Flash Fiction Challenge: A Story In Five Sentences

This challenge is, as many of them are, both simple and complex, both easy and difficult.

I want you to write a story in five sentences.

No more than 100 words.

You can view it, if you’d like, as:

Sentence 1: Beginning / Inciting Incident

Sentence 2: Middle

Sentence 3: Middle peak, act turn or pivot

Sentence 4: Climactic turn or twist

Sentence 5: Resolution

That is not a strict map, but rather, a reminder that a story is a story, not a snapshot: it has a beginning, a middle and an end.

You can post it below in the comments if you’d like, or if you’d prefer to post at your blog and offer a link back, that’s fine, too.

Please, only one story. Do not spam the comments with a ton of these.

Just one.

So, make it count.

Due by next Friday, the 18th, at noon EST.


  • March 16, 2016 at 3:29 PM // Reply

    “What a view!” Cassie thought as she looked at the sky, not realizing at that exact moment a pair of Eyes peered through a rearview mirror thinking the same thing.
    Refocusing on the road ahead, Cassie became aware of the Eye’s attention on her.
    Cassie yanked herself away from their distraction, focused back to the blurred road lest she allowed the Eyes to spellbind her.
    Unexpectedly the car holding the “Eyes” slowed in speed, momentarily looked away as a Hand readjusted the mirror, presenting a full Face to her view.
    Cassie, relieved, smiled for the Face belong to mi amore.

    • March 16, 2016 at 5:11 PM // Reply

      I got rather excited and too quickly posted my story. Last line should read: Cassie, relieved, smiled for the Face belong to her Love. Haste makes grammatical errors real! :)

  • Bubbles filled the sink at precisely seven o’clock. The dishes danced a conga line, vying for the first position in line. When the whistle blew, there was a flurry of jostling. Splashing and singing with joy, the coordinated place settings suddenly blushed. A whistle blew at eight o’clock and the cupboards filled with clean, politely stacked dinnerware

  • She picked up the phone, that was Sanders, the guy she outflanked with the latest order.
    “You fucking bitch!” he yelled, “Your company will never get a job anymore, I’ll call some very serious people!”

    All these months flashed before her eyes: all strivings, all her hard work, and finally, the Bobby’s cherubic face, the face of her sweet baby. She had to stop Sanders, she thought while her fingers opened sites, she looked at the fate lines, chose recipients, words and messages to sent them…

    It’s easy to be the master of dark PR when you’re a prophet.

  • This was fun, thanks! (And thank you Heather!). Also on my website at: http://kathleenconstantine.com/reveries/

    I sensed the pull of him as he passed, heard him call “race you to the park,” and followed the flash of his smile. My pumping the pedals was futile though, and his bike shorts fluttered into the distance.

    Later I collapsed onto the grass, falling into his arm, into his scent—as familiar as his “I told you so” expression. It felt warm and right, until I slipped off with the cold turn of his shoulder and his snide, “Your lack of training shows.”

    I rode home alone, wildflowers setting the hills ablaze in bright orange sparks.

  • The Ghost of Steve:

    “How do you drop an iPhone in a toilet?” asked Jane incredulously.

    “I don’t know, it just happened!” said John

    “Aaaaah, my parents are going to” — there was a flash of lightning, and the Ghost of Steve Jobs rose out of the submerged iPhone.

    “What have you done,” the Ghost of Steve Jobs said disapprovingly.

    Jane flushed the toilet and neither the iPhone nor the Ghost of Steve Jobs were ever heard of again.

  • The first butterflies

    At his best friends fifteenth birthday…
    “What do you think I’m going to ask you?” His mouth was close to my ear.
    His arms wrapped around me, as I stood by the camp-fire.

    He was my stepsister’s boyfriend first, back before I’d come on the scene. It started a war at home, never took much to stoke the fires of her jealousy. Twenty five years on and that hasn’t changed.

    I’ve thought of him over time, wondered where he is, how he is. Eventually I found him, my friend requests went unanswered. Still we always remember our first stomach butterflies.

  • “I ask only once,” The man with lightning at his neck says in perfect French, “where have you hidden the Maiden’s heart?”
    Around us his men ransack the archives, searching for the unburnt organ that once led France to victory.
    A soft click behind my ear tells me that the man’s second in command grows tired of waiting. I cross myself and murmur the Maiden’s prayer with ashy, bloody, lips that taste of desperate measures.
    Lord God forgive me, the Maiden’s sacred heart will never reach Berlin.

  • The killer walked into the room and looked at all his options.

    Someone would die tonight, and every person there knew it.

    Bribes and pleas were shouted at him as the minute hand made it’s sweep.

    They saw in his eyes when the decision was made and fell silent.

    His laughter rang in their ears, til it was drowned out by the explosion.

  • Hands shaking, he held the gun up to his temple. Thoughts flashed through his mind faster than the speed of light. Then darkness–pure darkness. The body lie on the ground in a pool of blood as vultures flew overhead. A good meal is very satisfying.

  • There’s blood pooling on the floor. It drips from my hands. I’m so sorry.

    I should have been more careful with the transfusion bag. I’ll just … go get a mop.

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