All the Flashy-Flashes Go Here. (Week 7)

Welcome to week 7 of the retro-inspired/sexy flashfiction extravaganza. Our judge this week is

Here’s a little about our her:

Gingerandgreen lives to listen to, watch, read, discover, tell, share and write stories. She also teaches, mothers and hides from attention.


The rules for the flashfic are the same as always: 100-200 words, must use both the photo and the word prompt, post in comments with word count and twitter handle/website.

You’ll have until Saturday at 11:59 PM (MST) to get your pretty words in. Share with friends, bring fellow writers to exercise their brains.

Good luck!


Sat·ur·day   (săt′ər-dē, -dā′) n. 1. Abbr. Sat. or S The seventh day of the week. 2. The Jewish Sabbath.

(săt′ər-dē, -dā′)
1. Abbr. Sat. or S The seventh day of the week.
2. The Jewish Sabbath.









12 thoughts on “All the Flashy-Flashes Go Here. (Week 7)

  1. 185 words, both photo and prompt used this time… gee I can read 🙂

    He sat at the counter, cigarette hanging out of his lips.

    “Ew…you smoke?” The pinup girl sitting at the table said

    “No!” He chucked a little nervously “it’s candy, just part of the getup, just for realism you know. I wouldn’t really put the crap in my body they did in the fifties.”

    “Oh good” she breathed

    He was a little surprised by her reaction, and guessed he had missed whatever mystical signs she had passed to him regarding the crush that was obvious now. It pleased him.

    “Hey babe” he said in his best fifties dialect “let’s blow this popsicle stand”

    In answer she stood and walked to the door, swaying her hips and giving him a cool “come hither” look. Once in the car, she said

    “Be easy, it’s my first time” and smiled sweetly…he gunned the engine and left 50 feet of rubber as she pointed the direction to privacy.



    Later on, as she was cleaning up the blood she thought to herself how simple it was. The seventh day…what a great day to hunt.


  2. Saturday nights were sacred to me. I couldn’t enjoy my weekend without my strawberry milkshake at the diner. But this Saturday, I was looking forward to a little more than my milkshake.

    I took twenty minutes to fix my hair just right and must have smoothed my poodle skirt at least three times before I walked into the diner. My cheeks flushed instantly as I spotted him leaning off his stool at the counter, a cigarette behind his ear and his leather jacket adding to his bad boy image.

    Our eyes locked and he licked his lips. The reddening of my cheeks intensified and I shot my gaze down to the floor as I found my normal booth in the back.

    My hands shook with excitement as I heard him walk toward my booth. We both knew he was going to ask the same question he asked every week. But he didn’t know my answer had changed.

    He slid across from me and gave me his devilish smile. He was the epitome of bad boy.

    My dad hated him.

    But I loved him.

    “Hey, wanna take a ride with me to the lake?”

    I gave him a small smile. “Yes.”

    Word Count: 200


  3. He thinks he’s so clever.

    He thinks he looks so sexy with the cigarette hanging from his mouth and his elbows resting on the bar.

    His jacket has the buttons undone.

    He thinks I don’t notice the way he’s looking my way.

    I wrap my lips around the bottle of beer and take a sip.

    He shifts in his seat, pretending to pay attention to the guy talking to him.

    When he looks my way again, I lick my middle finger.

    He pulls his cigarette out of his mouth and stands up.


    In a move that looks more erotic than it should be, he pushes his hair back with two of his fingers.

    I imagine those inside me.

    “What are you doing?” he asks when he gets to me.

    I stand up and smirk. “Playing a bit.”

    He takes hold of my wrist. My skin burns. “You’re driving me fucking crazy,” he says.

    I step closer. “I know,” I say and let my tongue touch his ear.

    “There’s a party on Saturday,” he says. “Be there.”

    He gives me a lustful look before walking away.

    I adjust my hard on through my pants and think of Saturday all night.

    200 words according to word.


  4. Everyone wants to be James Dean. He could make sitting on a stool, smoking a cigarette seem effortlessly cool.

    Of course, James Dean is dead. He is appalled at what people consider cool now. I know, I talk to him on a regular basis.

    He steps over to see what I’m writing.

    “People will think you’re nuts.” His voice is musical. At times it is like a trapped little boy and at other times it is masculinity personified. Right now it’s just questioning.

    “What do you think I should be doing on a Saturday night?” I ask, my fingers still flying over the keyboard.

    He puts one of his ever present smokes in his mouth and grins. “Going and out and showing the world how cool you are.”

    I laugh. An Overweight writer in his late thirties? How cool is that. James laughs and turns me around in the chair.

    “I’m cool because of what is up here.” He pushes my head back. “not because of what is down here.” He pushes my chest.

    With that, James disappears. I get ready to head out. Maybe I’ll meet someone. Maybe James is real and maybe not. Maybe someone will believe this…

    Twitter Handle @warrencbennett Word Count: 200


  5. Her face was a question unvoiced, an eyebrow cocked as she passed the black-and-white image to her mother.

    “Oh. He was a friend.”


    Silence pressed for an answer that reason wouldn’t offer. The photo fluttered between clenched fingers as an answer formed.

    “He died in an accident later the same later the same night—morning, really.”

    “You remember this night? Ah—I probably wouldn’t forget a friend with such crazy hair.”

    “He was a friend, and he died that night. That was the last picture of him, taken by my boyfriend on a Saturday evening at a favorite hangout.”

    She took the photo back from her mother, on whose face some unnamed emotion lingered.

    Only a knot between her greying brows hinted at more than neutral disinterest. The older woman adjusted her reading glasses, her face resuming placidity as she fingered through the shoebox of photos.

    A cellphone chimed, causing her daughter to leap up to take the call in another room. Faint laughter suggested the younger woman was adequately preoccupied, allowing a hand graced with age spots to pull that one photo out of the box.

    Those cheekbones, those lips—so like her daughter’s. How could she ever forget him?
    199 words


  6. @dasbaiyo
    Word Count: 190

    “Hey Stranger, you in the mood for a good time?” a voice purred, in what she thought was a seductive tone.”

    “Not right now.”

    “Well if you change your mind.”

    As he let the bitter taste of the whisky slither down his throat he slowly allowed his worries from the week wash away. It was then he finally took a long grad from his cigar.

    Not long after, another voice beseeched him.

    “Sir how about some company tonight?” she implored. She was older, but still beautiful. The dress was classy but alluring, leaving just enough for the imagination to run wild.

    “I think I could make an exception.” he smiled, his lip forming a lopsideided grin.

    “So aren’t there any young, good-looking men fitting your fancy on a Saturday night?”

    “You looked lonely and I wasted to help.” she replied simply.

    “You have a ring,” she frowned. “I wouldn’t want to…”

    “Don’t worry about it. Just two strangers enjoying each other’s company….”

    As they parted company, he called over his shoulder, “Same time next week?”

    She could only reply with a curt nod. “Lose the cancer stick!”


  7. It was a Saturday when it happened, she remembered it clearly. It was the day her world changed, the day she met him.
    Her friends had talked her into going out, not that she really wanted to at the time. She was looking for something to distract her from their talk about mundane things like clothes and hairstyles when she saw him, leaning back against the bar. He had an unapproachable air about him, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He was talking with a friend, though clearly not invested in the conversation.
    She watched as his eyes shifted to look around the room before landing on her. Their eyes locked and it was in that moment that she knew her life would never be the same again. It was the starting point in her journey, those amazingly blue eyes had unlocked something within her.
    He was the one.
    He was the first man she would ever kill.

    Word Count: 163


  8. This wasn’t a usual Saturday night for me. The place was seedy, but it would be a cold wait outside. Sweat and desperation exuded from the youthful bodies in fairly equal proportions.

    My eyes glanced towards the door again. No sign of my husband. I fumbled in my pockets for the coins for another drink, something to occupy my hands to alleviate the discomfort that wrapped itself around me. I was a clear decade older than the rest of the customers.

    I felt the eyes on the nape of my neck, turned and saw a boy slouched against a wall. He didn’t waver as my questioning gaze returned his forceful one. His lip curled into a playful grin. For a second I allowed my mind to wander. What might he do if I went over to him?

    His penetrating stare seemed to hold me aloft for a second. I let the ache of desire pulse through me. 

    A hand wrapped itself around my wrist, forcing me out of my stupor. A face smiled at me humourlessly. My husband pulled me out of my reverie and into his automobile. I shut my eyes and let the life I chose close in around me. 


Leave a Comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s