7 Sizzling Sundays of Summer Flash Fiction CONTEST, Week 2
Writer Unboxed on Jul 08 2012 | Filed under: Contest
If you missed last week’s post introducing our seven-week flash fiction contest, click HERE to check out the rules and prizes (recently UPDATED to be even more fabulous)!
Thanks to all who submitted entries based on last week’s prompt. It was tougher than we thought it would be to winnow the list down to three! That said, we want to name a few honorable mentions before we present you with this week’s top picks. Our honorables–the ones who made this especially tough for us–are:
CB Soulsby (“Last delivery of the day.”)
Alice (“He said it was dark.”)
Julia Jay (“I sit looking at the envelope.”)
Trudy (two stories)
Erin Nieto (“On the day of the big party, Monica Crane was mortified to realize that her signature red lipstick had gone missing from her makeup drawer.”)
Linda Townsdin (“I found Chloe in my locker at the new grade school where they sent us kids from Great Lakes Naval Base.”)
Andrea (“I invited the salesman inside my house before he had even asked.”)
And this week’s three winners, in no particular order are:
Natalie (“I can’t play Star Cancer Patient anymore.”)
Gail Mackenzie-Smith (“This baby cry all day long, and she called Rosie…)
Heidi Lacey (“I am, of course, well appointed for this task.”)
Congratulations to Natalie, Gail and Heidi! Your stories have made our finalists’ round, and will be part of the big WU vote in early August.
Can winners enter again? Yes, they can. We hope all of you enter again! Though we named a few notables, there were many entries that made us pause. Thanks to all who participated.
And now without further ado, this week’s visual prompt, again provided by the talented Debbie Ohi, is…
Remember the full rules can be found HERE, but if you’re in the mood to flash and run, cliff-notes rules are below:
- The story must be inspired by that week’s visual prompt.
- Each submission must be 250 words or less.
- Each story must contain a beginning, middle, and end.
- All submitted work must be original–not published anywhere else, and written by you, for this contest.
- Post submissions in the comment section of the prompt post. Each week, the deadline will be 72 hours after the prompt is posted on Sunday morning, meaning Wednesday at 7 a.m. EST.
- No more than two entries per person, per week will be eligible for that week.
- The top three stories from each week will be selected by a mix of votes in the form of Likes in the comment section and our own discretion.
Good luck!
Drawing courtesy © Debbie Ridpath Ohi, illustrator of the soon-to-be-released book for children, I’m Bored.
Kathleen Bolton
Therese Walsh
Porter Anderson
Dan Blank
Sarah Callender
Lisa Cron
Keith Cronin
Bill Ferris
Dave King
Robin LaFevers
Donald Maass
Jael McHenry
Jan O'Hara
Debbie Ohi
Barbara O'Neal
Ray Rhamey
Chuck Sambuchino
John Vorhaus
Julianna Baggott
Brunonia Barry
Tom Bentley
Sharon Bially
Carleen Brice
Anna Elliott
Anne Greenwood Brown
Tracy Hahn-Burkett
Suzannah Windsor Freeman
Kristan Hoffman
Jeanne Kisacky
Juliet Marillier
Julia Munroe Martin
Sophie Masson
Liz Michalski
Annie Neugebauer
Erika Robuck
M.J. Rose
Meg Rosoff
Allison Winn Scotch
Lydia Sharp
Elisabeth Weed
Heather Webb
Denise Falvo
Therese Walsh
Vaughn Roycroft
Kim Downes Bullock
Valerie P. Chandler
Heather Reid
Emily Colin
Jeannine Walls Thibodeau
Jan O'Hara
Kathleen Bolton
Jessica Brockmole
Erika Liodice
Donald Maass
Victoria Mixon
Therese Walsh
Suzanne Anderson
Keetha DePriest
Dee DeTarsio 
Amy Sue Nathan
Colleen Turner
On Harvest morning, as the first families arrive, Piper’s Hollow rings to the hammering of men raising the boundary nets.
Heavily drugged, our unsuspecting prey sleep on.
We set out our tables and chairs, our spices and herbs and cooking oils, whilst children gather wood for our fires.
And then we wait.
When they finally awaken, in a flurry of turquoise, crimson and emerald, their song is so sweet it pains our ears. Nets trailing like battle colours, we descend upon them, sweeping from side to side to side.
Later, satiated, I watch as Michael races with the other ruddy-faced boys, snatching up stragglers.
Olaf tends the catch, which cleaned and skewered, sizzles fragrantly above the embers.
When Christa appears with a hopeful smile, she’s holding something.
It’s injured.
“Can I keep it?” she asks.
A small child’s question.
I shake my head, start to explain, then Michael tumbles back, and laughs at his sister’s tears.
He grabs for the creature, but Christa pulls away.
And then it bites.
As fairies do.
She cries and I move to comfort her. Michael moves too, raising his foot, stamping down hard.
I scold him.
Later, Olaf shows him how to do it. One twist. The kind way.
And then at midnight, as we gather round the fire, Michael and Christa hold hands. They toss wings into the flames, faces alight as the shimmering trails spiral upwards, breezes dancing with every seed, strewing them out across the meadow.
And so it continues.
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“Where does the sky start, mummy?” he yells as he starts to run. His small fingers pinch the spine of the kite and he thrusts it upwards into the tangerine sun. The wind grabs the plastic wings away from him and lifts the kite higher and higher—the yellow and orange phoenix soars—so high it is just a small dot.
The kite has a glorious orangeredyellow tail which streams out behind like a month of summer Saturdays. Its spine and spur flex and bend.
One minute aloft. Flap. Fly. Two minutes. Float.
Suddenly, the wind sends it plummeting down into the indifferent grasses.
He stops and picks up the kite, sighs, then hoists the phoenix upwards again.
He decides to try to outsmart the wind and he unreels the line feverishly, tugs it, winds it back. The kite pulls him. He unreels more line. The kite pulls him again. He unreels more line.
But the wind is cunning. And ancient.
And the boy is only seven.
Then the wind lets go and drops the kite. The yellow and orange bird plunges headlong; its beak smashes ferociously into the grass.
He picks it up gently with soft small hands.
Life is like this, I say. Sometimes you have to pull on the line as hard as you can. But sometimes you have to just let go.
One last time, mum! he yells and as he runs, open-mouthed, he launches the kite upwards, a warrior triumphant.
And then he lets go.
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“Come on Billy, it’s my turn. Hand it over, let me show you how to get this kite flying.”
“It won’t work Jimmy. There’s not enough wind.”
“Course there is, you’re just not running fast enough. Let me show you.”
With that Jimmy Smith set off, at break neck speed, across the field, towards the edge of the nearby forest, with his best mate, Billy Jones, close behind him.
The creature, hidden in the trees, had been watching these two infant humans at play for some time. It was fascinated by their stamina and determination, something sadly lacking in the youth of his kind. While he could not fathom out why they wanted to make that object attached to a length of string fly, he was, nevertheless, fascinated. He decided to help them out. Taking a deep breath he sucked the surrounding air into his bulbous lung, before letting out a roaring wind in the direction of the two kite flyers. The trees shook. The sky turned crimson. The boys stood still, as if frozen in time. The creature watched in horror at what it had done.
The search party found their charred remains the next day. Two small bodies, moulded together by an intense heat. Waving in the wind, in a nearby tree, the tattered remains of a brightly covered kite.
Mike Jackson´s last blog post ..‘Deadly Games’ – Five Sentence Fiction
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Turns out the doc is right. Morning walks give me a lift I thought I’d never have again. I like to watch and listen now as each new day whispers its secrets. But this morning a wild gusty wind ambushed me. It swirled and circled and hurled me back in time. Then it swept across the fields of my memory with the full force of a dust storm.
I lean on my cane and stand still, head up. Wait. The wind dies down and leaves behind a trace of summer in the autumn air. I inhale deep and long, ignoring the wheezing in my chest. I follow the warmth like an old dog sniffing out a bone he hid a long time ago somewhere deep in the ground. I catch the edge of that memory and dig and poke and pull until I have it out in the open.
My Daddy is home! He is back from a war I am way too young to understand. He has on the same uniform I always saw when Mommy showed me the photographs, but this time he is laughing. He is right at the bottom of the hill. I call out. He turns and sees me. Then he falls on his knees, arms open, wanting me to come. To come as fast as I can. I run and run, a small, fleet-footed Mercury. I touch the Earth one more time and then, kite clasped high above me, I fly.
Terra Mar´s last blog post ..Vallarta’s Most Wanted
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I like Terra’s story but I cannot click on her Like button!
Ca you help?
Alfred
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IN PURSUIT OF PRETTY THINGS
The fierce orange eye of the setting sun watches Ellen chase the butterfly into the woods. But the sun is not the only one watching.
Ellen runs with great galumphing strides, not a graceful bone in her young body. Determination seethes in the set of her shoulders as she raises the toy net. She will catch that butterfly. She will capture beauty. She will hold it, study it. She yearns to make herself beautiful, to make herself loved. She is neither one.
That’s what the man is counting on.
He waits for the light to bleed out, for the sky to darken like a bruised eyelid. He lopes after Ellen.
She stalks the butterfly, her breath ragged with concentration. His breathing is smooth, even. She swings the net in a wide, sloppy arc. The butterfly flits off, disappears. The man doesn’t need a net. He never misses.
When he is finished, he leaves the woods beneath a dark, sleeping sky, the cloud shrouded moon just another in a long line of unseeing eyes.
*****
Madeline Mora-Summonte´s last blog post ..Motivational Monday
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She presses against the cold glass. Outside, cousins squeal, flinging crusty balls of white. They duck and dance as the spheres explode and rain rivulets against their chaffed skin.
A warm hand lights upon her shoulder. Her own drop low and meet cool metal, bands of steel that consume wasted legs.
“Hope, where are you?”
Hope turns from the wintery world, the corners of her mouth tilting upward; she loves this game. Grandmother sinks into the chair beside her, then disappears as Hope shuts her eyes.
“There is sunshine, and . . .” She bites her lip. “Something wet on my face.”
“And . . . ?”
Hope sniffs. The room is redolent of roasted turkey and spiced apples. She shakes her head, that won’t do. “I smell fishtanks, and burnt wood.”
What will she do with that? Hope wonders.
“You are at sea.”
Hope’s hair lifts with the breeze. Her breath catches as her stomach lifts and plummets, bobbing with the waves. Rippling sails pull tight and snap.
“It is burning hot,” Grandma says.
“The sun . . . ?” Hope licks her lips. The tang of brine is sharp on her tongue.
“No, the ship is on fire. You must escape. See the jellyfish in the water?”
She shivers. “Yes.”
“Quick! Use your golden lasso, grab the one that can fly.”
“I got him, Grandma!”
Her feet dangle as the wind inflates the creature like a magic balloon. Rising high above the burning deck, she sails for the coastline until her feet skip across the ground.
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Pigeon jerky. Pigeon jerky. Pigeon jerky.
My go hot, then cold, then tingly as I wait suspended, posing for the brush that will marks my silhouette.
The artist below me looks as uncomfortable as I am; the wind tosses his papers around like worthless wrappers, but something drives him…like something drives me.
Pigeon jerky.
The kite snaps its streamers behind me. I refuse to let the wind rip it from my hands. Instead, the incredible blast of air steals my breath, as I lean into it. The feeling bothered me at first, but I’m beginning to enjoy it.
I check the desire to fling the kite away by considering once again, that I was lucky to get a day-long job.
I grip the material tighter.
“Look happy,” the artist commands. “You’re supposed to be having fun.”
I open my mouth wider, like a kid anticipating a giant lollipop. Or pigeon jerky.
“Perfect.”
The sunset bleeds rust, shooting it all over the sky as the sun falls, a wounded soldier.
But I can’t think about wounded soldiers, or I might fall, too.
…Or I might cry because I miss my brothers, who all have jobs in the war. I stand straighter and tighten my core, my shoulders.
“Relax, kid.”
Shucks. There are worse jobs. I could be soldiering.
“You’re done.” The man flips me several silver coins and I triumphantly trot to the vendor selling Best O’Bird Jerky.
Christy Luis´s last blog post ..The Writing Process in 5 Stages
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Second line:
*My arms go hot…
Christy Luis´s last blog post ..The Writing Process in 5 Stages
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Did I run with it or did it chase after me? The thought crossed my mind as the pain from the tangled cord knotted around my hand reached me. The billowing auburn cloud of fabric blurred into the golden sky above me, almost taunting me with its untouchable beauty.
Today felt like it had gone on forever, with the wind pounding past me and my breath gasping as I ran with my fiery kite. Yet the sun was setting and soon my mother would want me home. Back to the mud brown house with its chores and boredom. My mystical kite would become ordinary and simple, with no wind to hold it aloft. As I came back to that house, and to my life, I wondered idly when I would run in the wind again.
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Letting Go
The last of the sunset lingers behind the hill glowing orange as the sky darkens.
Sitting beside your bed, I reach out and brush my fingertips onto the paper thin skin covering your cheek bone. I will you to respond to me, just a flicker of an eyelid or a ghost of smile. But you lie still and silent and a chill creeps into my soul.
My memory does a rewind to the day we climbed that hill, laughing and stumbling as we tugged at each others clothes, trying to make the other go slower. You reached the top first and stood there arms above your head, waving and smiling as I collapsed, breathless onto the ground beside you.
“Look, down there ! “
My eyes followed your pointing finger to the field below us where a small child held onto the string of a coloured kite. The kite swooped and swirled pulling the string taut then loose as the child struggled to stop it escaping.
We watched spellbound, willing the kite to stay aloft.
Then, in an instant, it was free of it’s tether. The string slipped effortlessly out of the child’s hand and we gasped together as the kite swirled off into the sky. Away and away on the wind while the child stood motionless, watching it float into the distance.
You inhale deeply, then exhale one last time. You are off, soaring into the air as I raise my hand to wave you on your way.
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I was sitting alone at the family reunion picnic in Miller’s field, shooing flies away from the peach cobbler, when little Emily came barreling down the hill, screaming about Big Foot. She pulled a kite behind her. The kite kept catching in the wind, slowing her down, adding to her apparent panic. Emily’s splotchy face was muddied with tears, sweat, and dirt.
“Where did she get that kite?” said Emily’s mother.
“She’s dropped it now,” said someone else.
When Emily reached her mother, she shouted, between gulps of air, “Big Foot’s coming. He’s mad.”
Emily’s mother grabbed water and paper towels, and began wiping Emily’s face. Emily was blubbering by then. Strands of corse, black, hair stuck to her forehead. Other children gathered around and began screeching about Big Foot.
I’m ambivalent about having children. They’re cute, but I don’t like noise.
I felt a headache coming.
I walked away from the the picnic tables, toward the cedar-rimmed forest at the edge of the field. I stopped and picked up the kite that Emily had dropped. It was heavy for a kite. I looked back at the chaotic picnic, then walked on toward the cool, quiet forest.
Big Foot, that consummate introvert, has a lifestyle that some might consider enviable. I was thinking about that, and picturing the isolated mountain meadows where Big Foot would fly a kite, as I entered the forest.
A low, but friendly, and somehow shaggy, voice interrupted my thoughts, saying, “You found my kite.”
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Dave tried to ignore the line of ants marching across his ankle. All afternoon he’d hid, waiting for someone to sneak across the hilltop. While the setting sun now made him squint, it would also silhouette any rebels, like cut out targets on the firing range. Hopefully that would make his first kill easier.
For most of his life he’d known war, as the rebel groups fought back and forth. He and his little brother had tried to ignore it, taking advantage of lulls in the fighting to run and play, ignoring the stench of death and thump of distant cannons. Then last year, on his 15th birthday, he’d signed up, in spite of his mother’s tears. His brother cried too, but Dave told him his job now was to look after their mother.
He checked his rifle once again, making sure the sights were clear. At this range he didn’t need a scope, open sights made a snap shot easier.
He was pulled from his musings by the sound of feet, running up the other side of the hill. He tightened the stock to his shoulder and curled his finger around the trigger. He lined the sights up with the crest of the hill, took a breath, and let it out slowly.
There! Darting over the crest! Quick! He aimed, squeezed, and felt a surge of pride as the little figure dropped like a stone. The kite fluttered slowly to the ground, covering the body like a shroud.
Mike´s last blog post ..ROW80-3 checkin 7/8 – professionalism
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Stagnant summer air clings to the flesh colored walls. Sunny licks the salty dew from her upper lip and sits up. Kicking off her blankets, she hears the familiar hiss-pop of the beer can.
“Fucking idiot!” Daddy yells at the Television Man.
Sunny hears Mama sigh and sweetly purr, “Mhm, but keep it down Baby, Sunny’s sleepin’.”
Sunny’s chest tightens as Mama speaks, and the hairs on her arm tingle.
“This is my goddam, piece of shit house, innit Cheryl?” Daddy’s words slide together and rise above the Television Man.
Sunny’s heart pounds as red heat creeps into her face. She presses her sweaty hands to her freshly pierced ears.
“Of course Baby, it’s your house.” Mama talks slow. Sunny aches to feel Mama’s soft arms around her and smell her vanilla scent.
“Then shut…the hell up.” Daddy’s voice wavers as he stands. Sunny can hear the side table scrape against the floor as he staggers.
Mama’s quiet for a moment. “Baby, you know I didn’t mean nothin’.”
Knees up to her chest Sunny floats away. A green meadow appears with tiny blue flowers for miles and an endless sky. Laughter bubbles from below a giant oak tree. ‘We’re having a picnic, Me, Mama and even Daddy.’
There’s a thud and Mama screams.
‘The sun’s settin’ and I’m runnin’ like I’ve never done. The wind tastes like strawberries and a homemade kite is flyin’ high. Mama’s wavin’ as Daddy hollers his praises. Look at me! I’m free!’
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Powerful.
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We never expected to witness such a dramatic decline in our lifetimes. Despite the precise calibration of our instrumentation our daily measurements had been a farce for longer than I care to admit (What really is the difference between 0.001 and 0.000999…? Our uncommonly small measurements, in milliseconds of arc and less, could easily have been covered many times by the width of the finest human hair when projected onto a plane; but this obscures the true scale which is almost impossible to comprehend – of distances greater than the breadth of the galaxy). For too long we had watched anxiously then sighed in frustration as each day’s calculations were compared without success against the historical data.
Then one day, the unexpected: a visually imperceptible shift, but statistically justifiable – the sun had moved minutely across the heavens. We stared (in hope?) at one another, our squinting eyes focusing with difficulty as sunspots swam across our vision. In the following days messengers were sent to all corners of the realm, but they could not travel as swiftly as the now rapidly setting sun. Their lengthening shadows racing eastward were the true heralds.
We watched in anticipation the last dying moments of the sunset, unable (perhaps unwilling?) to believe our own eyes. As the final tiny sliver disappeared below the horizon the sky was painted in fire, bells rang out and children ran and sang: The king is dead; long live the king.
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The lone boy sat with big fingers jammed in his mouth. His eyes didn’t leave the children on the other end of the beach. They were darting after a kite.
He envied their wildness. Sand stuck to their calves and their hair was fluffed up from the salt and wind. He watched them in his unwrinkled white suit, the blue towel protecting his hands and feet from the sand. His mother had warned him about getting too mixed up with sand. He still smelt like the soap she had scrubbed him with that morning.
Their comments whipped up in the wind, ‘It’s mine, Frank!’ ‘You can’t catch me’ ‘Stop pushing!’
Their sounds made his fingers reach deeper into his mouth.
A gust of wind pulled the kite and its owner across the stretch of sand that separated him from them, and the kite fell at his feet. He looked at the kite. He looked at the girl. She was holding her wrist and wincing.
He grabbed the string she’d dropped and dashed towards the sea. The roar of the sea before him and the children’s shouts behind him made him shout out loud. He crashed into the water, the kite bobbing above him. It didn’t matter if mother scrubbed him extra hard tonight – he would go home smelling like fun.
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[...] a few weeks off the novel and do short stories and articles, some of the result of which has been Sand Dollar Wishes (my grandmother died the day after I wrote this story), a short story called Death Seer in [...]
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The goblin follows me from school. He’s been waiting for days, and Grandma knows all about him.
So this evening, I go to the park, as usual.
“Do the things you normally do,” Grandma said.
So I take my kite out of my bag, and charge down the mound with all the other children, the sun beating down on my face and the wind rushing past my legs. And I forget the goblin for a moment, but all the time, he’s watching me.
There are groups of children here, some from school, the big kids, the scary kids.
But the goblin wouldn’t go after them.
The goblin stays with me.
And as I leave the park, he comes up beside me. I can smell his goblin breath – like toffee.
“That’s a lovely kite,” he says.
I pretend not to be frightened, and smile shyly, like Grandma told me to.
A young mum speaks to me. “Are you ok?”
The goblin freezes.
“I’m fine,” I say, but my heart is thumping real bad.
Still I keep moving, and the goblin follows.
The Square’s empty tonight, but there’s a rusty swing.
“Do you want to push?” I ask.
He does, with heavy goblin breathing.
A gate creaks, and I look up.
It’s Dad.
The goblin shrinks back, as I jump down.
“Off you go,” says Dad.
I glance back – and now he looks just like a bug-eyed-goblin.
People don’t know what to do with them, Grandma says.
But we do.
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Hey folks, the contest is now closed for this week but feel free to post any stories you’ve written.
Vote for your favorites!
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[...] flash fiction was created for Writer Unboxed “7 Days of Summer Flash Fiction Contest.” Write 250 words inspired by the visual prompt. (Todays story was not submitted for the contest, [...]
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Ha, ha! I’m doing my favorite thing. I’m swinging around a dead octopus on a string. Running around. Welcome to my black-spiked Hell-home. Ha, ha! I can’t stop laughing. Dead octopus, I love you. I wonder if my feet will burn off soon? I’m running so fast my skin is crying. But stopping’s worse they say, ha!
It sure is hot here, and getting hotter all the time they say–ha, ha! How long is forever? Dead octopus on a string, everytime I try to remember your name, I go blind. Ha, ha! I’m so happysad!
Run with me!
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“Tell me what you see in your dream,” asked the doctor.
“I see a silhouetted figure running with a torch.” I muttered.
“Is it a man, or woman?” He asked thinly.
“I can’t find the right words to describe it.” I replied.
“Frankenstein was created by Mary Shelley with words. The man in her story was created from body parts taken from cadavers and sewn together to form a whole body. Words can create life. The difficult part is finding the energy that will give ‘life’ to those words.
Dr. Frankenstein channeled the energy from the storm to bring a mess of body parts to life, you must find your energy and channel it to your words.” The doctor lectured.
“Where does the life energy come from then? I asked.
“It’s in the details. Details give objects made up of words the essence we call life. The ability to create life using words is essentially a gift, of course.” He said.
“My words are like dust, and as dust, they will never have the energy to become alive. My words are like the heap of lifeless limbs and organs in the Promethean man, I cannot find the source of energy to give them life!” I yelled at the doctor. “ You must provide me with the energy to give my creations life!” I screamed.
“Nurse! Nurse! the doctor called out loudly.
“I know the silhouetted figure running with a torch in my dream!” I yelled.
“It’s me! It’s me!”
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