Sunday, July 8, 2012

FLASH FACTORY FRIDAY #11 - Sunday Morning Edition

Hey everyone! So sorry for the delay in getting this week's Flash Factory posted. I've been out of town since Wednesday and this week's judge has been out of town as well. 

So this week's Flash Factory Friday is a SUNDAY EDITION! You will have until tomorrow to enter. 

Also, since last week's WINNER and this week's judge, Rebekah Postupak, has won multiple times, she's answered all the getting to know the judge questions, so we'll get straight to the prompt! 

Congratulations on another win, Rebekah! 


From Rebekah: "I'm in New York City this weekend, introducing famous sites and my children to each other. This week's three words are in honor of this introduction."

Rebekah's 3 Word PROMPT: 
Patriot, apple, congestion


Ready ... set ... FLASH!  

To Review:
PROMPT (varies each week)
50 word minimum / 350 word limit
24 hours
The full rules are HERE

*Remember, post your entry right here in the comments, please!  Don't forget to include word count AND Twitter handle!  (Or another way for me to reach the winner!) 


  1. Howard Marvin bit into the apple his wife packed him for lunch. The flesh was overly sweet and mushy, like apple juice mixed with cornbread, and the skin stuck to his teeth. He frowned and slid his tongue around his mouth, doing his best focus on his boss’ words rather than the putrid taste in his mouth.

    “Did you talk to Bob Rudd yet? He’s a tax lawyer at Merck that corporate is looking to hire,” his boss, Tim, told him.

    Howard swallowed and shook his head. “Where is he?”

    Tim pointed to a tall man at the drink cooler. “That’s him. The dark-haired one in the green tie.”

    “Did they already hire him? What’s he doing at the picnic?”

    Tim slapped his back. “Waiting to be won over. He’s a Patriots fan, Howard. Talk about football if you don’t want to talk about business.”

    Howard sighed. Tim tended to mix up Howard with every other employee at their office. Howard sold the drugs from medicine manufacturers like Merck to pharmacies, him and another ten other guys in a twenty-foot radius of his cubicle. No he was not a Patriots fan. No he did not grow up in Baltimore. No he did not go to University of Miami Ohio. That was any one of the other guys.

    And he hardly felt like talking about football. His team had been out of the play-offs for weeks, and he didn’t keep much track after that. The smell of the grilled hamburgers and baked beans made his stomach gurgle longingly, and he glanced down at his spoiled apple with disdain. He’d sooner die of food poisoning than a pulmonary congestion with the healthy ‘options’ his wife packed him.

    But he nodded anyway and made his way through the picnic to Bob Rudd. Howard realized how in shape he was up close, like the kind of guy who runs marathons or actually uses his gym membership. He sipped from a water bottle and picked at a fruit salad, and Howard decided he didn’t like him at all.

    - - - - - - -

    343 words

  2. Twitter: @Anyechka
    Word count: 349

    “Why is there always so much congestion on the road on the Fourth of July?” Gene grumped. “If you’ve seen one fireworks show, you’ve seen ‘em all. Most of us are too old to get excited about fireworks anyway.”

    Mr. Seward tightly gripped the wheel and clenched his teeth, breathing through his nose. “It’s the duty of every good American patriot to celebrate this holiday to the fullest extent. I didn’t put my ass on the line thirty-five years ago so I could just sit back and ignore the most important national holiday. What exactly do you think I was doing over there?”

    “Helping to set the stage for the war that just ended seven years ago. Only lasting thing that came outta that war was literature and film.”

    Mr. Seward growled as he continued driving at a snail’s pace. “Would anyone like to take Gene’s side in this discussion?”

    “I wouldn’t,” Harold piped up.

    Gene punched his brother on the arm. “That’s ‘cause you’re an annoying goody-goody. I think you’re getting to be more of a goody-goody with age.” He reached over and snapped Cora Ann’s bra strap.

    “Stepdaddy Max, Gene just snapped my bra!”

    Mr. Seward turned bright red. “Can you please not sink to Gene’s level by using such vulgar language?”

    “How is that vulgar language?” Bambi asked. “She’s using the proper term for an article of clothing, not talking like a character in a pornographic book. And you know she routinely uses much saltier language than that.”

    “Are we there yet?” Paula asked.

    “Does it look like we’re there?” Mr. Seward asked. “I can’t wait for the day when I only have a few children left at home.”

    “Don’t get mad at us,” Gene scoffed, throwing an apple at the back of Harold’s head. “You were the one who decided you had to procreate with both your wives and remarry a woman who already had three kids.”

    “It’s not our fault you had quints and twins either,” Cora Ann nodded.

    Mr. Seward put the radio on and turned it up as loudly as possible.

  3. “So, you consider yourself a patriot, I assume?” The man paced back and forth in front of me asking questions, yet expecting no response.

    Perhaps that was why I answered, “Of course.”

    The pacing stopped. “Of course? Some would call you a traitor.”

    “I know.”

    “That’s all you have to say?”

    I shrugged. What was the point of arguing? The man would only hear what he expected to hear. I wasn’t going to change any opinions today. That was coming.

    “Do you know how dangerous that stunt you pulled was?” The man said it as though he assumed I had no idea what that bomb could do as well as no actual desire to cause harm. Like it was some game.

    I shrugged again.

    “If that area had been congested with people, you could have killed—“

    “Oh, please! There’s no congestion during the sleep cycle!” Perhaps I hadn’t wanted to kill anyone, but I did intend the damage.

    The interrogator lunged and stopped short of my nose by mere centimeters, “Who are you working for?”

    Was that supposed to work? That intimidation thing? I shrugged again.

    The interrogator pursed his lips and stood. “Fine.” He walked to the door and opened it. I thought he would leave me to stew, but instead he turned back into the room. He was holding an apple. An honest to God apple! Not that reconstituted mush they serve below in the grunt cafeteria, but a shiny, beautiful apple. My mouth filled with saliva and my stomach rumbled. “You hungry?” The interrogator said casually.

    I swallowed and paused, gritted my teeth and shrugged.

    Word Count: 269