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This issue, we're proud to present five flash fictions generated by the Boot Camp Writers during their July "Blast."
These pieces were blindly selected by Eclectica from 25 finalists, which had previously been selected by the Boot Campers themselves from almost 100 flash fictions generated by Boot Camp authors in three "Frantic Flash" sessions. The sessions were practice for the upcoming (November) "Children in Need Marathon," where 30-50 writers will write a flash an hour for 27 Hours and raise $20,000 to $30,000 for needy kids.
(These are excerpts—click on the title to view the whole piece!)
When Irena makes a midnight flit with the sword swallower, Billy almost learns misery. He throws his knives at the empty wheel; he chalk marks her outline, cruelly exaggerating her hips, her thighs.
Michael J. Hulme
Mr Charlie, you is one naughty fella. How you doon, my fine man, how's it hanging? Miss Louise is ready and primed, just needs cocked, knowwhaddamean?
Tom Conoboy
Maria knows—everyone knows—to move aside when the General and his bodyguards approach. The motorcycles have bright lights and make a noise, and it is for the cars to get out of the way, to bump up the kerbs and wait for the general to pass.
Alex Keegan
Once I was Elmer Fudd. I was vewwy, vewwy quiet. I would cweep thwough the woods, chasing wabbits—sowwy, chasing women. Chasing wisdom. The wotten thing is that I pwobably found it once (Diane, 1976) but I was too stupid to know. I lost it (her).
Tom Conoboy
"So?" I say, and Peter says, "What's the difference between a duck?" sounding like he might be starting to sober up.
Alex Keegan
