy. Charlie might have been, but I’m not.

“How’s Molly doing?”

The tension in his eyes abates. He lifts his head and his shoulders relax. He really was expecting me to rip him a new one. “Tired, but she’s doing okay,” he says. “I was worried, but Lawrence is a miracle worker, basically.”

And then he surprises me. “Ever seen a newborn calf?” I shake my head. “Would you like to?”

Nick doesn’t seem to be much for small talk, so we walk to the barn in silence, which is fine by me. I’m not even sure why I said I wanted to see some slimy cow-baby in the first place.

OK, that’s a lie. I said yes because Nick is pretty easy on the eyes, when he doesn’t look like he’s ready to spit nails.

(See? I told you there wasn’t an ending.)

Flash Fiction Draw for October 2021

October!

This month begins my favorite time of year, and not just because my birthday’s this month. (Although that’s part of it.) The weather is finally starting to get cooler, the maple in our backyard is starting to change into its red dress, and I’m gazing longingly at the 75% of my wardrobe that I get to wear for about 25% of the year. If Michael didn’t dislike the winter, I’d ask if we could move north.

But, it’s still going to be 79 degrees today, which means I’m still wearing tank tops as much as possible because I sweat like a fiend. A new month also means a new flash fiction draw, and the stacks of cards we have left are getting thinner. Shuffling four cards basically consists of moving them around until I forget which is which. (OK, so maybe that doesn’t take all that long. Yes, I’m forgetful. Hush, you.)

If you’re new here, the first Monday of every month I create a writing prompt by drawing three cards, each from a different suit, which give us our genre, setting, and a random object to include in the story. Your mission (should you choose to accept it) is to write a 1,000-word (max) story by next Monday, send me the link, and I’ll post a roundup of all the stories created using the prompt.

Here’s where we stand. The grayed-out items have already been used.

Card drawnGenreSettingObject1RomanceSpaceshipRay gun2Science FictionRestaurant kitchenKey3Fairy TaleStudio apartment in a big cityHairbrush4HorrorAuditoriumLength of rope5MysterySewerPendant and necklace6ThrillerHighway tollboothPotted plant7ComedyFarm fieldTablet computer8FantasyPawn shopFountain pen9Ghost StoryMarshDecorative pillow10SuspenseTulip fieldVacuum cleanerJCrime CaperTrunk of a carBouquet of rosesQAction/AdventureToolshed / Utility closetA stray sockKHistorical FictionShopping mallSuitcase

And since I just realized I posted the wrong image last month (the prompt was right, but the cards were from August’s draw—remember what I said about forgetful?), I figured I’d take pictures of the cards as I drew them this month.

First up, genre:

Ace of clubs, so that’s… romance! (This is a good one for me. I love love, I love happy endings, and if you throw in some sexytimes, so much the better.)

Moving on to setting, we’ve got:

Seven of hearts, which means we’re going to… a farm field. Hmm, okay, so I’ll throw in a hunky farmer. I can work with that.

Lastly, an object, for which I drew:

An eight of diamonds.

Seriously? A fountain pen?

Well, that’s the luck of the draw, isn’t it? To recap, your mission is to write a 1,000-word (max) romance, set in a farm field, including a fountain pen. Send me a link to your story by next Monday, and I’ll add it to the roundup. Get creative, y’all!

September Flash Fiction Draw: The Results!

Did you think I was going to forget to post a roundup of the other folks who did this month’s Flash Fiction Draw? Well, I can’t blame you, considering it’s (checks notes) 11 p.m. on the East Coast. In some places, it’s already tomorrow. In other places, the tea’s getting cold.

Wait, where was I? Oh, right. Anyway. This month’s prompt was a tricky one, and I suspect it’s also a busy time of year, plus there’s *waves hands* all this still going on. Hence this month’s rather short list:

Fine Feathers by E H Timms

Visit Fun Lake Matchemonedo! by Jeff Baker

Thanks, E H and Jeff! And if you happen to take on this prompt later, let me know and I’ll add you to the list, too.

September Flash Fiction Draw: One Last Job

OK, finishing this one up at the last minute, as usual. If you missed this month’s prompt, you’ll find it over here. I went fairly light on the “crime caper” part and, perhaps predictably, focused on what the character’s life of crime had cost him… although maybe he has a shot at redemption, who knows? That would be a different story.

Also? Miracle of miracles, this one is under a thousand words.

Anyway, as I’ve said before, there’s no expiration date on any of these prompts. Do them next week, or next year. Whatever helps you keep writing.

One Last Job

As criminal mastermind lairs went, the toolshed at the back of his parents’ house wasn’t Jacob’s first choice.

Not that he had many choices by that point. His own house had blown up (a gas leak was the official explanation, although Jacob had his doubts about that), and his husband had left him not long after that.

“I meant it,” Mark said as he closed the lid of his suitcase shortly before walking out of the hotel where the insurance company had put them up. What he’d meant was it’s me or the business, as in Jacob had to give up one or the other. But Jacob didn’t know what else he was suited to doing. He’d always been a criminal. A career that had, he reminded Mark, paid for the four-bedroom midcentury modern on a private street where they’d lived for the past five years.

“I don’t care about the house. We could live in a tiny apartment on a month-to-month lease for all I care. That’s never been the point.”

“What has been the point, then?” Jacob asked.

“If you have to ask, then you never got the point in the first place.”

After that, Mark wouldn’t answer his calls, so until the insurance payout came through, he was living in his parents’ guest room and had claimed the toolshed as his workshop. Mom and Dad didn’t ask him what kind of work he was doing, which was just as well. How they’d never caught on that their only son was a career criminal, he had no idea. For all he knew, maybe they had. Some families were like that: certain things were never talked about. It was a miracle he’d ever come out to them.

But what he lacked in family communication, Joan made up for. She had talked him down from ledges, metaphorical and literal, and had offered a shoulder to lean on when Mark left. And when all else failed, she took him out and got him good and drunk. And now he was walking her through breaking open a very important safe.

“Did you cut the wire?” he asked. His Bluetooth headset had started buzzing in one ear and he had to resist the urge to rip it off his head.

“There are three wires,” she said. “Which one am I supposed to cut?”

He pulled up the diagram on the computer. “The one on the left.”

“Left? They’re running horizontally. Top, middle, or bottom?”

“The green one. Top.”

“There are two green ones. Jesus, weren’t you supposed to be good with details?”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and shifted uncomfortably on the old kitchen chair he’d fished out of the basement. He’d also swiped a decorative pillow from the guest room, but it did little to keep his butt from going numb.

“Look, there’s a green one, a black one, and a red one. We went over this.”

Uncomfortable silence on the other end. “Um, so, you know I’m colorblind, right?”

“What?”

“Please don’t yell. Also, I’m guessing that’s a no.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“I thought I had!”

“Well you—wait. Text me a picture of the wires.”

“Text you—“

“Just do it, please.”

A second later, his phone beeped, and there was a picture from Joan showing the open access panel and the three wires, the green one on top… and the red one cut.

“Joan, you cut the red one.”

“I did?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d—cut them all.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Cut them all, open the safe, take whatever you find, and run. You’ve got like thirty seconds before security shows up. Hurry.”

To her credit, she didn’t panic, just emptied the safe and then hightailed it out, following the exit route they’d planned meticulously. Fortunately, it didn’t require telling the difference between anything red and green. He didn’t take off the headset until she was out and safely on the way home. He’d meet her there later to find out if the safe had contained everything they’d been told it would.

And then he’d quit. He was done. Mark was right.

A knock on the door to the toolshed nearly sent him through the flimsy roof. Quickly, he switched his computer screen to a Word file and said, “Yes?”

The door opened a crack. It was his mother. “I’m missing a throw pillow from the loveseat. Have you seen it anywhere?”

Flash Fiction Draw for September 2021

So, for this month’s Flash Fiction Draw, I feel it’s important to point out that I just draw the cards. I can’t help it if the combination is a little… weird.

This month’s draw would be a case in point. I mean, if you want to skip all the preamble, you can click here and see exactly what I’m talking about.

I guess the odd juxtaposition is sort of the point of these writing prompts, though, isn’t it? Make an unexpected combination of genre, setting, and object, and maybe it’ll inspire your mind to come up with something equally unexpected.

If you’re new here and wondering what this is all about (and if you are new here, how on earth did you find your way here? Seriously, let me know in the comments), the first Monday of every month I create a writing prompt by drawing three cards, each from a different suit, which give us our genre, setting, and a random object to include in the story. Your mission (should you choose to accept it) is to write a 1,000-word (max) story by next Monday, send me the link, and I’ll post a roundup of all the stories created using the prompt.

Here’s what we started with, and the ones we’ve used are shaded gray:

Card drawnGenreSettingObject1RomanceSpaceshipRay gun2Science FictionRestaurant kitchenKey3Fairy TaleStudio apartment in a big cityHairbrush4HorrorAuditoriumLength of rope5MysterySewerPendant and necklace6ThrillerHighway tollboothPotted plant7ComedyFarm fieldTablet computer8FantasyPawn shopFountain pen9Ghost StoryMarshDecorative pillow10SuspenseTulip fieldVacuum cleanerJCrime CaperTrunk of a carBouquet of rosesQAction/AdventureToolshed / Utility closetA stray sockKHistorical FictionShopping mallSuitcase

And here’s what I drew this month:

 

So, that gives us:

a crime caper…set in a toolshed or utility closet…including a… decorative pillow.

Crime capers! A genre I love but that I haven’t really tried writing myself. (If you’ve never read any of Rob Byrnes‘s novels, his crime capers are hilarious.)

OK, off you go! Write a 1,000-word story (more or less) by next Monday, Sept. 13, and share a link to it in the comments below, or send an email, or tag me in a tweet, or send a carrier pigeon. Good luck!

August Flash Fiction Draw: The Results!

I know I’ve said this before, so please bear with me while I repeat myself. The thing I love about a writing prompt is that every person who uses it inevitably comes up with something radically unique. This month’s Flash Fiction Draw writing prompt is no exception. Check out everyone’s stories at the links below:

A Hopeless Affair, by Iara Warriorfeather

Sing Me a Song, by E H Timms

Cursed! by Jeff Baker

Tintamarre by ’Nathan Burgoine (which also taught me a new word today—never stop learning, folks)

If I’ve missed anyone, drop a link in the comments or send me an email and let me know!

August Flash Fiction Draw: The Perfect Gift

I should start by saying I don’t write historical fiction. And it shows.

As usual, with prompts like this one, I take liberties. Yes, the story is set in 1823, and yes it references a famous poet from antiquity, and yes my main characters both hail from early 1900s St. Louis, but…

Oh, heck. Enough with the excuses and apologies, right? This is supposed to be fun. And it was! I love writing about these characters. When we last saw them, Herbert had just proposed to Miss Vida. Now, Herbert has been looking for just the right engagement gift for his fiancé, and he thinks he may have found it—in a marsh in the early nineteenth century. And since they have a time cabinet, off the go!

And off we go.

The Perfect Gift

A swamp was not where Miss Vida expected to celebrate her engagement.

“It’s a marsh, my darling,” Herbert gently corrected. He had departed from the strip of dry ground snaking its way through the tall grasses and now prodded said grasses with his umbrella, looking for something. Miss Vida remained on the ersatz walkway, standing protectively next to Herbert’s shoes and socks. His trouser legs were rolled up to his knees. She shuddered and looked away, the thought of what might be lurking in the water nearly unbearable. She withdrew her fan from her purse, snapped it open, and began fluttering it near her face. The gentle island breeze had faded the longer they stood here, and the clouds had thinned and dissipated.

“Yes, darling,” she said, “but what is it exactly that we’re meant to be doing here? In eighteen twenty-three? When you said we were going to the Greek isles for our holiday, I wasn’t exactly expecting,” she gestured around them with her fan, “this.”

“Light of my life,” he said, “trust me when I say it will be worth it, if I can just find the blessed thing.”

“And what blessed thing are you looking for, exactly? Is it bigger than a breadbox?”

He leaned over, peering into the water as he prodded with his umbrella. “Just slightly larger than that, perhaps, but—ah!”

Herbert began digging at the sediment in earnest, taking the umbrella and working it back and forth. He shifted his grip and began using it as a lever, trying to pry up something that Vida couldn’t see from her vantage. Suddenly, a sloshing, sucking sound bubbled up from the water and Herbert pitched over backwards and went under.

“Herbert!” she shrieked.

But the water wasn’t that deep. He raised the umbrella over his head for balance and reached his other arm into the water. One tug, two rugs, and something in the sediment shifted and broke the surface. He sloshed back to Miss Vida and held out the umbrella.

“Would you mind, dearest?” he asked.

She took it and held the dripping thing at arm’s length while Herbert high stepped through the water back to where he reached below the surface with both hands this time and tugged. Whatever he was digging up gave way easily now, and he hoisted it out of the water. It was a rectangular metal chest, and yes, it was just slightly larger than a breadbox. He sloshed through the marsh toward her and deposited it on dry ground, clambering up after it. Vida stepped back to give him room, and also (and she was not proud of this) to avoid having him drip marsh water on her skirt and shoes.

“Darling, what is it?” she asked.

He smiled, his mustache dripping down his chin. “Oh, just you wait until you see what’s in here, heart.” He dropped to his knees and pried at the latch on the chest, whose ornate design with fauns and centaurs and robe-draped figures was still visible despite being submerged. The latch gave a squeaking protest of metal fatigue but refused to open. Herbert looked up.

“Dearest, I wonder if I might avail myself of one of your hat pins for this particular task?”

She narrowed her eyes at the box before reaching up to her millinery. “I daresay I shan’t need this back once you’ve finished with it.”

Herbert smiled sheepishly as he accepted the implement and got to work. He slid the hat pin between the latch and the box and twisted it one way, then the other, until there was a click and the latch released. Setting down the pin, he gently opened the lid.

“My dear, are you familiar with the Greek poetess Sappho?” he asked.

“Familiar with the name, yes, but if I’m not mistaken, very little of her work survives, isn’t that correct?”

“More accurate to say that very little of her work has been discovered until now—oh, I say.”

Miss Vida leaned closer, and from behind the open lid Herbert lifted what was quite possibly the most exquisite emerald pendant and silver necklace she had ever seen. Her breath caught, and she lifted a hand to her chest by reflex, as if her heart might leap out of her ribcage.

“Oh, Herbert,” she whispered. “That is magnificent.”

He stood and held it up to the light between them. The jewel was set in a silver frame of intricate vinework that continued through the necklace itself.

“This is not at all what I was expecting,” he said, “but something of such surpassing beauty could only be at home around your neck.”

Miss Vida blinked fast to keep the tears at bay while Herbert stood behind her and fixed the clasp, a shiver running through her as his fingers brushed the nape of her neck. The pendant, despite its delicate finery, was heavy, and she felt as if it were going to leave an imprint on her skin. She placed a hand over it and said, “You mentioned this wasn’t what you were expecting.”

“Yes, quite right.” Herbert shook his head and returned to the chest, extracting a thick, heavy-looking scroll. “As I mentioned, very little of Sappho’s work is known in modernity, but that doesn’t mean that it no longer exists.”

His grin bordered on gleeful now. Miss Vida found it contagious. She nodded toward the scroll. “Sappho?”

“Sappho!”

“Is this what all of those clandestine excursions in the time cabinet have been about?”

For a moment, his smile faltered. “I… thought you were asleep.”

“Darling, I am a creature of the stage. I can act.”

“Well, er, yes. I was pursuing some leads, and—”

She raised a hand. “You have no need to explain yourself. A more jealous type might demand it, but that would not be me.”

He sighed with relief and opened the scroll as she came to look over his shoulder. “The pendant is quite impressive, but this is what I truly wanted to share with you: work not seen in centuries by one of the most famous and mysterious artists in all of civilization. These particular scrolls were on their way to the British Museum when they were lost.”

Miss Vida couldn’t read the script on the parchment, but she recognized the symbols. “You read Greek?”

“Of course, dearest.” He said it as if anything else would be unthinkable.

“I’m still learning things about you, after all this time.”

“I hope I shall always be able to surprise you.” He gestured toward the scroll. “Allow me to translate, if I may.”

She smiled. “Nothing would make me happier.”

As he unfurled the document, he said, “I should point out that Sappho’s verse is… quite passionate. It’s why I spent so much time searching for these. I didn’t think anyone else, not even Shakespeare, could be able to capture, well, how I feel about you.”

Herbert looked up at her, and the undisguised ardor in his expression sent a flush raging through her cheeks. She waved her fan. “I am breathless with anticipation.”

Flash Fiction Draw for August 2021

It’s the first Monday in August, and I’m feeling a little anxious.

To be fair, I feel anxious most Mondays. (And Tuesdays. And Wednesdays. And don’t even get me started on Thursdays.) Such is the joy of having a fucked up brain. But! That won’t stop me from presenting the next Flash Fiction Draw writing prompt.

(As always, you can click here to skip all this hullabaloo and go right to the good stuff.)

In case this is your first time at this rodeo, we build this writing prompt by drawing three cards, each from a different suit, which give us our genre, setting, and a random object to include in the story. Your mission (should you choose to accept it) is to write a 1,000-word (max) story by next Monday, send me the link, and I’ll post a roundup of all the stories created using the prompt.

Here’s a handy dandy chart showing which prompt elements have been used already:

Card drawnGenreSettingObject1RomanceSpaceshipRay gun2Science FictionRestaurant kitchenKey3Fairy TaleStudio apartment in a big cityHairbrush4HorrorAuditoriumLength of rope5MysterySewerPendant and necklace6ThrillerHighway tollboothPotted plant7ComedyFarm fieldTablet computer8FantasyPawn shopFountain pen9Ghost StoryMarshDecorative pillow10SuspenseTulip fieldVacuum cleanerJCrime CaperTrunk of a carBouquet of rosesQAction/AdventureToolshed / Utility closetA stray sockKHistorical FictionShopping mallSuitcase

And here’s what I drew this month:

So, that gives us:

historical fiction…set in a marsh…including a pendant and necklace.

You know, I was worried I was going to draw “shopping mall” for the setting there. I guess we dodged a bullet. And since this is historical fiction, maybe it’s a good time to dust off my characters Herbert and Miss Vida Greenleaf.

OK! Write a 1,000-word story (more or less) by next Monday, Aug. 9, and share a link to it in the comments below, or send an email, or tag me in a tweet. I hope you have fun with this!

July Flash Fiction Draw: The Results!

I’m glad to say that I wasn’t the only one who had fun with the prompt this month. Please also check out these writers’ flash fiction pieces:

Another One Bites the Dust by Iara WarriorfeatherNot to Be Sniffed At by E H TimmsMy Old Man’s the Dustman by Jeff Baker

I hope I didn’t miss anybody, but if I did, let me know! And remember, if you didn’t finish your story, there’s always time. Deadlines are arbitrary things anyway, even when they’re set by someone else.