So this is my first attempt at one of the Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenges. As usual, I’m super late to the party, so this was put together on a lunch break and it’s rougher than Glaswegian sandpaper. A lot of editing will follow.
Until then, this was the challenge:
The challenge is simple:
Pick one of the opening sentences below (or choose one randomly), then write. The story that results should be between 1000-2000 words. Post it at your online space and link back here. Due by next Friday, March 4th, noon EST. Note the sentence you choose forms the first sentence of the story.
One of the sentences was actually mine, but I thought it’d be kind of egotistical to do my own. I went with number two, which stood out for me – thanks to HB McCarthy for that!
2. “The clock strikes 12:17 and all I can think is I should have called tails.” (HB McCarthy)
Again, apologies for the relentless roughness of this…
It’s that age old problem: you bring a back of almonds to work and, 24 hours later, they go missing.
That’s right. A bag of almonds. Missing. Nothing fancy or anything; they weren’t roasted, salted, covered in chocolate or made for any kind of pleasure. Just plain, unshelled almonds. The kind that resemble tiny, wooden tears like those that well up in your eyes as you eat then, because they’re so unbearably dry and tediously tasteless.
Who’d steal a bag of almonds, you’re most likely wondering? Not only a bag of almonds, in fact, but a half eat bag of almonds. That’s 100g of raw, boring as almighty christfuggle nuts.
Someone must have been desperate. Or maybe there’s more to it.
Before I tried it, baking you own bread (and bread related items) seemed like something people tend to do when they’re retired and slightly quirky. The people who regale their children and grandchildren with epic tales about their latest loaf, mulling over the finer details of yeast and pretending you know what every dial on the bread maker you got for Christmas does. But then I did it myself.
Turns out it’s awesome.
The problem with being British is we’re so sodding sorry all the time. A nation needlessly apologising for the most basic daily situations. And we don’t even mean it.
Everyone’s a fan of fish fingers. I say everyone, because if you’re not a fan of fish fingers, you’re not human and, when i refer to everyone, I of course mean people not fish finger hating mutants. As something so universally accepted by every individual on the planet, it’s surprising that there’s such a limited number of meals dedicated to them.