Esther Chilton

Flash Fiction Competition

My market for you this week is a final reminder for my flash fiction competition. The closing date is this Sunday, the 15th November. Here’s a quick reminder of the details:

Prizes: 1st £50, 2nd £25, 3rd £10

Entry fee: £2 per story

Word Limit: Stories of up to 250 words are invited on any theme.

For details of how to enter, take a look at the competition page.

Here’s one my flash fiction stories as an example:

Dead

I didn’t think looking down upon oneself when dead would be quite like this. In fact, I didn’t believe in all that. Once you’re dead, you’re dead; aren’t you?

I look at my face, so pale and my eyes, insignificant and lost amongst the dense drama of lashes. The slash across my mouth; Blood Red, the lipstick’s called. God, what a state. How did I let it come to this?

Then I see him. He’s standing on the spot, right by the bed, his hands clasped together, the knuckles bone white. His head tips back and a growl escapes, gaining momentum with each grunt. His fingers escape their prison and grab at his hair. In moments he’s spent and slips to the floor.

Drip, drip, drip. The sound demands my attention. I find the source. I liked that top. Mum was with me when I tried it on.

“Green’s your colour. Go on, I’ll treat you,” she’d said, giving my arm a squeeze.

That stain will never come out. I watch the trail of blood, snaking its way from the cotton, over the sheets, spattering the wooden floor.

“Where did you get that bruise from?” I can still hear the catch in Mum’s voice. “He’ll really hurt you one day.” I ignored the tears. Told her she didn’t know what she was talking about.

A flash of silver on the bed. Smoked Scottish salmon fillets, tender belly pork – the knife has seen it all. And to think I moaned that it was getting a little blunt.

A flicker of movement. A finger. Mine. Now two. My hands wrap round the knife. I can’t see myself anymore but I don’t need to. I’m not done yet. But you are, you bastard. I’m coming for you.

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