7 Sizzling Sundays of Summer Flash Fiction CONTEST, Week 6
Writer Unboxed on Aug 05 2012 | Filed under: Contest
Can you believe we only have one more scorching Sunday left in our Sizzling Sundays of Summer flash fiction contest? (Rules and fabulous prizes HERE). We are so blown away by the fantastic entries that choosing three finalists every week to compete for the ultimate prizes has become nearly impossible (that’s why sometimes we have four winners, because we are truly torn!). Thanks to all who submitted stories based on last week’s prompt.
Our honorable mentions this week are:
Lara Schiffbauer (“Steven hustled through the storm, head down.”)
CB Soulsby (“To them, I am unknown.”)
Ty (“She watched the big man walk towards her.”)
Andrea Ellickson (“With a name like Cari Magic Casey, she thought that magic would have come easier to her than the rest.”)
Larissa Thomson (“He’s close enough to her now that he can actually smell her.”)
And this week’s winners, in no particular order are:
Julia Jay (“She stood there once a week, right by the railings which contained the park.”)
CB Soulsby (“The black cloak.”)
Michael Molony (“Date Night.”)
Taylor Ross (“Wool reached out, like fingernails scritch-scratching, irritating the back of her neck.”)
Congratulations to Julia, Michael, CB and Taylor! Your stories have made our finalists’ round, and will be part of the big WU vote on August 12th.
Can winners enter again? Yes, we hope all of you enter again! And we hope you are having as much fun writing them as we are reading them.
And now without further ado, our final visual prompt is again provided by the talented Debbie Ohi
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 August 8 at 7 a.m. EST.
- No more than two entries per person, per week will be eligible for that week.
- The top three or four 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!
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
Tom Bentley
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
Emily Colin
Jeannine Walls Thibodeau
Vaughn Roycroft
Kim Downes Bullock
Valerie P. Chandler
Heather Reid
Heather Webb
Denise Falvo
Therese Walsh
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
Her first trip is kaleidoscopic.
(I’m thin. Paper flake thin. I take a paintbrush, paint red, brown, orange strokes across the stumps of stucco. I paint oak trees in autumn because that’s what my paintbrush whispers to me. The Muskokas. The Muskokas in autumn. “Timothy Leary, takes you, trips you around the bay…” Then I paint my body raw umber and cadmium red, but it’s my Peter Paul and Mary Rubens body, “I’m leavin’ on a jet plane…”, with its marshmallow folds.)
She decides she likes to paint when she’s all lit up.
Her second trip is ghosts.
(She’s whisper-thin in a paper dress. I paint her on the stuccoed wall in my room because she won’t leave my head, “Oh baby, please don’t go…” until she’s on the wall. But then it’s wrong all wrong, and I don’t like seeing this person here. Spend an hour staring at her face. Wonder who is that dancing happy on the autumn wall? And oh god, who are you and what are you doing on my wall?)
She pulls out clumps of her hair and decides she doesn’t like to paint like this.
Her third trip, heavenly blue.
(I’m so freakin’ high, but I haven’t painted a sky on my autumn wall, “Go ask Alice, when she’s ten feet tall…” and I’m still so sad that the dancer has a happy face and I, fat fourteen year-old Marlene, don’t, and Uncle John still wants me to sit on his lap at bedtime…)
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Once upon a time, a big bad wolf was hiding in a forest high in the hills overlooking the city below. “I’m famished,” he said. “The next person who comes this way will be my dinner!”
Just then, he heard a female voice approaching around the bend.
“What?” the voice said. “Hold on, I have to adjust this stupid Bluetooth… That’s better… Yeah, I’m hiking. There’s, like, bugs up here—eew!—but I want to look good for my audition on Wednesday.”
The wolf licked his chops as the voice grew louder. “Seriously… I’ve been going to yoga twice a day and eating, like, these greens from Whole Foods… I don’t know. Kale, maybe?
“Whatev…” the voice continued. “I’m finally down to a size 2.”
“Size 2? What the hell kind of meal is a size 2?” the wolf said aloud.
He sighed. “I hate LA.”
Linda Lou´s last blog post ..If you thought I was done talking about Billy Jack, you’re mistaken
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Really? A Wolf? In L.A.? Pure genius! Who would have ever thought of using a wolf…ah, wait, that would be me. Like!
Michael Molony´s last blog post ..Friday Fictioneers: The Savvy Traveler
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Carol danced all the time. Carol danced in circles, around trees and through brush. These moments were her escape and her therapy, her love and her friend.
Most nights, when Carol should have been sleeping away in bed, she would go out into the woods and dance her worries away. Carol would dance for the trees and the dirt.
When Carol made a mistake, she danced. When Carol was angry or sad, she danced. Whenever Carol had a bad day, she danced. Whenever Carol had a good day, she danced.
When Carol got old and grey, a particular hospital visit brought bad news. Carol had cancer and it was in its later stages. She danced for a long time that night, sad to be leaving her family and everything she knew.
Eventually Carol came to a happy thought while dancing-she could still dance in heaven. Carol knew that she could dance anytime she wanted in Heaven, in the bright open or behind golden doors.
During her final days on earth, Carol continued to dance. When she passed away, the priest mentioned how she had ‘danced away to a better place. Carol could dance forever in Heaven. Even now, she is dancing away in heavenly woods. She is dancing away in happiness.
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Just looking at her, you might think that she is here for fun. You would think that she wanders these woodsy paths of her own free will. You may think that she has a deep fondness for nature.
You don’t know the truth.
We do. We are the people of the forest.
She is just another wanderer who came into the woods and will probably never leave again. This forest is like a mousetrap. The cheese always looks better when you aren’t trapped, although it is still good once you are stuck inside.
Once the forest claims you, the pain is always there in the back of your mind. A throbbing reminder that you tried to go somewhere you shouldn’t have.
Maybe that is why most of us are still here, stuck in these woods. We will never be able to ignore the pain and find our way out.
With the pain comes sweetness. The forest is not that bad, after all. It really is beautiful, from the ground to the topmost leaves of the trees, although not as beautiful now as it looked in the beginning.
Few people have overcome the pain and beauty to get out. The ones who do get out yell back through the trees something about greed. This new girl does look rather greedy. She will fit in just fine; I should go and tell her about the prettiest tree in this forest. I am sure she will enjoy it, just like we all do.
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“There is pain on the other side,” the trees say. “Turn back.”
I ignore them and continue along the trail worn by footsteps passed. I am determined to complete my journey. There are secrets to unravel. Different rituals to learn. New dances to new songs with faster beats.
The canopy grows thicker. The whispers louder.
“There is cruelty. There is greed. Turn back.”
My pace quickens. Branches lash against my bare ankles. My red dress tears, right up to the thigh, exposing wobbly flesh once concealed, like the thick skin of a pig.
“There is death. Turn back.”
I cannot block them out any longer.
“What is death?” I cry into foliage so dense I can no longer see the sky.
“Nothingness.”
I’m frightened of nothingness. I want to turn back but movement ahead catches my eye; a woman.
She gestures to me. I rush forward but feel no need to clasp her hand like I once would have so instinctively.
“The journey’s over,” she says.
“Where’s the pain?” I say. “Where’s the cruelty?”
“They’ve always been there. You just couldn’t see them before.”
“That can’t be true.”
“But it is.”
“And death? Has that always been there?”
“Yes,” she says. “But you must take another journey to reach it.”
“When?”
“When it’s time.”
We walk side by side. I’m taller than before.
“Will someone meet me on the other side?” I say.
“That,” says the woman, “is your decision.”
Above me, the branches part. And there is sun.
CB Soulsby´s last blog post ..Young Adult All The Way
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Thanks for all entries! This week’s contest is officially closed.
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“She’s always worse this time of month.”
Jerry peered through the viewing window. The girl was stunning, a vivid slash of colour in an otherwise colourless room.
“Doesn’t look the sort,” he muttered.
Fraser laughed. “Well, yeah, but that’s not your brain talking.”
The other side of the door, the girl twirled and spun on bare feet, with an expression of pure rapture on her upturned face.
“What’s she doing?”
“They found her like that, up in the hills, along with the bodies,” the other nurse explained. “Just give her the pills on time, and get out of there. You’ll be fine.”
When Fraser clocked out that evening, Jerry went to visit Ruby.
Her eyes widened when he came into her room, but not as much as they should have.
Close up, she was real pretty.
“You found me,” she whispered.
“Took a while,” Jerry nodded. “You killed my whole pack.”
Then the moon came out.
In the morning, Fraser helped clean up the remains.
The victim was a mess, cut wide open.
Ruby caught him looking.
“You want to know why I did it?” she slurred through the drugs.
“Same reason as always.” He shrugged “You were looking for Grandma.”
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It’s a shame that this story didn’t make it in before the closing. From among the various interpretations of the same picture, my favorites have always been the “not so literal” ones. You have a very creative, albeit twisted, mind and are destined for greatness! I look forward to reading more of your stories.
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Thank you ( I think?), I notice yours was an interesting take on the picture too, I liked that. It’s too bad about the deadline, but it came to me last minute and I couldn’t resist posting one more time.
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Purely complimentary, I assure you! As for the deadline, I also missed last week’s but I submitted my story anyway. I wish that I had discovered this site five weeks earlier but, now that I have, I hope WU holds many, many more Flash Fiction challenges. I enjoy reading all of the short stories, but a few, like yours, truly stand out as exceptional.
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Chloe touched her brush to the paper once more…and again. The last few leaves.
She relaxed, looking at her painting with that work-well-done satisfaction she loved so much. The graceful curved lines of the little girl, her arm and leg following the flow of her hair. The brilliant red-orange of the trees, the floating leaves. It was some of her best work, she thought. She faxed the completed picture to the publisher and sat back, mentally crossing her fingers. This time she really believed that she’d taken the first step toward her dream, being a children’s book illustrator.
When the phone rang, Chloe drew in a quick breath and picked it up.
What is this you’ve sent us? The voice on the other end sounded annoyed. This is supposed to be an illustration for “Little Red Riding Hood.” Why’s this girl dancing? Where’s the hood?
Now she was annoyed. Think outside the box, she said. The hood is a total cliché. Everyone’s always done that. The hood is symbolic. The red represents the danger in the world around her–the wolf, right? That’s all in the red leaves and her dress. Her dancing represents the innocence she’s about to lose.
This is a kids’ book, the other voice almost shouted. We need the hood.
Then I’m not your woman, she said with finality. She hung up and sighed. She wouldn’t give up her principles. She was an artist.
It would always be hard for a true artist in this world.
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[...] Writer Unboxed » 7 Sizzling Sundays of Summer Flash Fiction … [...]
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A SEASON OF RED
So you find yourself consumed with Curiosity, dancing about in a lifeless world empowered by men, still free to pursuit. But beware little one, my big eyes still spies the tasty flesh twisting inside your cloak of red as it tempts my soul; my enormous ears can still hear your muted laughs of joy, delighted by the cold pain of the still warm Red Season.
You matured too fast, lavishing from the bounty of your Season of Green. But that time has shifted on past, and soon, all the colors will bleed to gray, a chill will crawl through your bones, and a hunger will creep through your soul; for the Season of White will soon press itself upon your world; and your hooded eyes will find themselves bound to a destined path before them.
And after the extended dormancy, at the conception of a new Season of Green, our fragrances will join as one; and you will find yourself once again peering into my enormous, bright eyes, and whispering a lullaby into my ever inquisitive ears, and be forever consumed with the needs of my new life.
But for now little one, sojourn on. Dance and enjoy life’s freedom.
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[...] writer friend said, “You can’t write in a vacuum.” I did, however, place as a finalist in the contest! Big thank you to those who “liked” the story below, based on this [...]
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