Fortnightly Writing Competition: Brooding flash (Ended)

[KyriakosCH]

This is a flash fiction contest, so you are allowed to write up to 500 words.

Like Mandle, I'd also like to keep the voting to "favorite","second favorite", "third favorite" etc.

Regarding the theme: To be on-topic you just need to be brooding, in whatever way. You can still try to twist that in a humorous way, but have to include something actually menacing/depressing in the story

You can post your story by October 15.

[Sinitrena]

Brooding: The feeling when you come up with a nice idea that's based on wordplay, then realizing that it - probably - doesn't work in the language you're supposed to write in. 

That's not my entry. Interesting topic.

Edit:
Question: Is the title to be included in the 500 words, or is it 500 for just the text of the story itself?

[Stupot]

I’ll definitely have a go at this.

[KyriakosCH]

Edit:
Question: Is the title to be included in the 500 words, or is it 500 for just the text of the story itself?

You can have up to 10 words for the title (so up to 510 with the title)
Obviously I won't be refusing a story if it has up to 10 words above the limit anyway. Just don't write a lot over 500 510 with the title should be enough.

[Mandle]

"BROODING BOBBY"...

... they called him down at the fire station where he worked the phones, back in '55 when the phones were still answered at the station.

They called him this even before he flunked out of training. Even before he got married. Even at his wedding.

They called him this as his brooding got darker, like thunderhead clouds gathering low over flat farmlands, turning everything into a black and white movie.

Bobby's life had become a black and white movie to him, ashen and grey.

He came home every day, after a day-full of jibes and jabs at the station, to his wife, Dreslie, who had an endless account in which she saved up her complaints and spent them every night while never running dry:

"I have to do everything around here!"

"The cat litter isn't going to clean itself you know!"

"Would it kill you to mow the lawn once a year?!"

"I asked you to water the garden in the mornings!"

"Now the gardenias have died!"

"Oh! You finally cleaned the cat litter?! The cat died three weeks ago!"

"I wish the cat had lived and you died!"

"Stop throwing your butts in the hydrangeas when you come home! I know you haven't quit!"

"Keep on smoking! You'll die faster! Just not in the house!"

At the station they kept calling him "Brooding Bobby" even after the divorce. Even after Dreslie took him for everything and he ended up living in a corner upstairs, on a sleepover cot.

Then, one day, someone called him "Brooding Bobby" just that one time too often.

Bobby leapt across the room and yanked down the big fire alarm switch. He jumped onto the brass pole and slid flawlessly down to the garage below. He sprung behind the wheel of the firetruck and punched the siren button.

He tore out of the station, his scream of triumph matching that of the truck's wail, and sped across town to the house he once owned, hands spinning on the wheel as he took every turn perfectly.

The approaching siren and the scream of brakes outside brought Dreslie out of her romance novel.

She rushed to the front door, throwing it open to see:

Bobby spooling out the fire hose like a pro. He aimed the nozzle at the bed of hydrangeas and knocked open the valve lever on the truck with his elbow.

Water spewed from the nozzle like a blast from a shotgun. It bit into the soil of the hydrangea bed and blew every plant sideways and skywards. One of them was found, later that day, lodged in the grill of a neighbor's car half a block away down the street.

A magnificent geyser of mud slewed upwards, far above the power lines, splattering down on both rooftop and hanging backyard laundry alike.

Petals fluttered from the sky like purple snow.

Bobby screamed through his laughter "OH, HI, HONEY!!! YOU ALWAYS WANTED ME TO WATER THE GARDEN!!!" as Dreslie was showered with a lot of mud and a couple of cat bones.

[KyriakosCH]

Mandle, I see this is 545 words. Why? :/
You know I set this rule cause I am lazy.
If I allow it, how could I not allow someone else who will write 600 something, and then who knows 

[Mandle]

Mandle, I see this is 545 words.

I guesstimated... But a 555 word limit is much more flashy and cool!

Or I can cut it down.

[KyriakosCH]

Mandle, I see this is 545 words.

I guesstimated... But a 555 word limit is much more flashy and cool!

Or I can cut it down.

If the others agree to keep themselves to 510, and don't mind yours staying, I have no issue. I just don't want the stories to be larger and larger

Edit: alternatively, you can indeed just cut it down to 510 (with the title  )

[Baron]

You had one job, Mandle.  One job! 

[Mandle]

I'll cut it back.

EDIT: Editing ones own writing is always fun! You see where you needed one or two less words to convey the same meaning, which means you are trimming the fat instead of expanding a 100 page book out into a 300 page book like Dean Koontz loves to do. Luckily for him he has pretty good stories to tell (mostly) and gets away with it. It should be under 510 words now.

[KyriakosCH]

Ok, with the title it is 512 words, so (but) I'll allow it...

To the others: please, PLEASE, do not go over 510 512 words including the title 

[KyriakosCH]

It doesn't have to be part of the contest (I said I wouldn't take part - and I set the topic and word-count, so this shouldn't be in the contest) but I thought of posting this flash of mine here

The Immortal Evil

I read that the central head of the Lernaea Hydra was immortal, and unlike the rest couldn’t be annihilated by Herakles who instead kept it subjugated under a large rock. I don’t doubt that Herakles would have chosen a very heavy rock, one which couldn't be moved by just anybody; and discovering the buried head of the monster by chance would have been virtually impossible. Yet now, countless aeons later, with most people having not heard of what happened back then, is it that unlikely modern means for moving weights already equal in strength the demigod and can provide any mortal with the ability to lift even what was once an immovable rock? If so, it is just a matter of time, and inevitable, for the immortal evil to be free again.

[Mandle]

Ok, with the title it is 512 words.

512 is a very PC number! 

[KyriakosCH]

Just a reminder that only a few days are left (you can post by the 15th) 

[Sinitrena]

Brooding

With a guttural sigh, out of the deepest corner of her throat, she sank to the ground. Tiredly, she let her head sink to her chest and with an even deeper sigh she shuffled her coat around her plump body.

She looked around her yard and distorted her features into a duck-faced scowl.

“What ruffled your feathers?”, her neighbour asked through the wooden beams of the fence.

“Phuuhck,” she answered and fawned the dust away and with it the question. “Men. Always strutting around, thinking he’s the cock of the walk, leaving me alone here to brood. It’s always the same.”

“Ah, I see.” He really didn’t. Nothing in this description seemed unusual or noteworthy to him. “Well.”

“And I’m sure he’s got other chicks as well.”

“Of course.” What else was he supposed to say? “That’s too bad?”

She noticed his lack of understanding. “Forget it. I’m sure you’ve got a bitch on the side too, don’t you? Men. It’s always the same with them, always. They are the stallion in the stable and we are the good little clucking hen who stays at home and takes care of the kids...”

Her own were running around in the yard, making a ruckus. She did not feel like doing anything about it but sigh again and adjust the straw under her arse. No matter how much she tried, she just couldn’t get comfortable today. But then again, when she sat down to brood, she never felt comfortable.

Her roommate, who had heard her grousing and gaggling, came over to her and fluffed herself up in front of her.

“Oh, come on!” she already called from afar. “Thinks he’s the cock on the walk? Maybe because he’s the rooster in the yard. Come on, now! It’s not like you didn’t know what you would get yourself into here. But no, as always, you counted your chickens before they hatched.”

“I did not!” she said.

“Of course you did.” the roommate cackled with her own guttural voice. “Might want to get your arse up and count them again. Some of ‘em are mine, you know. As if you didn’t know perfectly well that he has several chicks. You are so strange...” Her head jumped up and down in a pecking motion as she cackled again and then left as quickly has she had come by.

The plump hen ruffled her feathers again and looked out at all the little chicks in the yard, now trying to count them up and find her own among the chaos, just to proof her roommate wrong. After a while, she got up from the straw, leaving the eggs she had been brooding alone for a while. She didn’t bother to count those.

And so she didn’t notice the little bark of her neighbour as he slyly alerted the farmer, or the human tiptoeing to her nest and stealing some of her eggs.

After a while, she sank down on them again to brood some more.

----------------------------------

Going by the automated counting of LibreOffice, this is exactly 500 words, including the title.

[KyriakosCH]

Thanks for following the rule ^_^ 

[Mandle]

Obviously I won't be refusing a story if it has up to 10 words above the limit anyway. Just don't write a lot over 500 510 with the title should be enough.

To be fair, this gives some mixed-messages. Of course, 545 was too many. I just guesstimated that I hadn't written 500 yet but I was wrong. If you want me to cut back two more words I can.

[Baron]

If you want me to cut back two more words I can.

That's awfully accommodating of you, Mandle.  Please remove the two uses of the word "litter" from your piece.   

---edit---

A Brooding Menace

   Life is full of problems that are not easily resolved.  It bears not dwelling on this much, as this very act will make you even more unhappy.  However, not thinking about how difficult one's problems are is a good way to unwittingly make them even worse.  This is what a wise owl might refer to as a “double bind”.  I'm just a chicken though, so I'm calling it a “rotten egg”.

   Now I know what you might be thinking: a chicken that thinks too much is bound to be unhappy, no matter what she thinks about.  And you'd be right.  Except in so doing you yourself would probably be thinking too much, which would also make you more unhappy, and who would be the winner of that?  Think about it....

   So I'm on my nest in the coop, right?  And it's a chilly spring evening, so I'm hugging my clutch like I'm never going to see them again.  All the other hens are chattering to keep themselves warm, nattering on as they do about the moulting process and the pecking order and blah blah blah.  It's not entirely useless information to share, but they rehash the same themes over and over so much that one tends to tune them out.  One could literally wring one's own neck following the arguments around and around: who's popular, who's fighting, who's next for the block....  If one could actually harness the vindictiveness from the tiniest squabbles to a heating machine we'd all be roasted by halfway through the evening.

   So anyway, this fat hen named Penny stands up and declares that the cold is gnawing at her like an itch she can't scratch.  It's like a gap in her soul where the cold droughts can blow unimpeded.  The only thing that will warm her up is a fire in the pit of her belly, and with that her beak stretches like she is about to swallow a watermelon and out comes this hungry looking fox.

   Everyone gasps at this shocking revelation.  But then this scrawnier hen named Patches yawns and out pops a hungry looking snake.  The snake tells the fox that he'd been working the fat Penny hen for a week because she'd make such a great meal.  The fox tells the snake he'd been working the mangy Patches hen for a week because she seemed like an easy mark.  They get into a big fight, with the fox trying to bite the snake and the snake trying to strangle the fox.  Well, eventually they both succeed and fall down dead in the middle of the coop.

   What follows is complete and utter silence.  Suddenly my mind is in this zen-like state of clarity.  That moment lasts for about three seconds before the gossip erupts once more: who suspected when, who might still be in disguise....  But for me the rotten egg is now rolling around in my mind.  Who else needs to die in order to get some room to think?

[Mandle]

Now edited down to 510 words including title.

[KyriakosCH]

Thanks, although 512 would have been ok as well. ^_^
So, given here it will be still 15 of October for another 8 hours, that is when the time for submitting a story will end.

(unless someone asks for a brief extension, not to exceed a day at the most)