November Flash Challenge: The stories

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We have five tales of changes in the night for your enjoyment. Let us know which you liked most...

Poll ended at December 02, 2018, 01:44:14 AM

Last Night In Cancun
The Tale of Blue Raven
Taylor and the Sloth
My Old Were-ferret Plush...
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Total votes : 7
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Post November 18, 2018, 01:44:14 AM

November Flash Challenge: The stories

Tell us which of this month's five tales tickled you most...
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Post November 18, 2018, 01:46:38 AM

Last Night in Cancun

Last Night in Cancun

By JonTrue

Ixchel’s long, thick, raven hair cascaded around Russel like a waterfall. He watched her every move trying to memorize her body and the passion that poured from it. When they met at the resort bar, he towered over her, but here, in bed, she was powerful. Ixchel knew precisely what she wanted and exactly how to take it. For a moment, he felt Heaven. The rest of the world could burn while he had THIS: the cool, clean, white hotel sheets underneath him and the fiery, Mayan woman on top. He caressed her hips lightly, desperate to remember the way she moved. She leaned over him, her teeth ran along his rippling, well-muscled chest. It felt so good; she couldn’t help but give him a little nibble, a bite, then before she could stop, it was too late. She tasted blood.

“It’s ok baby, don’t stop. I’ll be fine,” Russel said coaxing her to continue.

She crawled over to the lamp switch built into the wall beside the bed. The yellow light brought them both back from the brink of ecstasy. “Dios mío, forgive me.” Fresh blood pooled around the bite. Ixchel ran to grab one of the neatly-folded white towels from the rack beside the sink. Her hair came down to the back of her knees giving her a modicum of modesty even as she ran naked through the room. She knew it was too late, but she had to try.

“Come on back to bed. I promise, you feel so good I hardly noticed,” he said rolling onto his side.

“Pinche gringo! Nothing is ok. You’re about to die, and all you can think of is sex?” She ran the towel under some water and dabbed off his wound. Tears of self-loathing filled her eyes.

“What’s the matter? Look, it’s hardly a scratch.” The bleeding had all but stopped and he smiled lovingly into her eyes. It was far too early to tell her that he loved her, but he felt its sting.

“Don’t look at me like that. You don’t know me, the things I’ve done, the things I’m capable of.” Tears welled up and clung between her long eyelashes.

“That doesn’t matter to me, Ixchel. All that matters is what we make of the future. That can be us, together. We can see the world together. Come here baby, let me hold you.”

“You’re sweet, you big oaf, but you don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know who… what… I am.”

“How bad can it possibly be? I mean, what are you, a spy for a drug cartel? I don’t care, you’ll be safe in The States. You’ll be protected. We can run away together, and never look back.”

“Shut up already! You’re saying all the right things. It’s only making it harder. You don’t know how long I’m going to have to live with your words. Hell… I don’t really know.”

Russell sat up against the simple black headboard. He was becoming concerned, and he wanted to hear every word she had to say, “Alright, you’ve got my attention. What’s going on?”

“How old do you think I am?” Ixchel, listening curiously, raised her thick, expressive eyebrows.

“You look early to mid-twenties, but if you’re asking me, that means you’re what? In your thirties? Listen, I don’t care. You’re beautiful no matter what your age is. Age is just a number, that’s what they say?” Russel winced and put a hand over his wound, shooting pain radiating from the bite mark.

“Russel! I hate you! Why are you so perfect?” She wiped away mournful teardrops and choked back the sorrow like she had done so many times before. Ixchel forced herself to regain some composure, she was a proud woman and this behavior was unbecoming. “I’m in my twenties — two hundred twenties. I was born in 1794 in the Olmec heartland — a couple hundred miles from here,” her face grew sullen and anguished. “White invaders came to my village under the guise of exploration and good-will, but all they brought was death by disease. As I lay dying, a creature came out of the jungle and killed every white man there. It was a jahuaro, or in English, were-jaguar. It saw me dying of smallpox and took pity. He bit me and made me a jahuara, bringing with it the blessing and curse of longevity.” She looked down, avoiding his eyes. She’d had this conversation many times before and knew the question he was about to ask before he asked it. She knew the false hope her words gave.

Russel whispered with relief, “That’s great, it will be you and me together forever. I mean, you can teach me how to control my bloodthirst or whatever, but I’m good with that. I never liked being a normal white boy anyway.” He beamed with confidence.

“I’m sorry to say, but it doesn’t work like that. You’re wonderful, mi amor, but el jahuaro is only compatible with the people of the Olmec heartland. The others suffer a worse fate. Look at yourself; it’s already happening. I’m so sorry.”

Gold and black spots spread across Russel’s body, some growing sparse patches of fur. Burning groans escaped his throat as the infection took over. Giant canines ripped through his cheeks, too large to allow further speech, the only communication left was that of pain. He fell over to his side and grasped his face as the sounds of snapping bones filled the room like popcorn. He was a broken creature, gasping his last breaths, wheezing on his own fluids.

She couldn’t be around for the next part: there would be too many questions. Russel’s lungs were about to explode, and yet, she couldn’t afford to be there for him during his last agonizing breath. She grabbed her clothes and dashed into the humid Yucatan night. Ixchel understood the futility of outrunning the past — more than most, but that night she tried nonetheless.
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Post November 18, 2018, 01:48:13 AM

The Tale of Blue Raven

The Tale of Blue Raven

By Michelle Dutcher

It was almost dusk before the small band of Shawnee reached the trail’s sleep circle. The six boys, all having just entered manhood the past year, laid their rolled blankets and parched corn-bags – a long leather bag, trussed at their backs like a knapsack – on the ground around the stones before retrieving sticks and small branches from the surrounding woods to build a small fire. However, they kept their bows and arrows on their bodies, close at hand just in case they ran into trouble or found an animal they could kill to eat.

Eventually the oldest man in the group, Waiting Fish, produced his fire pouch, took out two hard stones, and striking them against each other, threw a spark into a small pile of tinder, blowing on the tiny flame until more firewood could be added.

After the fire caught, they all ate, and when their appetites were satiated, the boys and the two elders sat in a circle around the flames and began to talk about their journey.

“We have visited villages unknown to you before now,” started Waiting Fish. “We have taught you to spot marks on the trees that we use to find our way to our hunting grounds. Someday you will be warriors and will need to run these trails without hesitation.”

By now it was dark and, as they were camped in a clearing in a canyon, Waiting Fish asked them what they saw above them.

“I see a thousand campfires just like ours, the fires of our ancestors,” answered the young man furthest from the two elders.

“This is a true answer,” said Waiting Fish. “And soon our ancestors will be joined by our sister, the moon. Tomorrow she will be complete in all her glowing beauty, so we will not hunt, even though we are close to returning to our village.”

The young men looked at each other with amazement. “Why is this so, Waiting Fish? Surely if we take back a deer or a fox to our parents, they will be grateful for our skill and thoughtfulness.”

“I will tell you why we dare not hunt on the day when the moon is full.” He took a moment to reflect before he spoke again. “While my father’s father’s father lived there was a beautiful Shawnee maiden, a great chief’s daughter, who all the young men wanted to possess.” He looked around the circle of young faces and chuckled at the eagerness of young men to find lovers of their own. “But she was so sought after for her charm and her legacy that she grew worried that her future husband would not be able to see past her outward appearance enough to view her true soul.

“So Blue Raven told her troubles to the full moon – who answered the girl’s prayers as Sister Moon thought best. Each month, when the moon was full, the maiden was transformed into a beautiful doe so she could plunge herself into the forest and spy upon young warriors – like you – to see what they said about her.”

“What did she hear?” asked one young man quickly.

“Patience, patience!” said Running Stream, the other elder in the group.

Waiting Fish took another draw from his pipe. “As she went to one camp after another, camps like this one, she would hear the young men talk of girls they had conquered, girls they had deceived…and when those young warriors asked for her hand, she would tell her father what the boys had said and the chief would deny them his daughter.

“But eventually the young maiden met a young warrior named Shining Hawk and, as usually happens, she loved him. But as the moon grew fat and she knew that soon she would become a deer for one night, she worried about what he would say when he was alone with his friends around their campfires. She wondered if she really wanted to know – perhaps all men were cold-hearted when they were alone…but her heart still hoped…”

The elders both looked around the circle, trusting that their young protégées would see the importance of respecting the women around them. The boys each nodded when looked at, showing that they understood this part of the lesson.

Waiting Fish continued with his story. “When Blue Raven awoke that night as a deer and stepped into the moonlight of the forest, she immediately sought out the campfire of her true love. He sat with his friends, but when he talked about his love for the maiden, his voice was gentle and his thoughts were pure. Blue Raven loved him even more. However, as she turned to walk away from the camp, she stepped on a twig and the snap caused the young men to grab their arrows and bows, fearing the worse. When they saw it was a doe they quickly surrounded it, arrows drawn.

“’Wait!’ shouted Shining Hawk. ‘Look at the doe’s eyes. They are not the eyes of a deer – but rather the eyes of a thinking creature.’ He held out his hand and the doe came forward towards her love, nuzzling his hand with her nose. But another boy in the group, who was always filled with anger, released his arrow and the deer fell to the ground, dying.”

The group of young warriors all gasped at once.

“As the doe lay there, she put her head in her love’s lap and turned back into the maiden. As they looked at each other, they loved deeply enough to fill a lifetime. And then she was gone. This is why we treat all creatures with respect and do not hunt when the moon is full.”

“That’s a sad story,” said one boy.

“Perhaps, but see, there, the brightest of all the campfires, that is where she lives now, with Sister Moon still protecting her...and Shining Hawk brings her wood every night to build their fire, forever.”
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Post November 18, 2018, 01:49:24 AM

Taylor and the Sloth

Taylor and the Sloth

By JP Harrin

Taylor saw a shadow moving above him to his left and ducked. Whatever it was it reeked. And it had fangs.

“Hey,” Taylor yelled. “Did you attempt to bite me?” He looked up, and all he saw was a sloth.

“Sorry, sir,” the sloth said, “but I had no choice. I was told if I bit someone I’d return to normal.”

“Huh?” Taylor perched on a log, confused.

“You see, I was bitten by a werewolf,” the sloth said. “I don’t know why. I think maybe he was blind.”

“And he told you you’d revert back to your normal self if you bit someone.”

“That’s correct.” The sloth shifted to the left, moving closer.

“On no you don’t,” Taylor said, holding up a hand as if it were a shield. “You stay right there.” Taylor moved down the log away from the sloth. “You know he was lying don’t you. Once bitten, you’re a werewolf, or I guess were-sloth in this case, forever.” Taylor chuckled, took out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one. “That is a funny thought.”

“I don’t see anything funny about it at all, sir.”

“You don’t? You live in a tree. What are the odds someone would climb up and bite you.”

“Oh, I wasn’t in the tree. I’d come down to relieve myself.”

“Relieve yourself?”

“Well, of course. Did you think we just held it in forever?”

“I hadn’t given it any thought.”

“Well now you know.”

“Do you have a name?” Taylor asked and took a drag on the cigarette.

“Flash,” the sloth said.

Taylor laughed so hard he almost fell off the log.

“I know. I know. My mother was a hippy and a pot smoker,” the sloth said. “She gave all her kids strange names. My older sister’s name is Gazelle, and my younger brother is Jugs. Don’t ask. I have no idea why.” The sloth shook his head and sighed.

“You even shake your head slowly.” Taylor said and snorted.

“Okay, that’s enough of that.” The sloth looked around as if expecting someone.

“Do you come down from the tree for other reasons?”

“Nope. No need to. All the food I require is up here. Insects and carrion and small lizards. Lots of them.”

“So how often do you come down know?”

“Once a week. It takes a little time to get to the right spot, go, and cover everything up.” The sloth looked at the ground. “You’re feet are on my spot right now.”

Taylor stood and hopped to the side. “You’re shitting me, right?”

“Interesting choice of words, but no, I’m not.”

Taylor scuffed his feet on the ground in an attempt to clean them off. He raised his left foot and checked the bottom. “Oh crap,” he said and pointed at the sloth. “You ruined a new pair of hiking shoes.” He scuffed them some more. “If I could sue you, I would.”

“Of course you would. Everyone does these days.” The sloth moved his head in small circles to relieve the tightness in his neck. “Since you’re going to sue me anyway, why not move a little closer so I can—.”

“No way, Jose. In fact, I’m going to move back a little,” Taylor said, taking a big step backwards. “Ouch,” he said. “What the—?” He bent over in pain. Hair covered his face and fangs sprouted over his bottom lip.

“I forgot to mention my wife, Miranda. She was only twenty feet away, know. She’s slower than molasses. We’ve both been were-sloths since we were youngsters.”

“And you haven’t bitten anyone before me?”

“Oh, there have been lots. We see them coming up the trails, and Miranda gets into position. Sometimes she’s late, and we have to let the person go on.”

“But you said once you bite someone, you revert back.”

“Well, that was a bit of a lie. Actually, a big fat lie.” This time is was the sloth’s turn to chuckle. “I’m afraid you’re a werewolf for life now. Too bad. You look to be about twenty-five.”


“Same difference,” the sloth said with a shrug.

“Well, Miranda and I need to get some sleep. And you need to head along the path to get home before dark.”

“Home? What home? I can’t go back there. My parents. My girlfriend. What am I going to tell them,” Taylor said, looking up as Miranda joined her husband hanging from a stout branch.

“Can’t help you there, pal,” the sloth said, “but it’s a long walk back down the hill. I’m sure you’ll think of something. And now, sir, it’s time to say good night.”

Taylor watched as the couple snuggled and closed their eyes. Within seconds, he heard the sloth snoring. He walked away wondering what his life was going to be like now. He didn’t know anything about werewolves. Or would he turn into a were-sloth? The idea sent a shiver down his spine and made him pick up his pace.
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Post November 18, 2018, 01:50:48 AM

Re: November Flash Challenge: The stories

My Old Were-ferret Plush...

by Sergio ‘ente per ente’ Palumbo

Rajiv was surprised, he could not believe it! The scenery at the port of Adelaide itself was very different from anything he had ever seen in his hometown. With all those tall buildings, and the strange shape of the houses, he knew for certain that he was very far away from his native village in India. The 10-year-old dark-haired boy had never imagined before how Australia and its cities might look. But necessity had forced him to leave his country, bringing him here, where his uncle had been living since the 70s. In fact, his uncle himself had called the boy, offering to keep Rajiv safe in the small house he now owned in town.

The youngling knew this was a very good thing, especially since he had seen all of his family killed. Surely, here things would be very different. He only needed to get accustomed to new traditions, new laws and a new language. After all, he had no other choice but to blend in.

After the were-tigers had encroached into southern India making the jungles dangerous, the peasants weren’t safe anymore, unless they were rich and could pay for the protection of armed guards to have their houses defended. But Rajiv’s parents had never been rich and they couldn’t afford protection. Actually, no one in his native village could…

And then, there was his special situation. As the owner of a were-ferret, he needed to escape his country more than anyone else. All the bloody were-tigers were natural enemies of the smaller were-ferrets and they had been hunting them for food for centuries in other parts of the country. So, he knew they had to leave when the were-tigers overtook his village, for the good of them both.

As he kept walking, following the long line of immigrants that were getting off the ship, he had some fears about his new environment. Studying the faces of the people the boy saw around him, he could see that most of them came from Indonesia, arriving here in search of new opportunities. Only a few people were from India.

When they got to the customs offices they were ordered to follow different paths. He entered a special room because he was under-age and unaccompanied. The boy had all the documents he needed to demonstrate that he had the right to live here, as his elderly uncle had invited him to Australia to live with him.

But he became worried when the blond-haired officer looked down at him and asked, “What’s that plush-toy you have in your hands?”

“It’s my were-ferret plush, Sir,” Rajiv replied. “It’s like a sort of…teddy-bear, if I correctly use… the word in your language, Sir.”

“Aren’t you too old to have such a toy? How old are you?” asked the second officer in the room, a bald tall man.

“I’m almost eleven, Sir.”

“You know we have to search your plush, looking on the inside…to be certain you are not smuggling in drugs…”

‘Oh no!’ the boy thought. ‘They are going to hurt my plush! They obviously don’t know about were-ferrets, and can’t imagine what they might do if they feel in danger…’

“So what are you waiting for? Give me the toy.”

As the child stayed motionless, the officer grabbed the object out of the boy’s hands. Then he began opening part of it, looking at the inside.

As the search progressed, a darkened expression covered Rajiv’s face. He was worried, very worried…

Then a scream was heard, followed by a strange cry that sounded unearthly. This was precisely what the boy had feared.

It only took a moment. The first officer was quickly assaulted by something he only caught a glimpse of: some pointy teeth fiercely tearing his skin apart. And then, when he fell to the ground, lifeless, it was the other officer’s turn to go through the same suffering. They were both killed before they could even reach for a weapon. And then there was just silence.

When everything was over, the boy looked at the creature that stood on the floor, which was now much larger than the tiny plush he had held in his hands before. The fur that covered his body, now about five-feet tall, was brown and dark. Rajiv had been afraid that something like this might happen.

Most people didn’t know that such were-ferrets were real and had three different modes: the plush shape that they turned to in order to look unnoticed; the living ferret shape that resembled the common animal; and a were-ferret phase, used to attack when defending themselves…

His were-ferret had a much longer life-span than humans, and had been with his parents since they were young. It had become his property once the were-tigers killed his family. His unearthly pet had tried to protect them but the attackers were too many that day…

Were-ferrets didn’t like it when humans touched them, as those men had discovered.

Rajiv thought that it was good that no one else was inside the room. Then, he watched the creature transform back into its plush mode. It was quiet now, as if nothing had happened. Its eyes were clear and its face displayed a sort of sneer, or maybe it was just his boyish fancy that made him think this way…

When two other guards entered the room, one yelled, “What happened?” So Rajiv began to cry saying, “It was a man, he assaulted and killed your colleagues…blood everywhere…he escaped through that door…”

The two raced out of the room along the path the boy had indicated.

It was at that moment, as the men raced outside, that Rajiv stood up, took his small bags and the plush-toy and moved away. They had gotten to the south of the world, exactly where they needed to be. And now a new pleasant, safe life was starting for both of them…
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Post November 18, 2018, 01:51:49 AM



By: Robin B. Lipinski

She was one sexy piece of female perfection. Tight black leather pants with studded bits of silver tokens she had added over the years as she had been on the road traveling. Her body was buff and strong. Her matching leather shirt revealing some mighty fine twin temptations… Along with the leather and looks were her voice; husky; tuned; full of vibrations to match the Harley she was astride, exhaust rumbling at a stop sign next to another biker.

“Nice ride bitch, wanna ride something you can’t handle?” Most bikers are nice to each other in a rather weird motorcycle-tribal ritual, the man passing insult to the lady was one of those Neanderthal types with no manners what-so-ever.

She just smiled and with a wink, reached below her right side and pulled out a sawed off shotgun and blew the offensive man’s head clear off in a red cloud of brain matter and mist. But, before the body and chopper could fall to the ground, she grabbed a little gold star off the mans shoulder and while she was pinning it on her shirt, the headless man and bike fell in a clatter.

Zooming off, the woman felt good. The roar of her motorcycle actually caused her to purr like a cat. Weaving in and out of traffic she pushed the machine to a speed where it garnered the attention of the State police.

With the siren wailing, she just laughed and increased her speed. Soon the police car was far behind and seeing that see was winning the race she let up off the throttle, pulled over to the side, and waited for the Trooper to catch up.

Behind her the spinning red and blue lights let the world know that someone was about to get a ticket, or maybe even arrested. The car pulling to the side of the road behind the speeder.

Walking up from behind, a State Trooper approached the motorcycle with caution. The officer was young and she was female. Actually, the officer was a very beautiful female with a badge that made the uniform proud.

“Ma’am, do you know how fast you were going?” The female Trooper asked.

“Yes. I was going at least 120mph, maybe 130.”

The Trooper said, “125. May I see your drivers license, registration, and insurance?” To which the black leathered troublemaker quickly produced.

“Please stay here while I check this out.” The Trooper returned to her car to run the information through the computer. As she was checking the license, she thought of the woman she had pulled over. Inside, she grew excited. Something about the voice, leather, bike, and all those tokens studding through the leather. Soon though, all the information checked out and the Trooper filled out the ticket.

Walking back to the motorcycle, the Trooper handed the speeder a ticket and a warning, “Please, keep the speed down. You endanger yourself and others with such speeds.”

“Will do Ma’am, you have a great day.” With that said, she kicked the Harley into gear and purred off down the highway, thinking about that Trooper and her body.

As the Trooper was filling the rest of her day of duty with routine traffic stops and patrol, she could not help but think about that beautiful biker she pulled over earlier in the day. Inside, her hormones were active and she fantasized about what it would be like to see her again, only this time, in more relaxed conditions.

Funny how fantasy and wants work, as the leather lady was also thinking about the Trooper. So, later that night, she went to visit the Trooper.

With a knock on the door, the biker stood waiting for the Trooper to open the door. When the door opened the Trooper saw a very handsome man standing at her door. His muscles bulging and his masculine smell overpowering the females senses of the Trooper.

As the door remained open, the Trooper asked the man, “Who are you?”

“Oh, I think you know…” and the man pushed his way inside where nature was soon about to run it’s course. But first, the man grabbed a little metal pin shaped like a unicorn off the Troopers table, quickly pinning it on his black leather shirt, while the Trooper giggled in the background.
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Post November 18, 2018, 06:40:12 PM

Re: November Flash Challenge: The stories

My vote is in. Some interesting stuff here.
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Post November 20, 2018, 09:20:21 AM

Re: November Flash Challenge: The stories

My vote is finally in...some very good entries also this,eh :D

Now I'm ready to be leaving for another good vacation...see you on this great Forum again after I'm back from wonderful,eh :D :D

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Post November 21, 2018, 03:05:07 PM

Re: November Flash Challenge: The stories

Well, got my vote in. Couldn't write on this time---too much going on with family. Many stories were interesting and one I especially like above all!
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