Writing Battle Winter Flash Fiction Battle
Prompts: Genre: Meet-Cute | Character: Sharpshooter | Object: Album
[Gained a Bye in R1; Knocked out 3-1 in R2]
Working at an old mechanical shooting gallery as part of a travelling fair is a labour of love for Hayden, in more ways than one.
Call me Cupid. Not that you would think a mere fairground shooting gallery could pave the way to true love. But that’s where you would be wrong, my friend. The dazzling lights, the intoxicating atmosphere, the chance to show-off: it’s all anyone needs for romance.
Don’t believe me? I have a photo album to prove it: every couple who’ve hit a bullseye have their own Polaroid. I mean, I don’t have my own photo in there. Not yet. But what you put out into the world comes back to you, right? Even if it takes a while. Quite a while, if I’m honest.
Not that my commitment to being an anonymous wingman is entirely altruistic. It’s the only way to ensure that hauling this rusting antique around the country is financially viable. As soon as it stops turning a profit… Well, let’s just say that the boss isn’t the sentimental type.
Hence why I need to drum up interest. “Roll up! Roll up!” Always a classic. “Step back in time and play a game of real skill!”
Barely anyone glances over. Too invested in their corn dogs, cotton candy, and the next flashy ride.
“Everyone knows those games are rigged!” comes a slurred shout from nearby. I get it. If I had their cynical personality, I would get drunk, too.
Yet I bristle anyway. How am I supposed to rig an eighty-year-old mechanical shooting gallery? It takes all my time to keep it working! No, my game isn’t rigged… but I do rig the wins. No one wants to be embarrassed in front of their beau by a rickety fairground game, after all. I know my market.
“A little skill will prove otherwise!” I’d prefer to see this guy lose but that’d be bad for business. “Have a go!”
Giggles and goading spread through the group but no one steps forward. My grin stiffens into a grimace. This is costing me in more ways than one.
“You prove it!” It’s the same jeering voice but I can’t pinpoint the culprit.
“Have a round on the house to satisfy your doubt, sir!”
At least a crowd is beginning to form around the original group. Not that they’re offering to spend money. But all publicity is good publicity, right?
“You’ll just stack the odds in my favour!”
My jaw clenches. Seriously, what is this guy’s problem?
The heckler finally steps into view. He reaches for his wallet and plucks out some bills. “A hundred says you can’t beat your own game.”
There’s an appreciative murmur from the crowd. I don’t blame them. Cold hard cash always makes things interesting. Not least for me; a hundred dollars is an entire night’s earnings.
Just one problem.
“I—” I stop to clear my wavering voice. Damn, this is embarrassing. “I don’t know how to shoot.”
“What?” He stares at me, scowl deepening. “You work a rigged game even you can’t win?”
Tension tugs the crowd closer to a mob. My hands are slippery with sweat. Any chance of earning a profit tonight is vanishing. Never mind my discovering the next instalment of love stories for my Polaroid and album.
“I’ll play.”
The crowd parts. My breath catches. I swear, the lights of the fairground create an actual halo around the handsome new arrival’s head. Like a divine miracle.
“Get outta here, Lor.”
“Why?” The newcomer stands his ground. “Scared to be down a hundred bucks, Karl?”
His lip curls but the antsy crowd won’t let him protest the unexpected interruption. “Fine.”
The heaven-sent stranger steps up to the counter. I hand him the air rifle, trying to staunch my misgivings. He’s obviously confident in his abilities but those types are usually the most problematic. “I know you’re trying to help,” I mutter, “but—”
“Don’t worry, I only play games I can win.” He flashes a mischievous smile. “By myself.” Oh, he’s worked out exactly what I do. No doubt.
Not that I can do anything right now with Karl’s beady eye on me. I hit the release; my attention fixed on my would-be hero. Secure stance; level focus: everything about him shouts ‘marksman’. He takes aim…
… and misses the first shot.
“Ha!” Karl crows. “I told you—”
Thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap. Each rapid release of the trigger is validated by a bright chiming of pellet against metal. All bullseyes.
Silence. Then cheers erupt from the onlookers.
“It’s called ‘aiming off’, Karl.” Lor doesn’t even deign to look over his shoulder. “Pay up.” He sneaks me a wink.
Karl opens his mouth to argue but too many begin clamouring in echo. He slaps the bills down on the counter before stalking away. Others press forward to take his place. Suddenly, my little shooting gallery is the hottest game at the fair.
Only as demand finally ebbs do I notice Lor still nearby, leaning against the edge of the stall.
“Thanks, by the way.”
“Karl’s a jerk.” A succinct – and accurate – explanation. “What’s that?” He’s peering at something behind the counter.
I follow his gaze to the photo album and Polaroid. My cheeks flush. “Oh, just… a hobby of mine.”
He stretches across to retrieve it, flicking through the pages.
“I like—” How to explain? Except I definitely need to finish that sentence before he thinks I’m some deviant. “—to take photos of all the winning couples.” Oh God, that still sounds weird. I mean, it is weird, but it’s not creepy… is it?
“Then I think we need a photo, don’t you?”
“It’s usually just the couples—” I stop as I catch that impish smile of his again.
Oh.
While I fumble with the Polaroid, clumsier than I’ve ever been in my life, Lor slings an arm around my shoulders. I lift the camera up but can’t help sneaking a glance towards him, disbelieving and hopeful all at once.
Laughing, he pulls me closer. “Even you can’t miss this shot!”
I start laughing, too — and the Polaroid flashes.
C.A. Raine 