August 2024 -- 75 Word Writing Challenge -- VICTORY TO MOSAIX AND THE JUDGE!

[The Judge]

RULES

Write a story inspired by the chosen theme and genre in no more than 75 words, not including the title

ONE entry per person

NO links, commentary or extraneous material in the posts, please -- the stories must stand on their own


WHEN WRITING YOUR STORY, PLEASE REMEMBER THIS IS A FAMILY-FRIENDLY FORUM


All stories Copyright 2024 by their respective authors
who grant the Chronicles Network the non-exclusive right to publish them here


The complete rules can be found at RULES FOR THE WRITING CHALLENGES

Contest ends at 11:59 pm GMT, 23 August 2024

Voting ends at 11:59 pm GMT, 28 August 2024


We ask all entrants to do their best to vote when the time comes

but you do not have to submit a story in order to vote
as we encourage all Chrons members to take part in choosing the winning entry


The Magnificent Prize:

The Dignified Congratulations/Grovelling Admiration of Your Peers
and the challenge of choosing next month's theme and genre

AND

The possibility of having your story published on the Chrons Podcast!


Theme:

CLOTHING

Genre:

OPEN HISTORICAL FICTION

Please keep all comments to the DISCUSSION THREAD


We invite (and indeed hope for) lively discussion and speculation about the stories as they are posted
as long as it doesn't involve the author explaining the plot


** Please do not use the "Like" button in this thread! **

​

 

[Ashleyne]

BLANCHE THE STRIPPER

Her name certainly wasn’t Jack. These vulgar slurs everyone called her for doing her job… if people knew how many lives she’d saved, they’d have celebrated her.

It didn’t help when the worms wrote to the papers pretending to be her, cheeky blighters, making her out as some kind of psycho.

She stood over her latest meat suit discovery, previously worn by the furry blue worm squished in her hand. "Pitiful, truthfully, these hideous invaders."

 

[Victoria Silverwolf]

The Bargain

The soldier tossed a pile of clothing on the table. "How much can I get for this?"

The merchant frowned. He placed a coin on the table.

The soldier leaned forward. "Worth five times that much."

The merchant smelled wine on his breath. He added another coin. "Final offer."

The soldier grabbed the coins and headed for the tavern. It was fair payment for rags won in a dice game, taken from a crucified lunatic.

 

[paranoid marvin]

Give It Some Welly

Napoleon wore a hat they said
Could leave his foes confounded
'Worth forty thousand men and more'
A claim that was well grounded

It won the day at Austerlitz
The toast of all of France
And when he placed it on his bonce
Opponents stood no chance

But at a mud-soaked Waterloo
The shoe was on the other foot
For Arthur had his wellies on
And 'twas Boney got the boot

 

[Cat's Cradle]

To Be Reunited in Repurposed Gingham

She'd driven the extra miles to the Sharpesville General Store.

Flour was cheaper locally – 100-pound burlap sacks of Stonemill's All-Purpose – but Sharpesville had the new floral-print gingham bags, and dress fabric wasn't available nowadays.

She'd gotten odd looks at the store – who buys so much flour?

But handmade dresses needed the fabric from three sacks, and Charlie would be home soon for the first time since deployment.

She'd make herself lovely in flowering gingham.

 

[Astro Pen]

Leather and Velvet

The clothes!
No sound basis for a political decision, but a cavalier I became.
Most in the village were for the King.
Mother made the best she could, flamboyant, as country boys seldom were, till the war.

They beat us soundly at Naseby.
Cold, ruthless, practical, unromantic, Cromwell’s dull uniformed roundheads.
They got their parliament but, without true hierarchy, it is falling rapidly to corruption.

The outfit moulders now, in the trunk, beneath my bed.

 

[BAYLOR]

Helmet ,One Size Fit All

Private Wilhelm Moltke , dressed in tattlers , riffle in hand , helmet on head, leaped over the trench into the oncoming lead Browning maelstrom. He was confident of two things, the first being that his helmeted head was probably the best protected part of his body and, second , he was going die , for duty and country , he thought sourly . The shell that stuck him , disintegrated his body, leaving only head in helmet, unscathed.

 

[THX1138]

The Life Behind the Smile

When my grandfather died, I was given his old, tattered Fedora. He always smiled, but seldom talked. The hat was worn and smelled of tobacco, alcohol and other scents that I could only imagine.

I put the Fedora on while looking in the mirror and was now looking at him, eye to eye, in the 1950’s.

West Germany, Hungry, Moscow. Bars, dark places, information.

My Grandfather was a spy? No, a counterspy and… Assassin?!

 

[chrispenycate]

Pockets make the Man​

In winter there are arguments for a warm fleece, or heavy cloak. Come summer, though, the main argument for garments is pockets, or belts for tools or weapon sheathes.

Women's handbags are frequently weapons in their own right, though they might conceal daggers or spray. Clothes don't make the woman.

Fashion? Waterproofs? Even uniforms have some excuse for existence, though midsummer, armour is unpleasant.

Now, how could I install pockets in my woad?

 

[Christine Wheelwright]

The True Story of St Martin​

Famously, the Roman soldier Martin divided and shared his cloak with a freezing beggar. But seldom are we told that he met three other such beggars that day, each time acting with the same kindness. Upon arrival in the next town, however, he was fined ten denarii for indecent exposure.

Thus the true moral of the story - contrary to what the Church will tell you - is ‘never a good deed goes unpunished.’

 

[Culhwch]

My Hand In Yours

It was pristine white, that day. Hand in hand as they pledged themselves, wholeheartedly, to one another.

She gave it to him before he left. ‘No matter where you go, my hand will be in yours.’

It was stained, now. The red dirt of the home barracks, the sand and dust of Egypt and Gallipoli, the mud of these damn trenches.

And blood.

The whistle blew.

He went over the top, her hand in his.

 

[Provincial]

Boxer

The mountain path had always been dangerous, haunted by wolves and evil spirits.

Now the wolves are gone. Eaten by starving rebels, who themselves haunt the mountains and wear the evil spirits within them.

Yet a mad, old woman might still get through.

I hobble, staff in hand, shoulders hunched, face filthy and vacant. When they stop me I pat my red neckerchief, my passport and lucky charm, and cackle:

"Kill! Kill! Kill!"

 

[Baeta]

The Tallow Candle

The fire burned, sizzled, and crackled on a ballerina's dress. A dress cradling bright green flames, perfectly dancing and flickering on a dewy stage.

The soldiers, full of rot, their rifles in the mud, were moved to tears by the dance, believing it a promise of a bright and glorious future.

And so the ballerina shone with light like a plucky tallow candle.​

 

[johnnyjet]

Fashion Trends at Yasgur's Farm

"Far out," said the hippie.

"Indeed," agreed the alien.

The alien moved among the crowd, rapidly analyzing the curious culture of this indigenous species. He was amazed at the bold, brilliant colors of their sacred outer garments. Perhaps like his own people, they reflected their inner being.

The rain came down and everyone donned suits of mud.

Horrified, he returned to his home world with his damning report of the people who wore mud.

 

[Qaraq1001]

The Roman Hair Plucker

Flavius the actor hired the best hair pluckers. Cruel to his hires, he beat them with each painful pluck.

Mauretio, Rome’s most famous plucker, would avenge his abused colleagues. Claiming he loved Flavius, Mauretio offered free service.

Mauretio insisted his assistant hold Flavius’ arms. No beatings. He worked every inch of Flavius’ skin. Absolute smoothness for the audience. Working for free, Mauretio had ultimate say.

At his next performance, Flavius crept onstage. Toga-less.

 

[RTGR]

Fight

Bob: Sally, you wouldn't dare!
Sally: I can and I will, and you won't stop me.
Bob: What if there are other families? I could never face them again.
Sally: Hmph!

She then took off her pants, threw them on the car seat, and headed towards the beach with little Andrew, wearing her swimsuit that showed her knees.

 

[BigJ]

Run it again! (or, the struggle against one man’s nature)

“And the result is – about six million dead Jews.”

“What? I thought we inserted someone to buy his paintings?”

“We did, but evidently his art wasn’t worth enough to live off of.”

“Let’s try something else. Can we change his affinity for painting?”

“Sure.”

“Alright, let’s try . . . Fashion! Make him want to be a fashion designer!”

“Heh, alright. Resetting parameters, running simulation, and . . . about six million dead Jews.”

“What!?!”

“These SS uniforms are fire, though.”

 

[Daysman]

The Emperor's old clothes

‘Oh… was he actually quite tall?’

‘Five seven, at least.’

‘It’s good cloth.’

‘Standard issue… the Emperor insisted.’

‘Is that a stain?’

‘A stoma, hand inside his waistcoat to support the bladder.’

‘I’d not heard that one… so, was he poisoned?’

‘A vile accusation. He'd a tumour the size of a loaf. That said, I'll never put it on: heavy metals, most everywhere, even in hair products he used. Also, it's cursed.’

‘Well… of course.’

 

[mosaix]

Clothes Maketh The Man?

A doorstep. A thread bare shawl. Cold.

An orphanage. Hand-me-downs. Lonely and abandoned.

The workhouse. Thin, union clothing. Hungry and tired.

The streets. Infested beggar’s rags. Desperate.

A prison cell. Rough, uncomfortable garments. Confused and abused.

The barracks. A clean, warm, pressed uniform. Proud, human.

A trench. A muddy, torn uniform. Puttees, boots, a steel helmet, a gas mask. Scared.

A hospital. Regulation pyjamas, bloodied bandages. In pain.

A coffin. A shroud. Cold.

 

[Parson]

Clothes, Power, and Position

As she transitioned from sleep to wakefulness, she smiled. She was warm. It had been a good night. James had been vigorous, and the baby had slept the night through. She was lucky to be living here instead of her parent’s miserable hovel. She stirred; she had duties to attend.

Baby sorted, fire started, breakfast ready, she waited for James hopefully. "Maybe there’d be conversation?"

But James entered wearing his clerical robes. She curtseyed, “Father.”