Flash! Friday: "At War"

by Michael Seese

As I had said, I was pretty proud of last week's Flash! Friday entry, "Happy." It didn't win, place, or show. No matter. I still liked it.

I'm similarly psyched for this week's entry, "At War." Here is the photo.

It's the marathon from the first modern Olympics, in 1896. We also had to include the theme "War." (We always have to include some stated them. I don't always mention it because it often folds seamlessly into the story. But "war" and the Olympics are a bit incongruous.)

Without further ado, below is "At War."

Serhan was at war with his lungs. His entire body, in fact. His legs were ready to abandon him. His heart threatened to spill over its cramped borders. His mind had long since seceded.

“The Olympics is war without guns,” their coach had screamed. Daily.

He had to win.

Serhan forged a hasty alliance with the rebels, and pressed on. Through painful eyes he spied Geōrgios, the reigning champion, slightly ahead.

The weary combatants trudged into a small grove, the finish line less than a mile away. Serhan and Meriҫ exchanged glances. Here, they had agreed in advance, one would trip Geōrgios. Then, “May the best man win.”

The unexpected happened.

Geōrgios’s knee buckled oddly. He crumpled to the dirt. Serhan and Meriҫ looked at each other as if to say, “What now?”

Serhan knew.

He slipped the shiv out of his pocket and buried it in his brother’s side.

“War without guns,” Serhan gasped as he sprinted to victory.

Feel free to comment on "At War."

Flash Friday: "Happy"

By Michael Seese

Win or lose, I'm really proud of my entry in this week's Flash! Friday.

Here is the photo we worked with.

And here is "Happy."

Burial mounds are never merry places. Except for today.

The denizens of the small town in western Ayrshire County arose in collective joy, as if under the spell of magic. Even the newborns saw fit to exchange their colicky cries for contented squeals.

The bells of the church, normally reproachful and condescending, rang gaily this morn. The parishioners filed faithfully into the nave and settled into their favored spaces. The priest rose, gazed upon his flock with loving eyes, and delivered his sermon with a single word.

“Happy.”

Then the preparations began. Homes were tidied, picnic lunches were prepared, hearth fires were extinguished, and affairs were put in order.

Hand in hand, with voices in collective harmony, they marched to the glen. There, the witch directed them to the shallow sepulchres she had impelled them to dig a fortnight ago. Still singing, they stepped in and began burying themselves alive.

And thus was “born” the appropriately named town of Beòcairn.

Wish me luck. And let me know what you think.