Flash Fiction Challenge: “Bullies And The Bullied”

Five Words, Plus One Vampire,” will soon complete — have you checked out all the flash fiction stories there? Well, why the hell not? Skip to it.

Yesterday was Spirit Day.

A day to support those LGBT folks who are the victims of bullying.

My new novella, SHOTGUN GRAVY, is about this very thing.

So, it seems like this is a good week for you folks to do up a flash fiction challenge based off of bullies and their victims. “Bullying,” then, as a motif. Not just LGBT bullying, but bullying of all shapes and sizes, of all callous cruel and callow flavors. Here, though, will be the trick:

You have only 100 words.

Not 1000.

Nay, only 10% of the normal tally.

I don’t care what genre it is — in fact, more power to you for writing sci-fi, fantasy, crime, whatever. Bullying is an act that transcends. It isn’t just on the playground. It’s in politics. It’s on the street. In schools and old folks’ homes and cities and suburbia and rural tracts and so on and so forth.

You should pop your 100 words right in the comments section below.

I’ll pick my ten favorite and give all ten of you SHOTGUN GRAVY in the format of your choice — PDF, Kindle MOBI, or ePub. Oh, here’s the other challenging bit, then:

You do not have a week.

You have only this weekend.

You’ve got till noon EST on Monday, October 24th to get your 100-word stories into the comments section.

I’ll pick my faves by Tuesday at the same time.

Get to writing, folks.

EDIT:

HOKAY!

Whew.

I hate all of you ’cause you make this so hard.

Here’s the ten folks.

You can contact me at terribleminds at gmail dot com — and I’ll get you a copy of SHOTGUN GRAVY, just let me know in what format.

Rock on, folks. A powerful challenge and you stepped up.

* * *

Suzie – “Not My Fault”

Lindsay Mawson

Thomas Pluck

Darren Goldsmith

Alex Gradine

ZC

Sarah E Olson

Nicole

Ben K

Anthony Elmore

 

 

79 comments

  • He’d sought election to do what was best for his home. Supporting this bill meant more rights for the people he represented.

    On his desk were two envelopes. One, from the lobbyists, was full of cash. The other, from the opposing party’s news network, had photos of him. Shameful photos. Photos of the lifestyle he’d never shared with his parents or close friends.

    To stay safe, to earn that bonus, all he had to do was deny his people the rights they needed to live as equals, instead of outcasts.

    He took a deep breath, and picked up his pen.

  • I had known I was next. Afraid, I told my mother.

    That fierce woman told me to toughen up and fight back, “Win or don’t come home.”

    Click – click – shiiiing.

    Blades switched out, surrounding me.

    Butterfly knives brandished by butterfly babes sporting their butterfly tattoos.

    Fragile, peaceful, winged insects? Not these hard bitches.

    My initiation – only they never asked if I wanted to join. They never asked anyone.

    If I lived, I’d be one of them. If not, entertainment.

    Flashing steel – taste of metal – their blades or my blood?

    I followed her advice…I never did make it home…

  • “It’s my turn for the ball !” I demanded.

    They shoved me against the wall and took turns throwing a basketball off my head. The teachers looked the other way. Mom told me I should tell a teacher if I started getting ganged up on. I’ve tried before and they just told me to go play something else.

    I threw the basketball back at Kevin’s head. He’d hit me with it the most. Mrs. Keller came over and grabbed the back of my neck; “Go to the principal.”

    “You must have done something to deserve getting beat up,” Principal Skinner said.

  • Interview

    Geoff was going to enjoy this. Brandon Gordon, high school nemesis, now a supplicant to the altar of Human Resources.

    The interview started. Brandon was a good fit for the office. He didn’t remember Geoff. Geoff remembered wedgies. Beatings. Long hours in a locker.

    “I see you haven’t had work in the last eighteen months.”

    “I was laid off… for financial reasons.” Bullshit. “The recession has been rough. My wife? She moved here to find a better job. Took my son. I’m a hard worker. Norenco was sorry to see me go.”

    Ah, hell. Geoff hated himself.

    “Welcome aboard.”

  • “We’re out of coffee again Johnboy”

    “You know, it’s not really my job to make coffee for you”

    “No, your job is to finish up on last week’s numbers, and yet Ericson hasn’t seen a report yet”

    “That’s because Grant hasn’t done his part of the…”

    “Or, according to Grant, it’s because you’re lazy”

    “What?”

    “Terry and Andrew mentioned how you’re bugging them..” “I never” “… so you’ll be helping with
    their numbers as well. And don’t forget: Coffee”

    On days like this, it was comforting to think of the locked box in his drawer. 17 bullets. More than
    enough.

  • When I was a kid, before I learned to recognize sorrow, I sang. These many years later, I’m joining the choir.

    Anybody can join. The website says so. I sing out of key; even I can hear it. When I stand next to the tall woman with the cascading grey hair and the voice that could call you out of the grave, she will not meet my eyes, nor offer the use of her pencil. When I stand behind her, I look at her skinny, sagging buttocks and think, if you knew what you looked like.

  • “Wanna go out tonight?”
    “Sure, you had a place in mind?”
    “Friend of mine mentioned bar, Toolbox I think he called it.”
    My boyfriend blanched and dropped his magazine. “No way man, no way.”
    “Why not? It’s a gay bar, we’re gay.”
    “We’re also normal, that’s where those leather freaks hang out.”
    I had never seen him this agitated. “As long as it’s consensual what does it matter?”
    “Simple, you wanna be accepted by hets in the world? Stay away from those twisted fisting perverts.”
    We broke up. The Toolbox was great.

  • There was something in the air that night.

    Blood.

    The scent of it was everywhere. The sounds had all died down, not even a slight echo lingering throughout the old dance hall. Just dirty footprints and the old rusty knife that caused the cascade of blood.

    What a pitiful end to someone’s hero.

    The usual target left almost unscathed, each finger intact and all his blood still in his veins. His hero, however, had a new look, one a bit more sickly white.

    It wouldn’t matter, though. The Jupiter Boys got what they wanted: blood.

    That’s all they ever wanted.

  • “You should make something for the bake sale,” Janelle said. “It’s a good cause.”

    Their daughters were on the soon to be torn down playscape.

    It looked safe enough to Clarissa. “I’m not much of a baker,” she said. Money was a little tight this week.

    “Heather looks grubby today,” Janelle said. “Didn’t Children’s Aid visit you once?”

    “When her father was still around,” Clarissa said. Things were better now. “Maybe I can make some squares.” There might be brownie ingredients in the cupboard?

    Underneath the playscape Heather threw a handful of sand. Caitlin ran, bawling, to her mother

  • The commander leaned on his desk, “You have to let your husband back into your quarters, sergeant. Army Regulation 608-99 requires you.”

    “We’re separating; he broke our marriage vows,” Sgt. Hurst squirmed and swallowed hard, then breathed in deep.

    “Until you have a court order, you have to take him back,” Cpt. Parker said. “You must provide for him.”

    “He’s an able-bodied male, Sir..”

    “Sergeant! This matter is closed. Take him back or have a court order to me.”

    Between two war deployments it would take her four years, thousands of dollars, and multiple heartaches to get that court order.

  • Last time.
    Choking bubbles and piss and shit. Anger rising.
    He pulls my head out of the toilet. He’s laughing. I’m not angry enough. I let him drown me again. In the foul-wet dark, I open my eyes.
    Angry enough.
    I pull it in, rip apart the Veil that separates worlds, and open my Eyes. When I surface I See him: A hyena, laughing madly. I laugh too. Then I rip out his eyes and let the Veil fall back. In the “real” world, his eyes are bleeding, but I never touched him. He crumples. I smile: last time.

  • Sorry if this shows up multiple times, my settings seem to interfere with submitting comments. Here goes one more attempt.

    - – -

    “‘This isn’t the girls’ toilet,’ he said. Like I didn’t know that.”

    “What’d you do?” Janet asked.

    “Nothing. Just washed my hands. He started shouting: ‘Hey, you deaf? This isn’t the girls toilet.’ So I asked: ‘Got a problem with me?’ And he said: ‘Yeah, you’re in the wrong fucking toilet.’”

    I looked up, for sympathy.

    Beside Janet, Mary was wearing a sneer.

    “Well what’d you expect?” she said. “I’ve told you, you need to man up. No-one’s gonna take you for a man until you stop being all pretty and shit.”

  • (For the “Bullies and the Bullied” challenge)

    No matter where I sat in the school bus, he’d find me. He’d sit in the seat directly in front of me, turn toward me, and stick his middle finger against his upper lip, pushing it up toward his nose. “Hey, Ugly! This is what you look like.” I would turn my ugly, hare-lipped face away from him and try to ignore him, while other kids laughed. Finally, I’d had enough. “If you do that one more time, you’ll be sorry!” He laughed, did it again. I pulled out my pocket knife and slashed his lip. He was sorry.

  • I’m 0 for 2 in getting this thing to post. The Interweb is obviously taking exception to me today. I’m giving this one more try.
    ———————————————-

    It’s all about the tears, you see.

    Kenny wouldn’t stop until the tears flowed. Tears were the sign of defeat.

    “Eat it!” A dirty napkin holding a dog turd ground into the third grader’s face. The younger boy’s eyes began to grow wet. His shoulders shook.

    ALMOST THERE.

    Throat muscles convulsed and the boy pitched forward vomit and tears streaming.

    Later, Father was waiting. “You’re late.” Leather slapped in the man’s palm, and Kenny bent over without a word.

    DON’T CRY. DON’T CRY. DON’T CRY.

    Father wouldn’t win this time.

    It’s all about the tears, you see.

  • HOKAY!

    Whew.

    I hate all of you ’cause you make this so hard.

    Here’s the ten folks.

    You can contact me at terribleminds at gmail dot com — and I’ll get you a copy of SHOTGUN GRAVY, just let me know in what format.

    Rock on, folks. A powerful challenge and you stepped up.

    * * *

    Suzie – “Not My Fault”
    Lindsay Mawson
    Thomas Pluck
    Darren Goldsmith
    Alex Gradine
    ZC
    Sarah E Olson
    Nicole
    Ben K
    Anthony Elmore

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