7 Sizzling Sundays of Summer Flash Fiction CONTEST, Week 3
Writer Unboxed on Jul 15 2012 | Filed under: Contest
To say we are pleased with how our 7 Sizzling Sundays of Summer Flash Fiction contest is going is a huge understatement. We are thrilled with response and, most of all, the PHENOMENAL stories posted (and if you missed the post introducing our seven-week flash fiction contest, click HERE to check out the rules and prizes).
It was such a difficult task getting our finalists down to three that this week we chose four finalists to compete for the ultimate prize in August. It was truly a tough decision.
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 hard–are:
Linda Adams (“Sandollar Wishes.”)
Allison Corser (“Our backyard was a marsh that ran along the Mississippi River.”)
Ann Frantz (“A Jar Labeled Chazy.”)
Claire Fuller ( “It is hard to pin down times of real and absolute happiness in a life.”)
Terra Mar (“Turns out the doc is right.”)
And this week’s four winners, in no particular order are:
David Olimpio (“Dory T. Wellington and the Fire Orange Blue Jellyfish Kite”)
Linda Townsend (“Javier’s Laugh”)
Madeline Mora-Summonte (“In Pursuit of Pretty Things.”)
Bernadette Phipps-Lincke (“Cat looks across the steel table at me.”)
Congratulations to David, Linda, Madeline and Bernadette! 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 singled out a few notables, many many more made us pause with entries that not only told a complete story, but who also let the prompt unlock their unboxed creativity. Thanks to all who participated and dazzled us with your storytelling.
And now without further ado, this week’s visual prompt, again provided by the talented Debbie Ohi, is…
This week’s contest closes Wednesday July 18, 7 a.m. EST. Good luck and happy writing!
Kathleen Bolton
Therese Walsh
Porter Anderson
Dan Blank
Carleen Brice
Sarah Callender
Lisa Cron
Keith Cronin
Bill Ferris
Dave King
Robin LaFevers
Donald Maass
Sophie Masson
Jael McHenry
Jan O'Hara
Debbie Ohi
Barbara O'Neal
Ray Rhamey
Chuck Sambuchino
John Vorhaus
Julianna Baggott
Brunonia Barry
Sharon Bially
Anna Elliott
Anne Greenwood Brown
Tracy Hahn-Burkett
Suzannah Windsor Freeman
Kristan Hoffman
Jeanne Kisacky
Juliet Marillier
Julia Munroe Martin
Annie Neugebauer
Crystal Patriarche
Erika Robuck
M.J. Rose
Allison Winn Scotch
Lydia Sharp
Elisabeth Weed
Heather Webb
Denise Falvo
Therese Walsh
Vaughn Roycroft
Kim Downes Bullock
Valerie P. Chandler
Heather Reid
Jan O'Hara
Liz Michalski
Kathleen Bolton
Jessica Brockmole
Erika Liodice
Donald Maass
Victoria Mixon
Therese Walsh
Suzanne Anderson
Keetha DePriest
Dee DeTarsio 
Amy Sue Nathan
Colleen Turner
Sevgne on 
How. Dare. She. Roxy sat in the dark hallway, knees squeezed to her chest, and listened to her stepmother, Lydia, in the kitchen, bargain over the price of her mother’s wedding ring. The ring with the two sapphires as blue as her mother’s eyes, her father said. Before Roxy’s mother died, she slid it off her thin finger and pressed it into Roxy’s palm, curling Roxy’s small fingers around it. Why had she not hidden it so Lydia couldn’t find it?
“It’s worth five times that amount!” Lydia’s thin soprano leapt higher up the scale.
“Madam, I understand,” the soft unctuous voice of the jeweler made Roxy want to scream. She bit down on her kneecap. “But times being what they are, I will not easily find a buyer at that price.”
Mine! Roxy’s cheeks flamed. Her empty stomach gurgled. They’d had nothing to eat yesterday, just some weak tea to fill their stomachs, and the day before, just some moldy potatoes Lydia had begged from the grocer. Ever since her Da left them to find work in the city, Lydia had had to sell everything they owned to buy food. But this…this was…oh where was her Da? He’d never let this happen.
Roxy heard the front door close. Soft steps, and then warm arms embraced her as Lydia knelt down. Nestled under Lydia’s chin in the soft spot between her collarbone and her neck, Roxy’s tears spilled onto her hot cheeks.
“I’m so sorry,” whispered Lydia.
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“Who are you talking to, my dear?”
Evie hugged herself tighter.
She didn’t want to talk to Aunt Freda, that’s for sure. Why else was she hiding here?
Duh!
Her Aunt looked down at her, and cocked her head on one side, like a curious parrot.
“Don’t like strangers huh?”
Then she took out a napkin filled with cake, and Evie watched from behind folded arms.
“There’s lots of food,” her Aunt said. “The Prodigal returns and all that.”
“Don’t care,” muttered Evie.
Anyway, Aunt Freda wasn’t a Prodigal, she was a Mad Old Hippy. That’s what Dad said.
The cake looked good though.
“So….are you going to introduce me to your friend?”
Evie glared.
They’d been making fun of her had they?
In front of the Mad Old Hippy.
She was so annoyed, she decided to let Robert yank a picture off the wall.
It smashed on the floor in a lovely way.
“Ah ha,” said Aunt Freda, looking straight at him. “There he is.”
Evie sat up.
“And what’s his name, my dear.”
“Robert,” she whispered.
“Nice to meet you Robert,” said her Aunt, addressing the boy in front of her.
“You can’t see him,” said Evie.
“Well, of course not, my dear,” said her Aunt. “But Peter can.”
She reached her hand down to Evie, then cocked her head on one side again.
“Peter wants to tell you something,” she smiled.
“Apparently he and Robert are going to be the best of friends.”
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Shyness
“All alone in this ugly world.” Alice said to herself.
“I’ve never felt joy, only sorrow. I think my moments of happiness occurred when I snuck around the corner and immersed myself in my own world, like I am now. I don’t care what all the others think. Just because I have a sad face doesn’t mean I am sad, it’s my mimic.”
But Alice was upset because she had been abandoned by her parents and been brought up in an orphanage. She always felt empty because of that and hated everyone, mostly herself.
One day, a couple to the orphanage and wanted a young daughter. They looked around and saw Alice, a cute 6-7 year old girl, with red hair, something they always wanted. It was love at first sight, for them, at least.
After the files had been signed, she left with the couple.
The first week was incredibly difficult for all three. The couple did everything they could to please the girl, but it felt awkward. She didn’t want to eat, she didn’t want to do anything. She even did her old routine of sneaking around a corner and talking to herself, of course, without them noticing.
On the ninth day she saw something that changed their relationship.
Although she was aware of writing, Alice never tried it. Mainly because the people at the orphanage never bought her anything.
That notebook and pen made her feel alive, they made her feel happiness, for the first time.
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Smells Like Mom
My knees smell like mom. I hug them tight, pretending my arms are wrapped around her neck. I breathe in her sweet fruity scent.
She left yesterday, saying goodbye to my sisters and me. Repeating that it was best for us all. I didn’t believe her, and I still don’t.
The woman with the flowery shirt came to get us last night. Supposedly my mom had the “decency” to call someone that could take care of us. That’s not how I see it. I’m not as naive as I look. I might be young, but I know she didn’t have to leave us.
Last night my sisters and I all stayed in different homes. I worry about Nikki and Sami. Unlike me, they aren’t able to care for themselves. I didn’t talk to the people who let me stay at their house. I know I won’t be there long, it’s only temporary. Until my mom comes back to get me.
This morning the woman with the bright flower shirt was wearing ugly earrings that dangled down to her shoulders. She brought me to school. Like I want to be here?
I used the bathroom pass, and have been sitting here for the past, I don’t know, forever it seems like. Crouching in the corner shadows, hoping they don’t come get me. I want to sit here and smell my mom.
Tracy Whitt´s last blog post ..The Year I Didn’t Care
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Alone
My throat closed around a knot of emotion which I tried to suppress, but the effort was futile. Tears spilled from my red eyes, leaving tracks down filthy cheeks. I pulled my knees into my chest in an effort to ward off the chill of the autumn evening.
This is my new home.
Discarded food wrappers blew through the alleyway. The smell of grease rolled from the back door of a nearby bar, accompanied by snatches of music and laughter.
What could there possibly be to laugh about?
“Who might this be?” The voice was close. I looked up into a pair of mean eyes, close set in a doughy face.
My heart raced as he smiled at me.
One long fingered hand reached for me and I scrambled backwards. Shards of broken glass sliced my hand causing a flood of fresh tears.
He put one hand against the wall for balance as he lurched toward me.
I ran.
My legs flew, fueled by adrenaline and instinct. My feet didn’t stop until I saw the flashing lights on the street ahead. Police and an ambulance were parked outside what used to be my home.
Crouching behind a row of bushes I peeked through as a stretcher was carried from the house. A sheet covered the body, and face, but I knew who lay there. My last refuge. The only person left who would’ve taken care of me.
I am alone.
Nicole L Bates´s last blog post ..Friday Fiction- Part 6 and THE END of The Dilemma
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The monsoon arrives, and it floods. Rain descends in whipping sheets so dense you hold your breath, as if you might drown.
The gutters are deep and open – two and a half feet deep, to carry away the torrent. Yet, it’s never enough. The drains become jammed with the dust and litter of the dry season. That is why everyone scrambles when dark clouds gather to the west, and the first rumble tells us that this one, surely, will change the seasons.
On a narrow slab of cement, she sits, shivering. Buses, trucks, and bicycles splash through the muddy brown river is the high road, horns raising a cacophony between mildew-stained buildings festooned with signs she can’t read. She is dressed in her usual grimy frock. Who knows how old she is. With these street kids, you can never tell.
Dr. Ambani, a regular, told me three hundred thousand people sleep on the streets of Chennai, but how can a number that big be real?
Inside my auto-rickshaw, with the torrent thundering on the plastic awning, I watch Malika squirm, edging her grimy toes higher as the flood rises. I’ve never seen her cry, or look this scared. Something is wrong.
Within me, I feel an unfolding. It’s thrilling, and I wonder if today little Malika is coming home with me. My wife has always wanted a child, but fertility clinics cost a fortune. More than what a rickshaw wallah earns. Petrol is expensive.
I wonder if Malika will agree?
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Sadly, a typo!
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great story.
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Wilson,
Thanks! I enjoyed your stories, too.
WL
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Stupid baby.
She could still hear it crying, even here in her corner. She could hear them too, fussing over it, like they used to fuss over her. She wasn’t sure what she’d done wrong, but she knew they didn’t love her anymore. They had a new baby now.
She’d show them. She’d wait until everyone was asleep, then she’d make the baby go away. She’d hide it outside, for someone else to find and take it home.
The house was quiet now. She crept down the hall, stepping over the squeaky board by the nursery, into the glow of the night light, just like the one she’d had when she was little. There it was, quiet in its crib, wrapped up tightly in a blanket, so it couldn’t get away. All the easier for her to carry, leaving a hand free in case it started to cry. The baby was blowing little bubbles, and had one hand by its mouth, with a mitten on it. How dumb was that?
She bent over and picked it up, surprised at how small it was. As she did so it opened its eyes and looked right at her. His eyes were so blue!
She backed up and sat in the chair next to the bed, still cradling him. As she did so, the mitten fell off, and a fat little hand reached out. Her brother grabbed her finger firmly, gave a little smile, then just looked at her.
Not crying.
Mike´s last blog post ..ROW80-3 check-in 7/15 – stinkin’ hot
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“Have you ever connected with your Inner Child?” Even from a shrink, Vera’s question sounded so trite I laughed. My adult life was messy enough. I had no desire to revisit an unhappy childhood, which also explained my years of therapy avoidance.
“Nope.” Topic dismissed, I hoped.
“How about we do that today.”
Vera smiled, and waited. I looked away, fidgeted with a loose thread on the throw. Frustrated at her loud silence, I pulled. Crocheted squares bunched up. I flattened them back down. And yielded.
“Close your eyes.” Vera said. “Take a deep breath and notice you are seated on a park bench. A little girl is playing nearby. Look at her.”
I started to, when without warning, I was overrun by my pent-up hell hounds.
“Get her away. She has to leave. Now!”
Panicked to escape my hidden world of rage and tears, I drew my feet up. Arms clasped around my legs, I hid my ears with my shoulders.
“She’s bad. She’s trouble!”
Vera sounded far away: “Who ever told you that? She’s innocent and beautiful. But she’s alone and scared. Won’t you just look at her?”
A Mack truck plowed through my heart and split it open. I saw an unkempt, wary child crouched in the corner of my bench. Her feet were drawn in, small arms clutched to her legs, bony shoulders pulled up to her ears. I unclasped my hands and reached out for one of hers. Cautiously, she edged closer.
Terra Mar´s last blog post ..Edges
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Had the same problem with my last submission. The ‘like’ button for my story is grayed out.
Should I not take this personally? :-)
Can you fix it? Thanks, Terra
Terra Mar´s last blog post ..Edges
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Hi Terra,
mine is, too. I think that’s the way it’s supposed to be: it’s gray just to the author of the post (I guess, so that you don’t “like” yourself :-), but not to others. Nothing personal!
Sasha
The Happy Amateur´s last blog post ..Going back to writing
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Hi Sasha,
So is mine clickable from your computer? Would be nice to know.
Thanks,
Terra
Terra Mar´s last blog post ..Edges
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I’ve just read you and clicked! :-)
The Happy Amateur´s last blog post ..Going back to writing
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Papa’s Naughty Little Girl
“Caitlynn, dear. It’s time for our next session.”
Papa called from among the too-bright lights. I hate them. Their flashes hurt my eyes.
“Caitlynn, honey. Don’t you want to show the world what you can do? How beautiful you are?”
Why does the world need to know? I was happier with Daddy. He told me how pretty I was in my dress every Sunday. Even when the dress didn’t fit right.
“You know, you’re the best girl I’ve had yet. The others did okay when I sent them to the producers, but you could be a star. Then everyone would love you.”
Daddy whispered “I love you” with every hug. Wrapped in his arms, I always felt safe.
“I bought you a new swimsuit, and some new eye shadow. I’ll touch you up just right, and you’ll be as gorgeous as those dolls you used to play with.”
Those dolls I want to destroy and throw away? I’m tired of this game. I just want to go home.
Papa came so close I could hear him breathe. Then his footsteps faded away, and I heard the door open and close. Was it safe again? I crawled over to look and didn’t see him—until it was too late.
“Ah, Caitlynn, hiding in the crawlspace? You are my special girl. You are also a very dirty and naughty little girl. Come, let’s take a bath.”
I dropped my head, stood, and followed Papa to the Jacuzzi.
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Good to know, and thank you!
Good luck!
Terra
Terra Mar´s last blog post ..Edges
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“Where is she?” bellowed Hank. The front door slammed against the wall. The doorknob punctured the scarred drywall with a crack.
“She’s not here.” Lily held her breath, clutched her knees tighter to her chest in the dark hallway. Her mother’s voice sounded defiant. But Lily knew otherwise. Lily and her mother had lived in fear every day since they ran away. Her father’s rages were uncontrollable. They flamed like a runaway fire in dry woods, like the one that burned down their house last summer, and forced them to move to San Francisco and live in this crumbling apartment building with broken elevators and rats. Lily closed her eyes, wished with all her heart that she was somewhere else, that her old life was her now life. But when she opened her eyes, the keen black eyes of a rat glowed in the shadows.
“Shoo!” she whispered. “Scat!” She wished she had something to throw at the rodent. She wished she had a warm grilled cheese sandwich, like the ones her mother used to make when they had food every day. She wished for her old bed, with its pink comforter, and stuffed animals that snuggled with her. She wished her father would turn back into the old father, the one that took her for ice cream cones on Sunday afternoons. She put her hands over her ears to block the slapping sounds. Some day, she vowed, she would be big enough to hit back.
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How Rejection Letters Ruined My Life!
I love to write. I love to eat. I decided to publish a cookbook.
My big chance came five years ago when I worked in our Parish kitchen. I got lots of new recipes so I wrote a book called ‘Clergy Capers.’ One day, Father Peter found me crying over my pile of rejection letters. He held my hand and asked me the title of my book. I told him. He told me to look for a new job. Later, outside the front door, Sister Mary Margaret whispered she’d be happy to edit my book.
Then three years ago, I dated a great guy. His very large family welcomed me with ring kissing and food. His grandmother even gave me recipes to their favorite cookies. But it all stopped when Tony found out about my book, ‘Family Secrets.’ His grandfather wrote me a rejection letter I couldn’t refuse. And my boyfriend disappeared.
Finally, I got so dejected at being rejected that I drove around town throwing those letters, one by one, out of my window while I cried tears of salt mixed with two cups of water. The cop behind me, with his paper-plastered windshield, didn’t understand at all. Last week, I started doing community service with an assortment of folks, picking up stuff in the park.
I’ve decided to forget cookbooks and try something new. I can’t decide on the title: ‘Talking Trash’ or ‘That Ain’t a Yellow Balloon.’
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very funny!
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Thanks! You made my day.
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Delightful and refreshing! So many dark and depressing stories here but an absolute joy to see your story – upbeat and creative. Thanks for taking the chance to be different.
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Their fighting was a storm and the lightning split them in two. Their thundering voices rattled every room to its very core and a sweet deluge of rancid hatred spilled from their lips.
Somewhere in a lonely corner of the house Anna was drowning in that hatred. She felt every word sear her heart and pinch her skin. Sometimes she would plug her ears just to get some relief from the sound of her father’s growling jabs and her mother’s piercing screams. They sounded like the wild animals from the zoo…but even lions can find comfort in each other’s sleepy arms.
Some days Anna pretended she was one of those lions. She grabbed all her stuffed animals and piled them around her. Together they huddled in a furry mass on the carpet. The animals would protect her from the scary words emitting from the kitchen. Maybe she could become a bear and hibernate for the rest of the year, or perhaps sink below the water like the great hippo. Anywhere would be better than the cold apartment on this stormy day. If only she really was a lion. Then she could scare her own fears away.
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I shrink into the shadows, pulling my arms and legs in tightly as if I can fold myself into nothing. My right foot twitches and I step on it with my left, feeling the thrum of restless energy that got me into this mess. It made me reckless, and now it’s too late to run.
Just before she rounds the corner, I slump sideways and go limp, praying I look convincing. A second later she grabs my hand. Better than my hair, I think, but then she wrenches me up and my shoulder feels like it’s tearing. My feet dangle above the floor and I try not to scream.
She shouts “Sarah” until the girl emerges from her bedroom.
“Why is your doll in the hallway?” she asks Sarah, shaking me for emphasis.
Sarah shrugs. Her mother drops me in an awkward heap.
“I put her away,” Sarah says. “I swear.”
“So your doll walked here by herself?”
For a moment I don’t have to concentrate on being still, because I’m paralyzed by panic. She knows my secret, and now something horrible will happen and I’ll never run or dance like a real child again.
But then I realize she’s being sarcastic. A toy coming to life? She would never believe something so impossible. Sarah picks me up and I settle into her arms like any other doll, limp and lifeless, except for the eager trembling of my feet and the relieved sigh that no one notices.
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This week’s contest is now closed, folks. Thanks for all the amazing stories. If you missed the deadline, please feel free to post so we can enjoy.
Vote for your favorites!
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[...] making it tough to pick out three finalists this week. Thanks to all who submitted stories based on last week’s prompt. As always, we have our honorable [...]
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