Here’s a great way to sharpen your writing skills, hang out with friends, and boost your creativity all at the same time – it’s called Flash Fiction with Friends!
The game works like this: you and your friends each have 30 minutes to write a story from a randomly selected writing prompt. The one who writes the best story wins!
The prompt was one of the highest rated for the week on the Writing Prompts subreddit:
Watch what happened next:
Click here for the stories on video, or scroll down to read them. Leave us a comment telling us which one you thought was the best!
SAD BANANA DEATH STORY (FEMALE)
Monroe Weinstein was a banana. All his life, he had worked to achieve his dream of going to Oxford University. Today is the day he graduates from high school.
“Monroe, won’t you come down to the kitchen a moment?”
“Dear, there’s something your father and I need to tell you.
“Yes, son.” His father entered the room. “You know we’ve done as much as we can to try and help you in your life so far.
“Well,” continued Mr. Weinstein, “I think it’s time you knew you were adopted.”
“Oh?” said Monroe. He tried to act surprised, but he had been aware of this since sex-ed day in fourth-grade health class. In the years following, Monroe had slipped in and out of severe depression and eventually was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. His human parents had spared no effort in trying to find psychiatric help for their banana son, but to no avail. Monroe persevered, though, and completed his highschool education with flying color, which was yellow.
“We should probably head over to the school now, right?” said Monroe, as he searched for the tie he bought for the occasion.
In the hallway of James Bowie Highschool and Screen Door Company, Jessica Bernhill was late. So late, in fact, that she was running down the linoleum hall in four-inch heels. In the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of something yellow wearing a tie. Too late she glimpsed it. Her four-inch heels were no match for the slick peel of Monroe the banana. As Jessica’s forehead hit the metal doorframe, she could faintly hear the voices of Monroe’s parents saying something about Oxford University.
Recurring Banana Death
As was her custom, Adralena had ventured out for her daily afternoon stroll. An overwhelming quiet had fallen over her house in the last month, so she was generally eager to step into the outside world for any length of time. Of course, no location offered her any real peace; her thoughts were always sullen and gray. No one could really blame her, as she had just lost both her parents a few weeks before. Things had not been “well” in her family for some time. Prior to their deaths, Andralena’s parents, married for 27 years, had begun arguing much more than was typical of them. It had gotten animous enough that Andralena questioned whether they would stay together. Now, she had no such thing to fear, and it almost seemed good. Almost.
Loss was not a foreign concept for Andralena. Years ago, when she was still learning to dress herself, she’d had a brother – an adopted brother – Milo. He was hardly two, then, but he was very intelligent. Their mother always let him outside and left him to his own devices because he was never much trouble. It just to happened that, as Milo was constructing the third in a series of castles he’d started, a passerby tossed an old banana peel onto the driveway. Milo was smart, but none would call him wise. He darted toward the discarded fruit sheath, promptly slipping on it and careening through the air toward a coincidentally busy intersection poised at the end of the driveway.
With all these happenings pressing in on her mind, Andralena had walked all through her neighborhood as inattentively as one can. She blinked as she went to cross a street and, opening her eyes in the next instant, found herself on the ground, unable to move her limbs. Turning her head to the left, she discovered that she was facing an empty banana skin. In the distance, she felt the distant tremor of an approaching Kenworth. Closing her eyes and weeping heavily, she could only embrace her ever-nearing reunion with her family.
Peeled of Dreams
“Bananas,” she was saying, “are probably the greatest thing on the face of the earth.” Even then I hung on her every word. Everyone did – she always ended up in the center of every room she entered, and she loved it – the way she was now, with a half-eaten banana in her hand, laughing in a way that somehow seductive and elusive at the same time.
“It’s like they come in their own packaging. The world’s most considerate fruit, really; ‘Oh, you’re late for math class? Here’s a delicious breakfast you can eat on the way. Don’t worry about your hands, I’ve covered that for you.’”
We had math class together freshman year. That was the first time I noticed her, the way her red hair flashed in the morning sun three rows in front of me and two seats to the right.
A punch in the arm brought me back to the present. “Bro,” said my younger brother, “I’m gonna marry that girl someday.”
I look at her again, now acting out a fruit-based parody of some science fiction show with someone lucky enough to be her friend, her lithe, elegant frame poised in mid-leap. I tell my brother the same thing I told him when Mom died, when Dad left, and our first day on campus. “You know I got your back.”
But I don’t. I’ve wasted too much of my life dragging this little twerp around, lost too many dreams because he needed me more. Not today. Today my dream was right in front of me, and she’s peeling a banana.
The next day I put my plan into action. I swipe a dozen bananas from the cafeteria, and I leave them in a trail from dorm room door to the lounge. Each has an index card stuck in the peel; the first says, “The most considerate of fruits.” The rest say everything I’ve wanted to say since freshman year – how beautiful she is, how my heart skips a beat when she’s near me, and the last banana is how I feel when she’s not in my life: an empty peel.
She comes down the stairs, each banana cradled under her arm. She’s smiling, and I dare to hope. She comes down the hall, but doesn’t see the peel. I watch as if in slow motion as her foot descends, she slips, she falls, gracefully – into the arms of my little brother.
“Hi,” he says. She smiles.