Flashfic thread: Rotating themes

How many posts to change the topic?


  • Total voters
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fcdc

Really Really Experienced
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Stealing an idea from another thread, but as I did not see a flashfic thread hanging out here (and a search for both 'flashfic' and 'flash fic' brought up nothing), here's a thread for it. To keep it somewhat thematic and connected, every tenth post of flashfic gets to pick the theme for the next ten (and you can't pick if you picked the last five times). Critiques are also welcomed.

All flashfic should be 100 words or less, and an online word count is here.

First theme: Art.

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1 of 10
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Her fingers have veins that draw to her heart. Her heart is about to burst in a riot of colors. His ink-blue eyes stare at her hand. His thumb slides over the love line of her palm.

"Do you want to?" His voice is light; he's teasing her.

She smiles like Mona Lisa. He said he'd paint her, but he hasn't found the right expression. Maybe he will tonight. "If you make it a masterpiece."

He drops her hand. His touch drifts lower. The tracings of his fingertips become brushwork, drawing art from between her legs.

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Mods: If there's another flashfic thread that I've missed and can revive instead, let me know!

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Subjects already done: Art, Music, Sports, Water, Wine, Sweets/Food, Pets (current)
 
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2 of 10


Light from the bathroom offered complex shadows on curves. For some reason the light that should have played across her face, didn’t. Leaving her eyes in darkness but accentuating a slow sultry smile that grew with his reaction. There was very little for him to say. Actually the fact that he was wordless seemed to delight her. But it was when he took tongue to thigh that she was really pleased. And when she grabbed him by the hair and ground his face into her sex, he knew that she was ecstatic, because she told him. Just not in words.
 
What follows is not, I say again, NOT, original. I swiped it from the introduction to "English As A Second Fucking Language" by Sterling Johnson. The goal was to show the versatility of the word, FUCK. That it was accomplished in less than fifty words is just lagniappe.


Night At The Opera

Mary, would you like to attend the opera this evening?

Fucking-A! Should I wear my black dress?

Why the fuck not?

Fucked if I know--Oh, fuck! I just remembered. It got fucked up in the wash.

Well, fuck the opera. Let's stay home and fuck.

Good fucking idea.



Rumple Foreskin :cool:
 
I would really like to post on this thread, but shall wait until the champagne wears off....
 
Strange the way the darkness made the light etch memories on her skin. Like a scene setter, he adjusted the lamps to enhance the delicate antiquity of her flesh. She brought to mind images of women long ago loved and lost to time.
Ebony hair pulled back in a classic chignon, beguiled his senses into forgetfulness. As he drew near to her, he forgot that sixty years had passed and he wasn’t a vibrant young man. He only knew he had to trace the curve of her jaw-line with a finger and touch the masterpiece he wished to possess.
 
watch this space--I'll try again--:)
 
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I can make the cutoff five stories instead of ten, if that'd work better, so that the fifth person gets to switch the theme from here on out? Tossing a poll up to that effect.
 
one more for art;

She was always drawing; complicated swirly designs, mapping out (I fancied) the contours of her mind. I'd find papers covered with blue inked mazes and know she'd been there. She incised them in sand, in spilled liquor on the bar table. Her fingers traced them into my skin. I can still see them, I swear. When the light is just right.

(I make it 4 of 10 on art- is that right?
 
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5? (same theme)

Which reminded me as I stared, shirtless, into the bathroom mirror when she surprised me once again. Standing in the doorway as fleet footed emotions made their swift passage across her face. she was too young to have seen before the blue etching which we wore across our shoulders and that marked their own art into our living and livid skin, from the coal dust inground to any and all of even the slightest of scratches.

Here was random accident that her art could not capture.
 
6 of 10 for art

It was cliche. He saw her in the gallery and drifted behind her until she was alone. She was timeless. He beguiled her with humorous stories and witty comments about the art before them. The museum disappeared. The kids are gone now. They still collect art, and their passion grows.
 
7 of 10 for art

There’s something about watching a new pupil discover it all; the motion, the quiver, the silky wetness that covers her hands.
"Ah, yeah, be gentle, but remember you're the boss here..." The mounding, rising, under her touch. I was treated to her infectious smile at her success.
"Push in- both thumbs, don’t be afraid." She mastered her hesitancy, forced her entrance. "Pull it open, open darling, that's it...” the rhythmic hum faltered, and she lost concentration; her first vase fell back on the potter’s wheel.
Leslie cursed, laughed, and reached for a new lump of clay.
 
We'll stick with 10 since it seems to be the majority; it goes by quicker than I suspected at first that it would.

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8 out of 10 (Sorry for repeating pottery, but I had a good one for it!)
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Jim's fingers were full with the roundness of the clay, and the clean, cool scent of the earth. He thought of the curve of her breast, of her scent, of the reddish color of her hair against the pillow. His foot pressed faster on the treadle wheel.

He had given her a faïence pot with an Eastern flower in the center, and had hoped that she would get the hint. She had said nothing, but he'd heard her car outside the studio, and as he put the spun pot into the kiln, he caught the top note of lotus perfume.
 
9 of 10 for art

He found himself in a deserted wing of the gallery. He had never seen such surreal artwork in his life. One painting of a woman especially intrigued him. The blue eyes in the angular face stared into his very soul.

He found himself transfixed by the deep blue pupils, compelling him to step closer to the canvas until he was pressed against it, the roughness of the paint on his skin.

He felt a wrench, then he was falling, mind whirling, mouth frozen in a scream.

Heels clicking, she strolled from the gallery, blue eyes sparkling in the sunlight.
 
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10 of 10 for art

Mixing the paint; getting just the right tint. Waiting until the right light hit her golden hair and made it shimmer as she stood with her back to me, her head turned to the side. The earring was perfect. I want her desperately, but will have to settle for the canvas.

Next theme: sports
 
1/10 Sports

Our romance was like an endless polo match- hot and sweaty and frantic, full of uncharitable hits and clashing bodies, half-heard curses and points where all we did was spin away from each other and chase after some elusive goal.

It wasn't a good way to love. When the dust had finally settled, we were left staring across the field of play, winded and sore, and neither of us had won. If our hearts had been the horses we rode against each other, we had broken their wind, and all that was left was a merciful bulet to end the suffering.
 
2 of 10 for sports

The burning heat, moist wind from the sea, the soft sand, the crowd. Taught bodies and graceful moves. They'd come back from four down to win the tournament, again. To the crowd their hug was a celebration of the win. To each other it was something else entirely.
 
3 of 10 for sports

Wild red hair. She was an impetuous, impulsive free spirit, a high strung thoroughbred. Buttoned down and bottled up, he was big on planning ahead. They stared at each other across the table, her hands rested on the red and white checkered table cloth. A candle flickered in a bottle with wicker around the base. She was exhausted from the constant jousting. The chips were down, the hand had been dealt. She closed her eyes and folded.


(back to work now...)
 
fcdc said:
We'll stick with 10 since it seems to be the majority; it goes by quicker than I suspected at first that it would.

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8 out of 10 (Sorry for repeating pottery, but I had a good one for it!)
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Jim's fingers were full with the roundness of the clay, and the clean, cool scent of the earth. He thought of the curve of her breast, of her scent, of the reddish color of her hair against the pillow. His foot pressed faster on the treadle wheel.

He had given her a faïence pot with an Eastern flower in the center, and had hoped that she would get the hint. She had said nothing, but he'd heard her car outside the studio, and as he put the spun pot into the kiln, he caught the top note of lotus perfume.
:heart: Working with clay is about as sensual as it gets...

I don't know nothing about sports! LOL
 
Stella_Omega said:
:heart: Working with clay is about as sensual as it gets...

I don't know nothing about sports! LOL

Sure you do..have them race a pirate ship! Or compete to see who can climb the mast fastest, or run the oars of a viking ship.:D
 
4 out of 10 - Sports

His opponent met his parry with a lightning quick riposte, flicking the épée out of his gloved hand so easily it was almost insulting. He was almost glad to see it go; he was getting winded and his breath was becoming harsh on his dry throat.

A soft laugh came from behind the mask facing him across the mat, and then the gloved hands lifted it off, spilling a mass of black hair down his opponent's back. A bead of sweat rolled slowly down from her temple, and then she smiled brilliantly.

He smiled back. "Touché, darling."
 
Sports: 5 of 10
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"You mean you've never skated before?" Dark brows lifted in incredulity. "But you're dating a hockey player."

She laced the black-booted skate and stepping carefully onto the ice from the home team's space. She tottered a little. He grabbed her arm. It hurt a bit, but she would have fallen otherwise.

"Never skated. You're teaching me, right?"

He grinned. "Trying to."

She stepped forward carefully, marching in skates. His hand went to her hip, steadying her firmly, and she could have sworn the goal light and sirens had gone off. She slid a bit, blades skimming.

His voice was slick. "Like that. See?"
 
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jomar said:
No, come and play... :)

Thank you. I might do that, but I think I might learn more from just watching all of you.

The sensuousness of working with clay...the feel of it, the smell. I had forgotten. I thought I was the only one who felt something sexual in it.
 
tickledkitty said:
Thank you. I might do that, but I think I might learn more from just watching all of you.

The sensuousness of working with clay...the feel of it, the smell. I had forgotten. I thought I was the only one who felt something sexual in it.

Don't you remember that scene in Ghost with Demi Moore and Patrick Swazey? They were throwing a really hot pot, if you will. :)
 
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