A Flash of Words 2: The Games

By Brian Paone

From Scout Media comes A Flash of Words 2: The Games, the seventh volume in an ongoing short story anthology series featuring authors from all over the world, and the second in which the stories are exclusively flash-fiction pieces.

 

In this installation, no limits were set on genre; however, the authors had to incorporate a game into the plotline, from chess, to hide and seek, to Monopoly, to poker, and even Super Mario Bros. Within these moments of competition and not always good sportsmanship, these flash-fiction length stories will warm your heart, send shivers down your spine, and tickle your funny bone.

 

Whether to be enlightened, entertained, or momentarily immersed in another world, these selections convey the true spirit of flash fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scout Media
• Release date: Oct 15, 2020
• ISBN: 1733074090

Book preview

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Published by Scout Media

Copyright 2020

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Cover designed by Amy Hunter

Visit: www.ScoutMediaBooksMusic.com

For more information on each author and all volumes

in the Of Words series.

Table of Contents

Something Beginning with… — Carolyn Young

A Complete Set — J.R. Winn

Tug — Travis West

The Last Chair — M.R. Ward

The Princess in the Distant Castle — Dave Walsh

A Game of Shadow & Light — Johann van der Walt

Ingrid Marie is Five — Kista Tucker

Behold, The Answer! — Dawn Taylor

Samuel’s King — Dan Szczesny

Kings and Queens — Callie Rae Sutton

The Operation — Mika Spruill

Scavengers — L.J. Skelton

The Last Die — Jared Sizemore

The Anniversary — Adam D Sipperly

Gold Gene Assassin — Varun Sayal

Don’t Peek — S.B. Rhodes

The Last Few Yards — Kimberly Ann Patterson

Pinky Swear — Sharon Pape

Know When to Fold ‘Em — Brian Paone

Success — Bonnie Olsen

House Rules — Camille Myrick

Impending Amusement — Stephen Melisi

Ready or Not — Andrew Luchies

Ten Points — Cody Larson

Scatter — Sarah Kaminski

Sunset in a Cup — Carl D Jenkins

The King is Dead — Michael J Ingram

Buy Chance — Josephine Huet

Spite Check Snow — Bethany Hoeflich

Keep Ya' Elbow Up — Marlon S. Hayes

Operation — Jaq D Hawkins

Don’t Forget to Say Goodbye — L.A. Harper

The Last Game — Rachel Ford

Local Haunt — Tuesday Fielding

Solitaire — Marianne Dos Reis

Cold Coffee — Sara Dietrich

Play Ball — Lynne Conrad

Not Just a Game of Chess — Sunanda J Chatterjee

Let Me Win — Lael Braday

No Refunds — Michelle Jillian Bailey

Something Beginning with…

Carolyn Young

Angela heard the school bell ring as she drove through the car park looking for a space. Dammit, she was late again. Her heart raced, and she fought back tears as she drove farther down the street looking for somewhere to stop. Today had been a complete disaster from the time she’d dragged herself from bed to the sounds of her daughter screaming for her morning feed, leaving her husband, Ben, in bed to sleep off his hangover.

If only she could adjust to the lack of sleep. Between the summer heat, her baby girl still waking for night feeds and her return to work disrupting her sleep patterns, she functioned at the productivity level of a zombie. No wonder she’d been so irritable with everyone this morning. She’d been left to organize the kids, get herself ready for work and drop them both off at school and daycare while her husband did a tractor impersonation from the bedroom. She’d been late to work, arriving wearing two different coloured shoes and wielding a hairbrush to try to tame her greasy hair into something considered appropriate for a professional workplace. She was a complete mess, fighting to stem the flow of tears that always seemed so close to the surface lately.

Pulling into a loading zone, she gathered her purse and ran to her son’s classroom to find him crying in the arms of his teacher. Miss Baker regarded her with sympathy, turning Matthew gently towards her. He threw himself into Angela’s arms, wiping his snotty nose on the shoulder of her new top as she resisted the urge to join him in his sobs.

Matthew was still out of sorts when they reached the car, arguing that he wanted to sit in the front seat with her. It was so hot, and it was only a short drive. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck as she felt the judgmental stares from the other mothers. She couldn’t handle a tantrum right now, so she opened the front passenger door for him and walked to the driver’s side, glancing guiltily at the windshield wiper to see if she’d received a ticket for her parking infraction. Relieved to see her windshield bare of the familiar card taped to the corner she slid into her seat. She just had to pick up the baby from daycare, then she could go home and rest. Hopefully her husband would be feeling well enough to take over for an hour or two so she could take a nap.

Let’s play I-spy, Matthew said, grinning at her as she fastened his seatbelt. I’ll go first. I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with S.

Okay, let’s see. How about …school? She pulled out from the curb and turned the air conditioner up high.

Nope, he said with a giggle.

Sky?

Nope. More giggles.

Street? Sign? Socks?

Nope, nope and nope.

Sun?

Nope.

"Hmm. This is a hard one. Can you give me a clue? We’ll be at daycare soon, so we need to make this a quick game."

Matthew’s giggles intensified, and she just wanted to snap at him to tell him to shut up. It was a stupid game and she was too tired to care what he spied. She took a deep calming breath. It wasn’t her son’s fault she was so tired.

No clues, huh? How about snot? Do I have snot on my face? She pretended to wipe her nose while her son laughed and shook his head.

They pulled to the front of the daycare centre, and Angela submitted.

You win. So, what did you spy?

Matthew turned his head to the back seat where the baby capsule was tightly buckled. Sarah. Sarah starts with S.

Angela’s heart skipped a beat before her vision faded into dots as she almost fell from the car. She was supposed to drop off Sarah at daycare this morning. Usually that was Ben’s job. She had dropped her off, hadn’t she? —She couldn’t remember. The morning had been such a mess.

Wrenching open the rear door Angela stared into her daughter’s blue-coloured face, her eyes wide and unseeing, buckled tightly into her baby capsule.

See, Mummy. I spied Sarah, Matthew said proudly, taking her hand in his.

A Complete Set

J.R. Winn

I sank onto a neglected patch of brown grass, clutching a small box to my heart. A few paces over, my mother drifted from table to table like a bumblebee, dispensing little white stickers. She’d been laboring on collecting and tagging the home’s contents for nearly three days. Finally, everything sat ready and neatly compiled on the front drive.

My eyes drifted up to the early morning sky and a corner of my mouth stretched in appreciation of the overcast heavens sharing my mood.

Mae? My mother’s shadow fell over me and I focused on the tip of her finger, a patch of white stuck to the end of it.

I have money. I relinquished the box to my lap in order to pull a small change purse from my pocket. Before my mother could object, I dug out four dollars and held them at arm’s length.

She thinned her lips and again wagged the sticker at me. My eyes and arm drifted down like a discarded feather.

Placing a thin hand on my shoulder, she sweetly kissed the top of my head. I’m sorry, Mae, but we need the money. She sighed and stuck the white tag to the side of the box.

As she moved back to her task, I eyed the handwritten number staring back at me and gasped. Who would pay three-thousand dollars for this?

I straightened and surveyed the scene. When no one came to buy the box at her price, she would have to take my offer.

With reserved optimism, I shoved the four dollars into my pocket and flipped out the tiny legs built into the bottom of the box. Turning it over, I carefully placed it on the ground and opened the top at a split in the middle. The two sides unfolded like a book to reveal a set of chess pieces secured neatly on each side in sky-blue velvet. The outside of the box may have been as plain as a fresh cut piece of wood, but its contents were ornately carved with care.

Gingerly, I lifted a horse’s head made from black mahogany—my grandfather’s preferred choice in color—and my heart yearned for one more game with him. The smell of him wafted up, and I inhaled the fragrance of black licorice.

I set the horse on its square and methodically lifted each piece, inspecting and cleaning them in turn before lining them up across from me. I then readied the other half, a court carved from a white oak so pale it justified its name.

With my army in place, I stared down my grandfather’s minions and slid a pawn out two paces. Settling my chin into my hands, I studied the board to an indifferent strategy of one.

Not three breaths later, a round pillow thumped to the ground across from me. I coughed as a plume of dust hit my face. When the air cleared, a leathery man sat cross-legged before me. His haggard body made my four-day-dead grandfather look spry.

The man cursed, and with a surprisingly steady hand, he picked up a black pawn and blocked my own. I tilted my head and looked the old man over.

Well? the man asked in a gravelly voice. Are you going to make a move or just sit there like a piss-ant on a log?

I lifted my eyebrows and didn’t know whether to laugh or run. At the narrowing of the man’s eyes, I decided it would be best to take my turn. I pushed out another pawn, and he grumbled, countering me again with his own.

This process repeated itself for the length of the game. Of course, he won without much of a struggle, and before I could object, he had the pieces back in line.

We played well into the afternoon, each game consisting of more curses than any girl should hear in her lifetime and the occasional odd lesson.

Finally, I snuck in a win, using a tactic he’d previously played against me. He boiled over and I feared he would toss the board across the yard, but after a minute, he folded his arms, and humphed.

Well, it serves me right for showing you the move in the first place.

I raised a hand to reset the lines, but he stopped me with an outstretched palm.

The time has come, he said.

I opened my mouth to object, but found I had nothing