(suggested by the picture prompt for the quickfic @ www.faberacademy.co.uk on 5 February 2016)

No-one understood the genetic quirk which caused a baby to be born with rainbow skin.  At first, babies showed only patches of swirling colours on their hands or feet, but, as they grew, the rainbow shades developed in intensity and spread across most of the child’s skin.

Parents were devastated.  They were afraid their child would be shunned, pointed at, locked away.  But the rainbow children carried a gift which could not be ignored.  The rainbow colours on the outside were pale reflections of the joy they carried within.  Joy which spread happiness to anyone who saw them.  The rainbow children were special.  When you saw one, you felt your cares lift, your mood lighten.  You felt privileged to meet one, rare as they were.

Society began to buzz with happiness.  People became more caring and co-operative.  Hearts were lighter.  Troubles were easier to bear.  The number of rainbow children increased until they became commonplace.  You saw them everywhere.  People got used to the sight of rainbow skin.

Rainbow children did not see the world as others do.  They had no interest in school and no interest in work as they grew older.  They did not seek relationships or interact with others.  People began to mutter about the cost of care.  Parents were blamed.  The mutation must be somebody’s fault.

The stress of caring for a child who could never integrate exhausted parents.  Without support some committed suicide.  Neither help nor understanding was offered.

Joy was not enough.

150 word flash fiction from prompt word: "wave"

The smell made her gag.  The flood waters, far from washing everything clean, had coated every treasured belonging in a thick sludge of sewage.  A wave of despair threatened to drown her.  There was nothing left, nothing salvageable.

She needed air.  The door, hanging almost off its hinges, squeaked a sullen protest as she pushed past.  An echoing squeak responded.  Startled, she looked anxiously around, the age-old fear of rats clamouring in her head.  Silence.  No sign of movement.

Fear and grief battled for control, leaving her helpless.  She stood, immobile, and wept, a stricken woman in a sea of desolation.  The sound came again, from above.  Bleakly, she lifted her head.  A sodden cat, shivering, peered down from her shattered wardrobe.  She reached up.  The cat leapt into her arms, its bullet head thrusting against her cheek in thanks.  Warmth and a spark of hope.
 

Flash fiction from a picture prompt of a half-decorated Christmas tree @faberacademy 11/12/15

If I could kill Santa, I would.  What has he ever done for me except screw up my life?  I had all the usual dreams, hopes for a career, wife, family, nice home...  But what have I got?  Zilch.  That’s what.

It sounded appealing when he first got in touch.  He was hazy on the details, murmured something about making people happy.  The job sounded OK, the hours were great.  Nothing to do for the first three months of the year.  Then a little light toy-making in Spring, bauble development in Summer and an intense period of sweet and candy production in early Autumn.  Admittedly, it got crazy for around a month from late November to the Big Day, but doable.

I signed up, hell, yes.  That’s when I discovered the downside.  You see, the thing about Santa is - he wants all the credit.  Everybody knows that what he does is impossible for one guy, right?  But he won’t share the spotlight.  The contract had a big confidentiality agreement.  No talking about the job EVER!  Do you know how that plays in real life?  I meet a nice girl, she asks what I do, I say: "Nothing".  What else can I say?  And what does she do?  Move on, that’s what.
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I’d kill Santa if I could.  The kicker is, if anyone spills his secret, they disappear.  Gone!  The last guy was halfway through decorating the tree.  So I keep quiet.  Santa always has the last laugh.