#FlashMobWrites 1×45

Welcome to #FlashMobWrites Week Forty-Five

Come one, come all! This is an open flash fiction challenge with a musical inspiration, hosted by authors Cara Michaels (formerly of #MenageMonday, #WIPflash, and #RaceTheDate) and Ruth Long (of the wicked fun #LoveBites and #DirtyGoggles challenges).

  • The challenge begins: Fridays @ Noon EDT (Eastern USA)
  • And ends: Saturday @ Midnight PST (Pacific USA)
  • Word count: 300-500 (no less, no more)
  • We love you and wish to heap praises (and random prizes) on you, so be sure to include your name (no, it doesn’t have to be your real name) and a way for us to get in touch (Twitter handles are encouraged)
  • A prompt choice is offered by each judge. Choose one (or both!) and include it in your story as given.
    • The prompt may be split between sentences, but no order change or dropping words.
    • Words may be added before or after, not in the middle.

The Inspiration

Mexican singer Diego Boneta brings the sexy sass with this week’s tune, “The Hurt.”

For your musical enjoyment only. You do not need to reference the video or song themes in any way for your story.

NSFW-ish: Contains some friskiness your boss may disapprove of.

The Prompts

Cara Michaels: “room starts shaking”

Ruth Long: “I’ll be your match”

Now pick your prompt(s) and post your story in the comments below!


61 thoughts on “#FlashMobWrites 1×45

  1. Smoke on the Water

    “Get out.”

    Leigh stared, an argument forming on the lips he wanted to kiss. Fisted hands planted on her hips and her chin jutted. “No way.”

    “It’s not safe, babe.”

    She glanced around then, eyes widening as they adjusted to the gloom. “What the hell?”

    “Yeah. Exactly.” The place was stacked to the rafters with explosive material, all rigged to blow.

    “Oh, crap.”

    “You can say that again.”

    “Oh, crap.”


    “Wasn’t meant to be. What do we do now?”

    We don’t do anything. You’re leaving.”

    “Not happening. We both need to go. I’ll call the bomb squad.”

    He pointed to a timer. “Too late.”


    “When we walked in. Vibrations on the floor started the countdown.” He hunkered down next to the device. “If the room starts shaking, you need to run like hell.”

    “If the room shakes, we’re toast.”

    She was right but Smoke was not about to admit defeat. He pulled out a multi-tool and set to work.

    “What are you doing?” Leigh didn’t quite screech but the timbre of her voice hurt his ears.

    “My job.”

    “Your job? You’re an arsonist.” Was she scoffing?

    “Wasn’t always. Marine Force Recon, EOD tech.”

    Explosive Ordinance Disposal. He’d disabled or blown up a shit-ton of IEDs in the sandbox. He never figured he’d be sitting in a covered marina on Lake Dallas sweating bullets as he worked to save his ass. And Leigh’s. Especially hers. He had plans for that sweet ass that didn’t include it getting blown to hell and back.

    “Wait. You were a marine?”

    He cut his eyes her direction. “Yeah.”

    “But…” She waved her hands like she couldn’t figure out the next word. One waved at his head, the other at the rest of him. Shrugging, he pulled out a bandanna and tied his long hair back.

    “Walk soft, babe, but go stand by the door.” She hovered for a few moments, peering over his shoulder. He grunted and shifted back on his heels. “Now, Leigh. If we have to evacuate, I want you where I can grab you on the way out. Yeah?”

    Finally. She did as he asked, pussyfooting to the door leading to the dock. He studied the wires and the trigger device. Wasn’t his design. Dammit.

    “You’re hot, you know.”

    He froze then glanced over his shoulder, one brow arched. “Not the time, darlin’.”

    “It is. Just in case. I…wanted you to know. I’ll be your match.”

    “Uh huh.” He bent back to the job at hand, but she kept talking.

    “I’ll light up your life.”

    He clipped a wire. “That’s a bad love song, ba—”

    The timer went dark but sparks shot out. “Fuck!” He was up and running, barreling into Leigh, through her, turning at the last second so his back hit the door. He curled around her as the explosives erupted, raining fire and thunder on them. They hit the lake.

    When they surfaced, Leigh grinned. “Smoke on the water. Talk about bad love songs.”

    500 #TeamSmoke words

    Liked by 5 people

  2. Ignition

    I drove. Quarry was in dire need of further shut-eye, not that bouncing along in a jeep along the desert floor replicated quality mattress-style sleeping. Still, it was similar to a hobos forty winks. He’d find a way.

    With any luck we would be back at Ace Longworth’s ranch before the sizzling heat of noon.

    I began to wonder what Quarry and I were really doing here, poking around in the lives of strangers.

    Yes, we had taken on an incongruous bit of work, the unravelling of a small town enigma.

    Yes, the social fabric of Crowbar City was as inscrutable, as veiled as any clandestine underworld gang.

    In fact there was every reason to think that a major mobster element was at play.

    We had every reason to be cautious. And, probably, nobody expected us to find Hazel Twigg. Expectations were rock-bottom.

    My minor reservations aside, I suppose we were reasonably equipped enough for the task. Quarry had the investigative experience; I had an inquisitive disposition. And a social nature. We both had a bucketful of time on our hands.

    As much as we had learned about the players in this Crowbar City conundrum, we still knew relatively little. In fact, every time we found a nugget or a sparkling, golden seam, it incited a riot of questions… and progressively fewer answers.

    The past was a strange creature indeed. Part hermit, part coquette, she was modest, private to a fault, yet, by her very existence, she begged for exposure, layer on layer, flesh on flesh, like a burlesque dancer, or a deranged onion.

    I was getting lost in thought. I hadn’t spotted a mirage in a while but I expected to. The heat and the desert were having their way with me.

    Finally, half-way back, Quarry decided to join my party.

    “Sleep well?” I smiled.

    “I think I was having a nightmare,” he said. “I was trapped in a room. The room starts shaking. There are no windows and the doors are jammed. Never been in an earthquake but I bet that’s how it seems.”

    “Like being in a jitterbugging jeep on a desert road, maybe?”

    “Yeah. Maybe. Want me to drive?”

    “No. I’m fine. Welcome back. I missed your company.”

    “While I was sawing logs, and before my earthquake, I realized that we need to be more hard-hitting now. Otherwise, we’ll be stuck here till the end of time.”

    “What do you propose we do?”

    “Well, first off, we’ve been too damned agreeable. Secrets thrive in a pleasant garden. Time to start digging deeper.”

    “Okay,” I agreed. “But how?”

    “Hazel is dead. Nothing else figures.”

    “Right. So where’s the body?”

    “If it’s rotting in the desert, we’ll never find her. But murderers are lazy buggers. If she was left in an old abandoned mineshaft, there’s a chance…”

    Quarry’s plan was simple. Get Ace to finance a search of every rabbit hole in the County.

    Maybe we’d find Hazel’s body.

    Or flush out her killer.

    Or die trying.

    500 desperate measures

    Liked by 3 people

  3. 300 words

    oh yeah just a little more don’t stop oh just like that oh keep going don’t stop you know what i like uh huh oh yes oh yes you know just there like that don’t stop i’ll be yours i’ll be yours forever i’ll be your match this pace harder faster oh more i don’t care about that don’t stop more do you like this do you want this more harder you want this like oh yeah god yes more god oh yes the earth is shaking the room is quaking you know what i need you know what i want i know what you want i know what you need oh yes oh more don’t stop keep doing what are you doing that hurts but it hurts so good so nice oh more you don’t know what you do to me you’re going to make me you’re going to make me i’m almost more just yes like that more yes don’t stop you’re so oh wow oh god how do you do that with your how how ow that hurts don’t do that i don’t oh that’s okay oh ow not that don’t do that the room is spinning the room starts shaking is that blood what are you doing let me go let me don’t no don’t don’t please please pleaseplease stop oh that hurts what are you doing is that what you like do you like hurting me like that oh is that oh my god is that what i think it is what are you doing to me i can’t breathe i can’t can you stop i oh no please stop please stoppleastop oh ow that burns what are you not my eyes not my eyes not my nose not my please please don’t not my

    Liked by 4 people

  4. Visiting the Goddess

    “You ever heard of the Sword of God?”

    She nodded. “Ja. Fanatical religious group who’ve made their members brainwashed assassins. They claim to be saving mankind from the darkness of the Elder Races.”

    “That’s the ones. They’ve been here twice now, once to take out Kate and another time to take out our archivist.”

    Svanhild raised an eyebrow. “What had the archivist done?”

    “Don’t know the whole story, but he’s a vampire, so I figure that was enough to get him on the most wanted list.” Bart eased the truck forward. “The thing is, the archivist hooked up with the doc in town, who just happens to be a dragon. It didn’t go well for the assassin.”

    Svanhild barked a laugh. “Ja. I bet it didn’t.” She’d met a few dragons on her travels and had made it a point not to piss them off. Oh she could’ve fought them, but it would’ve hurt like hell.

    She turned her head to look out into the rainy forest. The whole place dripped like the lake had emptied out over the top of them, but she found she liked it. Up ahead, two people walked in the rain heading in the same direction as Bart’s truck.

    Correction: One person and one ghost.

    She idly wondered if the man was aware of the ghost just as he looked up to meet her gaze. Sweet Freya! Her Valkyrie powers kicked in before she could blink and the inner voice of the gods roared through her. Vengeance! Wicked death of innocents! Unworthy!

    Svanhild grasped the door of the truck to keep from launching herself through it to take out the misguided warrior walking in the rain. He’s unclean and lower than pondscum. She closed her eyes and shook her head. You should be lit with the fires of Hell and I’ll be your match. I’ll set you ablaze to cleanse your evil.

    “Hey, Svanhild, you all right?” Bart’s voice intruded on her thoughts and she opened her eyes.

    They parked in front of a pretty two story house with a wrap-around porch and some of the righteous fury faded away. Yeah, well, if the room starts shaking, blame the gods. She nodded and got out of the truck, sucking in deep lungfuls of air. Despite the rain, the air tasted sweet and comforting rather than dank and wet. Bart motioned her to follow him up to the porch and he knocked on the door.

    A pretty woman with golden-brown hair and wise hazel eyes answered the door with a wide smile.

    “Hey, Bart. Good to see you. What brings you out here to my place? Everything good in the Bear community?”

    To Svanhild’s surprise, Bart blushed. “Yeah, everything’s good. Thanks, Kate. But I wanted you to meet Svanhild Bjørnsdottir. She’s gonna be workin’ with me for a time and I figured you’d want to meet her.”

    The hazel gaze met Svanhild’s and for the briefest moments, she swore she looked into the eyes of Freya.

    500 #WIP500 words

    Liked by 4 people

  5. Giving In

    It’s almost like the room starts shaking with his knocks on the door. Why is he bothering? We’ve already talked about this – what happened to ignoring it? I continue to sit on the bed, refusing to open the door. Last time, he’d let me walk away – encouraged it even – so why is he so eager for me to open the door now?

    “Videl.” He doesn’t say anything else, just my name over and over.

    “It’s alright. I just…just need some rest.” I know I won’t be getting much sleep, though. Why can’t I ignore the feeling in my chest?

    Marcus suddenly stops knocking, but no footsteps follow the silence. Is he just going to wait until I come out? Even though I know it’s a bad idea, I get up from the bed and move towards the door. It’s clear that I can’t ignore my feelings, and stifling them this way clearly wasn’t working. Whatever Marcus decided to do seemed to work for him; maybe he could help me do the same.
    When I open the door, he’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed. I close the door behind me and mimic his stance.

    “Better?” At his question, I look down at the floor between us, unwilling to look him in the eye.

    “Listen, I know you didn’t want to hear that – I’m struggling with…with suppressing…”

    “If you think I didn’t want to hear you say that…that you worried about my safety, then you misinterpreted when I said we’re better off this way.” He pushes off the wall and crosses over to me. “Just because I said we shouldn’t doesn’t mean I don’t want…” His hand comes up to cup my cheek, pulling me up to look at him. “You’re not the only one struggling.”

    Whether we act on our feelings or not, what’s the difference? There’s no way the boss doesn’t already know or at least have an idea, if Ash’s reaction to us was any indication. I let my eyes close, leaning into his hand’s warmth. “And here I thought you were under control.”

    “I’m glad you’re amused.” His thumb strokes my cheekbone, but I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. When I open my eyes again, he’s much closer than before.

    “No point in denying myself small pleasures.”

    “Small pleasures…?” He sounds like he’s tasting the words. When he starts to lean in, I’m caught between him and the wall again. It’s the lightest of kisses when his lips finally brush mine. When he pulls back, he’s reluctant, his hand on the wall beside me helping him keep his distance. “No…”

    “What’s the point?” My voice is a whisper of hope. He hesitates to remove himself completely, and I surprise us both when I grab his shirt and pull him to me, standing on my toes to meet his lips again. My other hand brushes his cheek, and he gives in, tugging my hip and eliminating the rest of the space between us.

    500 words

    Liked by 3 people

  6. Pingback: #FlashMobWrites – Giving In | Trials and Tribulations of Writing Fiction

  7. In Sheep’s Clothing

    As soon as I see her I know she’s the one.

    She oozes self-loathing. The way she yanks her shrug across her middle tells me she carries that slight paunch like a millstone. Her steps are cautious, her gait apologetic, as she picks her way through the crowd. Always giving way.

    Oh yes. Perfect. Exactly the sort to cream over an awkward, lonely loser like me.

    It’s getting harder, there’s no doubt. I guess I’m a victim of my own success. They’re all so wary. It always has to be public, well-lit. But then she sees my flaky skin and wonky smile, hears my stammer, and her relief is visible. Danger doesn’t come in such a pathetic package. She’s been led to believe he’s a Romeo, a charmer. Suave and dashing – so the papers say.

    A guy like me couldn’t possibly be the Sweetheart Killer.

    It’s not the best moniker, I’ll admit. I’d have preferred something more butch. But, I can’t exactly call the press office to complain, so I guess I’m stuck with it.

    Oh well, we all have our cross to bear.

    Over drinks her guard drops. Her eyes fill with liquid pity when I confess crowds make me self-conscious. She suggests dinner, somewhere intimate. She’s like a pig in shit, finally she’s found someone to feel superior to. She stands a little taller, feeling attractive for the first time in God knows how long.

    I let her talk all through dinner. That’s what these bitches really want. She babbles and blathers, and I nod in the right places. But I’m staring at that pudgy neck. Imagining the screams. I finger the blade in my pocket, and shiver.

    Soon now.

    She takes me to her apartment, all chintz and incense. As she pours us both a whiskey I’m breathless with anticipation. Soon now.

    She prattles on about her dreary job, but suddenly her voice fades like the floating echoes of a dream. My head is pounding. The room starts shaking.

    Christ, what’s wrong with me?

    I try to excuse myself, but the words won’t form. I stagger down the drab hallway, trying to find the bathroom. I need to puke.

    Too much booze. If I can just purge I’ll be good for the main event.

    My knees buckle as I open the door, and I’m on the floor. I can’t seem to make my limbs move. What the fuck? It’s not a bathroom, it’s some kind of study. It’s getting hard to focus, but I squint at the walls. They’re covered in newspaper clippings. All about the Sweetheart Killer.

    All about me.

    I’m struggling for breath, I roll over and she’s there, standing over me.
    “W-w-hat’s gerrin ohn?” I slur.

    She smiles. Reaches down and pulls a slick, sharp silver knife from her knee-high boot. She straddles me, bringing the blade so close to my face I can almost taste the steel.
    “You just met your match, Sweetheart.”

    494 words

    Liked by 3 people

  8. A NIGHT AT THE THEATER by E.F. Olsson

    I took my place in the school theater. Luckily a seat was available on the end so in the event I had to take care of some business, I didn’t have to step on toes and blocked views as I made my way to the aisle. Most parents fought to be close so they could record their child’s performance on their smart phone. This was the second show of the year and a formable one, the ‘Great Gatsby’.

    Thomas had been working hard to be apart of this production. When he first told me that he was going to be a part of the show, I asked him which part are you playing, Nick Carraway? Jay Gatsby? Perhaps, Tom Buchanan?

    “No,” he said. “None of them, dad.”

    “Then who else is there?”

    “I get to use the left spot light.”

    “Oh. And I still have to come and watch this high school production?”

    Of course I did. I still want to support him even with all the news that’s going on. I’ve been following the news just as intently as I would the weather reports. And that’s how it’s being covered. Weather, traffic and them. But this is a wonderful way for the kids, and even the adults, to take their minds off of things for a bit and have a little fun. No one expected anything to happen in our town anyway. Though the National Guard as said to have them contained, some are getting out somehow.

    Halfway through the show I made my way back to the restrooms. On my way, the parents keeping on eye out on the streets were talking frantically. It unnerved me. Why are they so concerned? Why is the woman in black hyperventilating?

    While I was relieving myself. I heard the first scream. A woman. It was shrieking. A lump appeared in my throat. Are they here? Did they come inside the theater. The screaming became worse. It was an intense sound. Grunting. I backed up and hid in the furthest stall from the door. It sounded like rustling noises. Suddenly the room starts shaking.

    “Thomas!” I yelped out.

    I was too afraid to move. I waited until I heard nothing. An hour perhaps. Two? It could have been longer. I knew I had to find Thomas. I knew I couldn’t hide in here forever. I pushed the door open from the bathroom. The parents I saw earlier by the door were ripped to shreds. Blood everywhere. I threw up and nearly passed out from the site. My legs were wobbly but I needed to keep going. I needed to find Thomas.
    There was a trail of blood going into the theater along with skin and torn insides. I stepped around it as I entered the theater and saw the real carnage. The death. The mutilation. The destruction.

    “Dad!” Thomas screamed from the rafters.


    I sat back in my seat relieved.

    (489 words)

    Liked by 3 people

  9. Midnight Harvest Interrupted


    Percy abided and paused sweeping the bones into the canvas bag. His hands shook. Not with the fear of having been caught after midnight in mid-harvest , but with the palsy that drove him to this depraved practice.

    “I said halt!” the caretaker commanded again.

    “I cannot,” Percy admitted, still shaking.

    The grungy mausoleum attendant’s patched boots creaked as he approached the intruder. “I know who you are.”

    “You must understand,” Percy started. The tremors in his body increased, making it hard to speak without interruption. “I. . . I . . . this is a compulsion. A curse.”

    “You’ve been here before.” The caretaker raised his lantern in the dark room to Percy’s face. The crypt robber thought the man would recoil at his wasted appearance. “Yup, I’ve seen you.”

    “Please let me f, f, f. . . finish what I have to do.”

    “And what’s that?” the man with the lamp asked.

    “I don’t want you to see.” Percy lifted one of the bones from the stone vault he’d pried open. It was a curved jawbone with three teeth remaining.

    “You can’t come here no more.”

    Percy’s quaking slowed as he brought the jawbone to his mouth. The bone smelled dry and earthy as like a preserved mushroom. It would taste the same.

    “Stop that.”

    Percy ignored the man, plucking the remaining teeth from their sockets. He trembled as he popped each one into his mouth in an attempt to calm his shaking body. He swallowed the little bones whole before sliding jawbone into his mouth.
    The light in the room violently swung from ceiling to floor. Percy registered, too late, that the lamp in the caretaker’s hand was swinging over the man’s head. The glass oil chamber in the lamp shattered upon impact with the bone eater and fire poured over the man, knocking the bone from his mouth.

    The caretaker was quick to push the bones away from the burning man with his boot, and then clear the canvas back away from the spreading fire. The bone eater himself remained calm despite the blistering and cracking from the flames. He laid flat as his body increased its tremors. Beyond the caretaker’s panicked breathing, the room was starkly silent. The man on the floor closed his eyes and mouthed “thank you.”

    The light dwindled as there was less of Percy to fuel the fire. The room started shaking, signaling the reemergence of the daemon Percy thought he could imprison in his own pure vessel. The caretaker would find out soon enough if he was made of a stronger mettle than the once-monk as the daemon, once liberated, would look for a new host.

    447 words

    Liked by 3 people

  10. I lick dry lips, blink sleep-crusted eyes. My right hand resembles the San Andreas Fault on a bad day. The room shakes with every breath I pull in, pins poke my lungs. A trembling hand slaps the wall, its surface scratchy on my palm.

    Air wheezes and squeaks out of my chest as I see the door. I need to get to it. If I make it that far, there’s a phone in the hallway. I can call someone. The hardwood floor makes my knees ache when they slam into it. Stars form in front of my eyes, darkness on their heels. I try to pull in a breath, but it won’t come. My inhaler is out of reach. My husband is at work. The kids are at school.

    The floor is cold under bare knees and hands. I pull myself through the door, face connecting with the hardwood floor. My arms tremble as I push myself back up, determined to get to a phone. My forehead leans against the cool, polished fake wood that makes up one leg of the small table the phone sits on in the hallway.

    Bleary eyed, light headed, my trembling right hand reaches for phone.

    “Fuck,” I wheeze as it falls and skids across the floor. I pull myself closer, chest tight, heart pounding my ears.

    My nose throbs when it makes contact with the floor. I snag the phone, my nail beds dusky. If I don’t get someone soon, I’m toast. Panting, wheezing, I roll into my back. The numbers wiggle and dance as I try to find the numbers.

    “Harrison County 911, what’s your emergency?”

    “Help,” I wheeze. “Can’t—”

    “Help is on the way.”

    The phone thunks to the floor as my hand gives way. I roll onto my side, chest aching. My lungs are on fire as I rest my ear on the handset.



    “The ambulance is on the way. The sheriff will probably get their first. Can you give me your 911 address?”

    “7,” I start, my vision wavering. “8—–2—–6—–3.”

    I let out what little air I have and pass out.



    I lick dry lips and blink sleep-crusted eyes. My right hand lies still on a soft blanket. My chest is clear. I look up into a pair of concerned blue eyes, red rimmed, and blood-shot. My husband takes my hand and squeezes it.


    “Creighton. You’re in the ICU at Creighton. The sheriff got the house ahead of the ambulance and found you passed out upstairs, said your lips were already blue. He started CPR, which the EMTs said saved your life. What happened?”

    I shift in bed, pain settling into my low back. “Asthma.”

    Jacoby nods. “The doctor said it’s exacerbation. You’re going to be here a few days.”

    My eyes drift shut. Oxygen hisses and I register something over my nose and mouth. At least I didn’t die.

    490 words

    Liked by 3 people

  11. Pingback: A NIGHT AT THE THEATER by E.F. Olsson {short flash} | The Ghost Stories of E. F. Olsson

  12. Pingback: #FlashMobWrites 1 x 45 : The Hurt | My Soul's Tears

  13. As expected, the police reached a dead end in their investigation. They determined the cause of death (blunt force trauma, basically she’d been beaten to death). But they found no signs of sexual assault, and no trace of any DNA other than Darla’s.

    They’d determined where she’d last been seen (at a grocery store, buying a bottle of wine with a blonde man). They couldn’t identify the man, and until they could, their investigation stalled. They found where she worked, interviewed people there. “Was there a significant other? Did she have a male friend? What was his name?” They got several answers, several males to investigate.

    It was their job to investigate.

    It was my job to make a big fire, burn down the things they could not. “I’ll be your match, officers. The one who starts the fire.”

    The police had their search warrants, their interrogations, their stakeouts. All legal. All by the book. I was Armor 17. For an Armor, there were no laws, no rules, no limits.

    I visited her male friends, one at a time. They never saw me, of course, never knew I was there. I watched them, how they slept, their daily routines. Reactions varied to the news of Darla’s murder, some had sleepless nights, some slept like nothing had happened. I left a picture of Darla here, a piece of her jewelry there, an exact copy of the bottle of wine she’d bought that last night, a copy of her car key, an earring. Little pieces of Darla, here and there. Where they’d be notice. I watched. I studied. I learned.

    There were three of them. Three who were disturbed when they spotted memories of Darla. Three who kept seeing memories of her. Two of them slept poorly at night, one slept without guilt, without nightmares. Two were male, one was female. The female was a blond.

    Always I left them mementos of Darla, pictures, her favorite drink, her favorite book. Their phones took them to her favorite WEB Sites, at random. It took three weeks until the weakest of the three cracked. He called the blonde. “I can’t take it anymore, I’m going crazy! I keep seeing her stuff, her things, everywhere. I can’t sleep at night! I haven’t slept in days! I can’t take it!”

    The blonde was ice, “Be calm. What you’re feeling is normal. Have a drink. Eat a good meal somewhere. Watch a movie. Do something fun.”

    The blonde called the other male. “Take him out for a fun night.”

    The fire had been lit, it was time to fan it, grow it, until it ran uncontrolled. “I’ll be your match, officers. Soon, there’ll be a fire.” I was looking forward to watching the blond. Ice, I’d learned, didn’t last in a fire.

    464 Words

    Liked by 3 people

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