Well, today is National Tourism Day. So, I thought we have a little fun with traditional “touristy” locations and people you might see. Also, it’s Mothers Day on Sunday (in America), so we have so show some love to all the mamas out there, too!
As usual, our contest will begin with three things: character, setting, and genre.
We spun, and our three elements are character: pickpocket, setting: Paris, and genre: drama.
Feel free to write a story using those or spin a new set of your own. Be sure to include which three elements you’re using.
- mother
- tourist
- photographer
- pickpocket
- tour guide
- translator
- the Pope
- Egyptian Pharaoh
- British Royal Guard
- boat captain
- skier
- POTUS
- bellhop
- waiter
- the Pyramids of Giza
- Paris
- Buckingham Palace
- the Alps
- Venice
- Vatican City
- The Taj Mahal
- The White House
- cafe
- hotel
- ship
- Sydney Opera House
- beach
- festival
- horror
- sci-fi
- steam punk
- mystery
- fantasy
- romance
- drama
- comedy
- poem
Spin!
Judges are TBD.
All submissions should be 100 words in length, give or take 10 words (90 – 110 words). You have until midnight, New York time to submit.
(currently available in the US, the UK, Australia, and other territories), or a similarly priced book of their choosing; alternatively, winners may elect to have the monetary equivalent donated to World Reader or another literacy-related charity.If you like, you may incorporate the following photo prompt (not required).
Imbecile
Another October in Paris.
Cold.
Beautiful.
Today the sun is as bright as a high beam coming at you hard and high on a country road.
It blinds you.
I wander all over this passionate city,
inhaling the smells; seeking.
At dusk, I drop into a taverne near the Centre Pompidou.
Two cognacs later, I am abuzz.
I barely notice them, a young couple, bundled up for the chilled evening.
They cozy up to me.
I welcome their warmth, their company.
Two more cognacs and I am flutteringly abuzz.
She whispers, “Vous êtes un homme doux.’’
Hands! Hers! His! Mine!
I wake on misty morning cobblestone.
Another October in Paris.
character: pickpocket, setting: Paris, and genre: drama.
110 light fickle fingers of found fate
@billmelaterplea
My little story seemed too one-sided so this came to me in my sleep.
Mirror
“There Yvette. That one.”
“Yes Claude. Easy pickings.”
The man has that look. Well off. Not rich, but pudgy with pleasures consumed whenever and whatever he chooses. His cheeks swollen, his belly plump, once young yet not so old that his hunger no longer salivates.
We follow. It is our way.
He ambles like an old ball.
He has no particular destination.
Finally, as the sun sets, he enters a small taverne.
In time, he is rosy-cheeked.
We sidle up. Close.
Hips! Breasts! Laughs!
No illusions in a world full of deception.
We find a darkened table at the rear.
“Vous êtes un homme doux,’’ I breathe.
He is ours.
110 flipped sides
@billmelaterplea
@WarwickDaisy
Egyptian Pharaoh/ Buckingham Palace/ Comedy
‘Shopping for Ideas: Memorial Tourism’
110 Words
Dusk was approaching as a light orb reflecting reds and blues momentarily danced in the air above the tulips in the Memorial Garden outside Buckingham Palace. Suddenly, with a little puff of sparkles, King Khufu popped into existence.
Shivering, he turned to look at the sprawling stone palace.
A humanoid with long grey fingers joined the king’s side.
“It doesn’t exactly point to the sun, does it? Maybe that’s why the atmosphere is so dull,” said Khufu, yawning.
“Well actually, that’s where they live. This statue is the monument,” said the Grey, pointing to the twenty-five metre high marble memorial.
“No! That’s tiny. You’re taking the mick!” gasped King Khufu.
Pick a peck of pickled pepper
His mouth was spewing tongue-twisters, his arms waving up at the tower. Then there was a second, whispering obscenities in my ear. I didn’t know which way to look. Typical distraction robbery tactics, how stupid was I?
But I turned the tables. Brought out my weeping mother act, pulling out my empty pockets, crying out in cod French. The rogues were paraded before me and I offered them a mother’s mercy. After they’d given me back what they’d taken five-fold. I lied about the mercy though. Their show will be a silent one from now on.
@CathBarton1
pickpocket/Paris/drama
96 words
Eclipse
@voimaoy
107 words
mother/pyramids of Giza/horror
Eclipse
@voimaoy
107 words
mother/Pyramids of Giza/horror
“Stop calling me Mummy,” Dr.Janice Grayson snapped at her daughter Denise. The Egyptologist and her daughter were standing by the Pyramids of Giza. Dr Grayson was interested in the astronomical alignment of the pyramids. Denise was more interested in Rafael, one of the graduate assistants.
Rafael was studying the entrance panels. “Look, Dr. Grayson, there’s reference to a solar eclipse. See, it says, a doorway opens…”
The sky grew dark as the eclipse began. The pyramids opened, like flowers reaching for the sun. There was a rush of cold air, and an enormous scarab beetle appeared above them.
“I am the Mothership,” a voice transmitted in their own language.
I’m sorry, the info posted twice. Can you fix it? Thank you!
@AvLaidaw
106 Words
Pickpocket / Paris / Drama
Occupations
The German Lieutenant leans back on his boot heels as he stares up at the Tour Eiffel, the iron black and brutal against the sky. He doesn’t notice the kid brush against his jacket. The kid’s fingers are slim and clever. He played the piano before all this.
The kid ambles away. Never run. They chase you of you run. He reaches the café on Rue du Laos before he looks at his catch – a photograph, a photograph of a girl. Pretty. He tears it up and lets the fragments scatter on the breeze. Paris is no place for lovers, not these days.
@GeoffHolme
#FlashDogs
Word Count: 109
Mother / Paris / Comedy
The Hazards of Duke
”Says here, Duke, it be National Tourism Day. How’s ’bout we take Mama ter Paris?”
“We cain’t afford that! ’Sides, we be rednecks – no passports!”
“Tain’t ‘International Tourism Day’, doofus! Ah’m talkin’ Paris, Texas. Mama don’t get out none since Papa done gave up his gee-tar fer a harp.”
“Ah’d have ter grease the wagon twice afore I hit the main road…”
“Duke Perkins! You’re tighter‘n wallpaper. You never take Mama out.”
“Your Mama so ugly, the tide wouldn’t take her out.”
“She cain’t hep the way she look.”
“Mebbe not, but she could stay home.”
“No more your ‘too poor ter pay attention’ routine. We’s goin’ ter Paris!”
Eclipse
@voimaoy
107 words
mother/Pyramids of Giza/horror
“Stop calling me Mummy,” Dr.Janice Grayson snapped at her daughter Denise. The Egyptologist and her daughter were standing by the Pyramids of Giza. Dr Grayson was interested in the astronomical alignment of the pyramids. Denise was more interested in Rafael, one of the graduate assistants.
Rafael was studying the entrance panels. “Look, Dr. Grayson, there’s reference to a solar eclipse. See, it says, a doorway opens…”
The sky grew dark as the eclipse began. The pyramids opened, like flowers reaching for the sun. There was a rush of cold air, and an enormous scarab beetle appeared above them.
“I am the Mothership,” a voice transmitted in their own language.
Great stuff, Voima – it could have been comedy after the first line, and sci-fi at the last line.
So kind of you, Geoff. Thanks for reading, and your comments!
Emily Clayton
@emilyiswriting
translator/Paris/horror
107 words
Once Upon a Murder
“Mon Dieu!” I whispered upon opening the door to the ornate Parisian townhome with rose emblem windows and a portico strewn with de-potted lavender.
Staff were sprawled upon the age-darkened, chevron-style oak flooring, throats slit and glistening.
A slick glove wrapped around my throat. “I’m just…a…translator!” I gasped.
“Parfait,” a deep voice rumbled before giving me the obsidian kiss.
I sit here now and translate on paper, staring into the muzzle of a Darne V22 shotgun.
He sits across from me, spouting French boasts. Exploits. Massacres.
I sneeze; my hand jerks. The shotgun kabooms.
“Merde! Work now, death later, madame translator. You’ll ruin my fun.”
C’est La Vie
pickpocket/Paris/drama
WC 108
Sitting on the café patio, I appreciated the colorful umbrellas keeping me dry on this rainy morning. I lifted some fruit at the market to take home for mother when she wakes. She is ill but strong.
The city is awake now, and the tourists will be filing in soon. An unsuspecting crowd is an easy target and a rainy day is a blessing. Their wallets ride loosely in the pockets of raincoats, tossed in carelessly as an afterthought guided by their grumbling stomachs.
I casually join the crowd bumping into some, quickly slipping my hand into pockets and gathering my bounty. I apologize and mean it sincerely.
@learavoice
http://learawrites.wordpress.com