Thank you to everyone who participated in round 4 of the WU Flash Fiction Contest. We had fewer entries than previous months, but we enjoyed reading all of them. I’ll be announcing the winner of round 4 at the end of this post, so stay tuned. But, first of all, allow me to welcome you to round 5.
The prompt for May is the picture above. Is it just me, or does that image make your fingers tingle with anticipated adventure? (Just me, huh?)
The rules:
- Each submission must be 250 words or fewer.
- Each story must contain a beginning, middle, and end. Like all stories, a compelling narrative is essential.
- All submitted work must be original, not published elsewhere, and written by you. After the contest, what you do with your story is up to you; we hold no claim on your work.
- Each submission must be made in the comment section of the prompt post.
- No more than two entries per person, per prompt will be eligible for any given month.
- Deadline for entries will be one week after the prompt is posted, meaning 7 a.m. EST on the second Saturday of the month.
- The winning story each month will be selected by a mix of votes in the form of Likes in the comment section and our own discretion (which includes a blind-reading of the entries by a panel).
Please remember to Like the stories you enjoy!
What the winner receives:
Each month’s winning story will be announced the following month, and republished on Writer Unboxed, along with the author’s bio, and links to the winner’s website and social media accounts. As well as this platform-raising exposure, the monthly winner gets bragging rights and the exclusive opportunity to compete for the grand prize in December.
In December, each of the monthly winners will be asked to write a new flash fiction story based on a new prompt. The overall winning story will be selected by a mix of votes via a poll and our own discretion.
The overall winner of the 2015 Writer Unboxed Flash Fiction Contest will be announced by the end of December 2015, and will win a fabulous Mystery Prize Pack. The other ten finalists will also receive runner-up prizes.
The contents of the Prize Pack will be announced in one hour. Stay tuned!
Happy writing!
I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with for this month’s prompt. Next month, you could see your name in lights, just like… Oh, hang on. Let me do this properly.
And now… announcing the winner of Round 4 of the WU Flash Fiction Contest.
The entries in round 4 included a variety of genres and writing styles, and it was interesting to see the many ways the image was interpreted. (That’s one of my favourite parts of this contest.)
HONOURABLE MENTIONS
Denise H. Long (“Neighbourhood Pool Party”)
Vincent Bracco (“Going to work, Christopher saw a penny, heads-up, near a sewer.”)
Christina Hawthorne (“Lattice”)
WINNING ENTRY
With her second winning entry of this competition, earning her a second entry into the December finals round, please say congratulations to the winner of round 4:
Kate Magner with Early. Please read and enjoy the full story, in its encore performance.
“It’s too soon.” I tried sitting up, but another contraction laid me flat against the birthing room’s dirt floor.
“Sweet girl.” Maiara dabbed sweat from my brow. “It’s time.”
“But he hasn’t found everyone.”
“Give the boy a chance.”
Maiara shuffled from my bulging belly to stoke the fire.
Smoke perfumed with charred sage guided embers through the ceiling’s gaping hole. Sunlight promised the canyon where Tane rushed to gather scraps of hand-woven blankets and the plains where one day we’d ride.
Countless contraction swept thoughts of missing ribbons and galloping from my mind. White specks flared and, instead of worrying or dreaming, I gripped the blanket beneath me.
As the pain ebbed and the flecks cleared, Tane arrived up above. His nervous gaze locked on me.
“Am I too late?”
“Only if you’re empty handed.”
“I promised didn’t I?” He hurried halfway down the ladder, then pulled a crosshatched grid into place.
Scraps he’d tied around the interlocked branches dangled toward me. They swayed as the lid settled and Tane finished his decent.
“What else can I do?”
Maiara wiped my brow again. “Be near.”
With swollen fingers, I squeezed Tane’s hand as tightly as the knots above my head. The presence of our sisters, mothers, aunts, and grandmothers shone from each ragged bit of cloth. When another pain-filled wave came, I soaked in their presence, their belief I could accomplish what they’d all endured, and bore down until the three of us could ride into the sun.
Kate Magner lives near Seattle, Washington. Working as a librarian pays her bills and escaping into the foggy, rainy, and sometimes even sunny outdoors helps maintain her sanity. When she’s not traveling as much as budgets and jet lag will allow, she writes fantasy short stories and novels in the hopes of giving all the characters in her head their own adventures.
Congratulations, Kate! If you want to join Kate, Pauline, Larissa, and Vincent in the finals in December, you know what to do. Good luck!
About Jo Eberhardt
Jo Eberhardt is a writer of speculative fiction, mother to two adorable boys, and lover of words and stories. She lives in rural Queensland, Australia, and spends her non-writing time worrying that the neighbor's cows will one day succeed in sneaking into her yard and eating everything in her veggie garden.
WATCHER
Look at you. Trying to see what’s on the other side before you commit. Go on, run! Oh, right. Just catching your breath. And you’re late. Meg and the kids, Meg and the kids. Waah, waah, waah. That’s some mantra you got going.
It’s your run. Your time. All yours, pal. New apartment, new job, new neighborhood, a path you don’t know, it’s not even seven, fine, it’s deserted. It’s a little … let’s stick with deserted. Not get neurotic. There was a time you’d have flown through that portal, hungry for any new vista.
No. Don’t.
Do. Not. Look. At. Your. Wrist.
The exact time doesn’t matter. Checking the weather is stupid – you are currently in the weather. Using the GPS on this path will kill any remnants of the man you used to be. If your heart is racing, or blood pressure’s up, you’ll head home for sure. If there are texts – and there are texts – from Meg, work, Mother, from Suzanne …
Fucking watch. Should rename it: Watcher.
$17,000 leash, more like. Not to mention, it’s a phone, except on your wrist, except too small to see. From Suzanne. Older Suzanne. Not-getting-the-message Suzanne.
Ding. Go ahead, peek. She loves the emojii. Oh, funny, a yellow ball face, gritted teeth and bugged eyes and flying sweat, with a lightening bolt aimed at the … Wait, is that funny? Is that supposed to be me? How does she …?
What is that? Shooting up my arm? Electricity?
Thanks for your entry, Stephanie.
What She Already Knew by Toni Evans
Using the life insurance for this trip to Scotland had seemed indulgent, adventurous even. Sam would have approved. But instead Mel was miserable. This bus tour group chattering on at every historical site, griping about the wind, their aching feet, not enough pillows, day after day. Her nerves were worn down to a thread about to snap.
As the group moved along the garden path of this Great House in Creagan, Mel deliberately floated to the back. When they passed through the opening in the beautiful stone wall, she seized her chance, stepping off to the side, leaning back against the ancient rock. She took a deep breath and willed the panic and nausea to ease. She let the warmth of the stone sink in past her Macintosh, and she closed her eyes and breathed in the scents of the wild rosebush, listening to the calls of what she now knew were Honey Buzzards thanks to her intrepid guide Gordon. Gordon’s nasally voice grew faint.
She studied the wall Sam would have loved, wondering how long ago it had been built, and by whom. Mel pulled out the creased photo-booth snapshot she had been carrying from their dating years. She placed it between her palms and for several minutes prayed a prayer of gratitude, so thankful for the love. Then she tapped it into a crack between two stones in the wall.
Sam’s pragmatic voice said what she already knew. “If you aren’t having fun, go home.”
Thanks for your entry, Toni.
Do I submit an entry here?
Yep, right here in the comments. Good luck!
I posted my story on here, but now I don’t see it. Is it just me, or does it have to be approved first? Confused…
Stephanie Sanchez
Stephanie, it went to moderation, but has been approved now. You are in! :-)
‘1915’ by V Knox
Grownups have ridiculously high expectations of children. I was a child once, so I know.
Nanny left old Parks in charge. “I need to fetch master’s hat,” she said. “Keep your eye on him. In full sight, mind.”
Groundskeeper Parks was burning the leaves while Herbert and I kicked through the stragglers trying to escape. It was the first day of our holiday, visiting the north, and Scotland was boring. “I’m going to explore,” I said. “Down there. Through that arch thingy.”
Parks straightened his rickety back ‘aching fit to break’ and pointed to the grey brick wall melting into great slabs of natural stone.
“Ye dinna want te be doin that laddie. Whuteverrrr ye fearrrr most tis nuthin te whut ye’ll find thru yonderrrr arch, d’ye ken?
I pretended to be suitably wide-eyed but he was easy to vex.
“What if Herbert runs through?”
“Then tis farewell te wee Herberrrt. Recken ye can get anotherrrr dog. Aye, the auld folk love juicy wee dogs.”
“Your lying.”
Parks poked his gloved finger into my shoulder, twice. “Nay. Little English sirs think they ken everrrrthin. The faeries… acht, neverrrr ye mind.” He waved me away. “Go if it pleases ye.”
His wheelbarrow squeaked away for more leaves and naturally I threw Herbert’s new ball to the bottom of the garden. It took three times before it sailed through the arch. Herbert ran after it, then me.
That was a hundred years ago. I’m almost sure I was a child once.
Thanks for your entry, Veronica.
‘I’ll come for you.’
‘When?’
‘Soon.’
‘How will I know?’
‘The heart knows all. It will receive the call and alert you.’
‘What if the chambers fail to let me hear?’
She laughed.
‘A heart never fails. Not when one is in love.’
‘And am I?’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘I asked first.’
She smiled so beautifully it was as though the world lit up, illuminated by twenty suns which spun gloriously around an impassive moon. Stars exploded, and thirty whales shot out of the ocean, tails slapping down and causing ripples in the fabric of time. Schools of fish spun, turned, glistened, whirled, as flower buds unfurled above; pink, red, orange, cream. The earth melted until it was a vast sea of molten gold, and her eyes burned black.
‘Take my ring.’ She handed me a silver band, not a single mark thereon. ‘So that you might know me when we meet again.’
Her touch seared my skin and my heart was branded with her name, a sudden sizzling of burning tissue to forever mark me out.
‘Where will we meet?’
‘At the entrance to your world, of course.’
Then she was gone in a flurry of skirts and the sound of horse’s hooves.
I stood one side of the archway and waited many moons, heart beating fast as I pressed my cheek to the cool of the stone.
I am waiting still, although at night I sometimes hear a call, a shrill keening in the wind:
‘Where are you?’
Thanks for your entry, Julia.
Jo,
Was this photo taken in Scotland by chance? I took a photo just out of Aberdeen that looks identical.
Your photo is beautiful, by the way.
Thanks.
Thanks very much, Diane. No, not taken in Scotland (although how I’d love to visit Scotland!). This photo was taken during my trip to America last year to attend the Unconference. The other side of the world is exotic enough for me, and as soon as I saw this place, I felt the magic of story around it.
The Entering
From the mountain top, the King cast his gaze over the land he’d ruled for fifty orbits of the sun. His tired eyes shone with pride at his legacy but he yearned for the strength of a young man. It was time. But he must hurry.
“Use my horse, Sire.”
The King continued to hobble the last of the mountain pass. “He’s creature of flight, young Franz. The Entering is no place for him.”
“Then let me help you,” insisted his Page.
“No! I must do this myself.”
The King looked ahead to the stone archway. The air within was already shimmering into a swirling vortex. He willed his aged legs to move faster, but then he stumbled and fell.
“Sire?” Franz leapt from his horse and helped his King to his feet.
The King sagged against him. “It is no use. I need strength to travel to the next realm.”
“I will help you, Sire.”
“You cannot. I see your fear.”
“I fear for you, Sire. Not the other worlds you have told me about.” Franz clutched his arm. “I will take you through.”
“There is no knowing of what lies ahead,” said the King. “And no coming back. We could be deemed sorcerers.”
“Then we shall use my loyalty as our shield,” said Franz.
The King gripped Franz’s arm. His shield would be strong. “So be it.”
They stepped into the swirling mist together. The Entering closed around them. And sealed, for another fifty orbits of the sun.
END
Thanks for your entry, Pauline.
The Lesson
“Why can’t we go out into the light mother?” Lizzy asked. “It’s bright and warm. The air’s so refreshing. Plus, it brings us our supper.” Her mother looked at her sternly and walked away. Lizzy wouldn’t be deterred though. Once everyone left for the Great Hall, she made her way towards the beckoning exit. Her heart raced as she peeked out. It looked safe. Gentle leaves sung above and the wind wisped over her skin. There was nothing scary about it. Let the adventure begin, she thought.
Quickly, she made her way down the steep exit and giggling she leaped onto the blended colors below. She looked up, amazed! Her home was just a tiny nothing compared to its’ greatness. She scurried back to get a better view. Magnificent! Lizzy looked at the ground below her. It was no longer soft dirt. It was firm and black with a path so long, it could go on forever.
A movement caught her attention. She turned to see a dark figure coming towards her. At first, she was afraid, but the peculiar voice seemed to sooth her.
“Beautiful day, isssn’t it?” The voice whispered. Lizzy agreed and stepped closer with confidence. As she did, the figure shot towards her with its mouth open wide. She ran like the wind, straight home. Her mother was waiting. Tapping her foot she said,
“Lizzy Lizard, I hope you’ve learned your lesson!”
She had! Breathing heavily and still shaking, Lizzy vowed to never leave home again!
Thanks for your entry, Stephanie.
Samantha walked towards the tunnel, staring at where the body had been. She could still see it, the tan sand brown with blood. It was clean now, new dirt over the old.
She stopped, looking at the squares of stone block, graffiti marring the patterns in the rock.
“Hey Sam.”
She started. “John. What are, I mean, hi.”
He stepped into the tunnel, staring at the ground. “I’ve been here every day since, well, you know.”
Samantha took a step nearer, her hand fluttering up and down uncertainly, a faint flush across her cheeks. Finally she put her hand on his shoulder. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m not. Who would DO such a thing? Just bash her head in and leave her. They haven’t found any evidence, not even what she was killed with. Or… “
“Or?”
“Don’t tell anyone Sam, but, I can’t find a ring I gave her. I… proposed. The night she died. She didn’t have it on her, and I can’t find it here. I think… the killer may have it.”
“Oh John! I’m so sorry, I had no idea. I’ll keep my eye out.”
“Thanks. I.. I better go.” John turned and went back the way he came, eyes darting around at ground level.
Sam waited until he was gone, then pulled a brick out. Ignoring the dried blood on the back, she reached in and snagged the gold ring inside. One day, he’d realize he gave it to the wrong woman.
Thanks for your entry, Alexander.
The Dare
“I dare you.” Nine year old Austin taunted the boy. Freckle-faced and small for his age, Peter, desperate to make friends in his new home eagerly answered Austin’s summons for an after-school adventure at the park. “Are you scared?”
Peter shook his head slowly and stepped in front of the stone archway. It looked to have been there for hundreds of years, built into the narrow valley. Peter told himself there was nothing on the other side, more park, more trees, more of the same. Austin was trying to scare him.
Peter stepped under the arch and emerged unscathed. Beaming with pride, he turned to face Austin and accept his congratulations. Instead, three of Austin’s real friends jumped on Peter’s back and beat him to the ground to the sound of Austin’s cruel laughter.
Peter didn’t return to school the next day, or any day after. Rumor was that his parents took him and moved back to wherever they came from.
Twenty years later, Austin stood outside the same arch, a pretty girl on his arm. “I dare you,” he sneered with malice written on his features. She hesitated. He pushed.
On the other side of the arch, Austin heard a muffled whimper. Smiling ugly, he stepped through the archway. There, he saw his three childhood friends, one shot in each head, lying on the ground. The girl cowered in the corner. Cold steel pressed against his temple.
A large, freckle-faced man growled, “I dare you. Are you scared?”
Thanks for your entry, Rebecca.
The Road Less Traveled
We all knew about the shortcut that led to the high school. It ran along an old road and through a small tunnel before opening into the large field behind the sports field. As often as it was used to get to school by those who didn’t need another tardy on their record, more often it was used as a path to sneak away from school. The ground was littered with cigarette butts, the leftover stubs of marijuana cigarettes, glass from broken pipes, and even an occasional condom wrapper. Although the path was frequented during the day as soon as twilight came with its deep grays and blues and shadows filled the recesses of the tunnel, the path was not traveled. No one ever admitted they were afraid and there was no recorded incident of violence to keep people away. Instead there was an unspoken knowing that this was not a place to be when darkness fell. Even the most daring would not risk being in the tunnel if the sun was setting. No jokes and teasing that often accompany the fear of forbidden places were spoken of in reference to this space.
When Maria disappeared no one connected it to that place; that dark and wonderful link between here and there. No one wondered if she had walked there as the shadows lengthened because it was a given that no one would dare to. But I knew she had. I had seen her go. I never saw her again.
Thanks for your entry, Elizabeth.
Waiting
Natalie didn’t answer the bell. Dalton banged on the door. Not a sound from inside. An elderly neighbor down the hall peeked out.
Dalton’s free hand clutched the tiny box in his jacket pocket. Somehow the reservations at Angelica’s seemed unimportant now.
He tried Natalie’s sister. “It’s not like her.”
He’d known Natalie two months. No, it wasn’t.
Co-workers couldn’t help. A police report was filed.
“People don’t just disappear.”
“They do.”
Months passed. The sister came for Natalie’s belongings, severed ties.
Dalton kept searching, hoping. The hardest part–not knowing, imagining the worst, living each numbing possibility.
He kept her alive in his mind, visiting the place in the park near the bridge where they first met.
“Just think,” Natalie had said, her fingers tracing the edges of the stones. “How many people fell in love right here?”
One morning the following summer, after powerful thunderstorms broke the oppressive heat, Dalton returned the tiny box to the jeweler.
“It’s better,” the jeweler began, “to find out early it isn’t going to work.”
Dalton said nothing. What was there to say?
He did laundry, shaved, renewed his driver’s license. And some days not.
Now and then, going nowhere, he’d see a yellowed flyer clinging to a telephone pole and he’d stuff it into the pocket of his frayed jeans. On those days he’d hurry to the stone archway, their place, loveliest in the fall, the cold stones like waiting hearts, listening, listening for the echo of those footsteps.
The stone kept me in, harsh, grey, dank, cold. Slabs threatening to bash a skull should they fall.
‘Just leave.’
I spun around, startled by the voice, but there was nobody to be seen, just walls of hard rock mocking, closing in.
‘How?’ I chanced into the void.
‘Go through.’
‘Through what?’
No answer.
I spent my time searching then, hands running along walls which pierced my fingers and caused me to shout out in agony as each cut seared and blood ran – the price of a desperate need to be free.
‘Towards the light,’ was heard, one time.
I couldn’t see what was meant, blind to this world since birth. I set out on a circular quest, tracing each inch for clues, going by instinct and scent and a painstaking survey of each fissure and crack.
On the third pass, I was shocked to discover an opening that had magically appeared, unless my mind had blocked it up before, determinedly filling it with stones to the sweep of the arch.
‘Go on, step through and out.’
I couldn’t move, afraid of what was on the other side. Greens and yellows beckoned, teasing in the breeze.
‘Go.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Scared.’
‘Of what?’
‘Myself.’
‘Ahh. So be it.’
I stood rooted to the spot, not daring to dismantle the fears stacked high and immovable; a lifetime’s work.
A voice boomed in the darkening sky.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, the castle is now closed. Please leave by the exits clearly marked.’
The Dream
Rebecca was still shaking when she opened her eyes to the sound of her own sobs. Gradually, her breathing slowed and she was once again able to think. “There’s that dream again. Hadn’t had it since I sent Jason away.”
Jason had been part of that dream and, now that she was rid of him, the dream should have gone away. Could it be that Jason was still there…..waiting for her, watching her every move? That old feeling of fright returned.
“Jason! Are you there?” No answer, yet she knew he was.
He would make her go down through the passage and, once she went in the doorway, they would be there waiting for her. They would take her arm and lead her to a room with the others. She would wait until no one was looking and then slip into the courtyard. She would find that doorway and run down the street to go home. It was more and more difficult to find her way home.
“I’ll hide,” she thought, “So he can’t find me again.” As she got out of bed she realized that Jason was there, in the room, asleep in a chair.
Rebecca tipped-toed past, but Jason stirred as she tried to open the door. “Now-now, love.” Jason cooed as he reached for her arm. “’It’s not time to go to the Day Center yet.”
The Gift
It was an ordinary archway; like many we’d encountered strolling through the park. Casey twisted around in his stroller, grinning as he held out one chubby little hand, something clutched tightly in his fist.
“Thank you, Sweetie,” I said. I hoped it wasn’t anything alive and wiggling.
It was a small pebble-like object, perfectly round and golden colored. With the sunlight glinting off it, it almost seemed to glow.
My heart ached as I pocketed it, a keepsake to remember him by. We’d have this one last stroll together before I handed him over to his father, forever.
We passed though the archway, emerging into a lush meadow dotted with wildflowers. I gazed bewildered at the multi-tiered fountain that stood before me, rainbows dancing in the misty air surrounding it.
I stopped. I knew this park well, and I’d never seen anything like this. I turned to look behind me… and saw no path, no archway. There was nothing except green grass, blue sky … and in the distance, a majestic snow-capped mountain that rose to dizzying heights.
I was definitely not in Kansas anymore.
I knelt in front of Casey, who seemed entranced by a butterfly balancing delicately on his left thumb.
“Casey,” I said as calmly as I could, “where did you find this?”
I held up the tiny pebble, which was now radiating an aura of brilliant golden light.
Casey giggled. The butterfly shimmered, elongating and changing form.
“Angels,” he said.
Wonderful story! I love how you managed to keep the story line moving quickly and effectively used passing through the archway as a pivot point. At the same time, you included lots of details so the story was very satisfying. I want more!
The tour guide wore a pair of brown Oxfords, a pince-nez, and a librarian bun.
“This was one of five tunnels built here for the transcontinental railway in the late 1800s,” she said, adjusting her glasses on her nose. “White workers were difficult to come by, so they hired the Chinese. Mostly for setting the detonations.
They were cheap.”
The guide paused.
“And expendable.”
The now-defunct railway had left a deep scar carved through the slope.
Melissa stood quietly in the group. A grey-haired man beside her snorted “harrumph”; she noted his hyena-like face and pale rheumy eyes, and she watched as he stared blankly up the mountain’s treacherous incline. As the group started to walk under the archway towards the next tunnel, he brushed abruptly passed her, turning and glaring at her as he did.
“The tunnel that was originally here collapsed twenty years ago…”
She pulled a photo and plastic bag out from her pocket.
“…and then this smaller archway was built.”
The photo was a young Chinese man standing in a kitchen. She placed it inside the bag and then walked towards the archway after them. Finding a thin crevice in the bricks, she nudged the bag in, recalling the writing on the back of the photo:
“This is my great-grandfather, An Lo Chin. My grandmother said he was good at fixing bicycles and cooking. He limped from chopping off his own toe.
He helped build this railroad and died doing it.
Melissa Chin.
Lest We Forget.”
“To Other Worlds”
After school, Jessie followed Ben out past the edge of town and down into the gorge. She jumped as a train rattled over the railroad bridge, spanning across the cliffs high above them.
“We’ve looked here before,” she said.
“Not everywhere,” Ben said.
They kept going, picking their way over fallen trees and boulders. It was further down than Jessie had been before; it was quieter, here, and greener than up at the top of the cliff, the gray walls rising up on either side of them dotted with vines and bushes.
“There,” said Ben at last.
‘That’s just a piece of the old bridge,” she snorted.
“No,” said Ben. “It’s a door to another world.”
But when she laughed, he went pale.
“You thought I was joking,” said Ben.
“I thought we were playing,” said Jessie. “Like Narnia. Alice in Wonderland. Make-believe.”
But as she saw the look on his face she knew she’d been wrong. He shouted, “Go away then! I’ll go by myself,” and ran towards the arch.
There was a roar from above, another train, and pebbles rained down from the bridge above. She ran up the path without looking back.
Ben wasn’t at school the next day. He wasn’t at home, either. As soon as she had a chance, Jessie slipped away and ran back down the gorge, but when she walked through the arch nothing happened.
He was gone. And she’d missed her chance.
The Sweetest Thing
The biggest Billy Goat Gruff stood proudly in the centre of the bridge. “It is safe to pass, my lady. I have defeated the troll.”
The lady goat glared at him. “You brute,” she bleated. “The poor troll might have been killed.” She turned on her hooves, flicked up her tail in disgust and stalked off.
Billy’s ears drooped. He jumped down from the bridge and sat on his haunches next to the troll who lay on his back under the stone archway. “It’s no use,” he lamented. “These new age girls don’t appreciate duels like they used to. At the rate I’m going, I’ll be left with a harem of two, while Goat Charming Hooves swoons the ladies with his golden horns and inbred charisma. I’ll be the laughing stock of Goatdom.”
The troll sat up and rubbed at a perfect indent of a hoof print on his forehead. “Maybe I should have howled louder?”
Billy shook his head sadly then clambered to his feet. “It’s not your fault I’m a loser. Here, let me rub it better.” He rubbed his curly horn over the blackening bruise.
A clip, clop echoed overhead. Two white faces peered over the bridge.
“Oh,” said one female goat. “Will you look at that?”
A second blonde face looked down. “Well isn’t that the sweetest thing? He’s helping that poor troll who fell off the bridge.” She nudged her friend. “Let’s stay here. It’s hard to find a true gentleman in these parts.”
A Metaphor Walks into the Future
A doorway stands in the periphery of vision. From one side of the doorway a sign reads Welcome to Experience and from the other, No Entry.
From one side, metaphor cuts a path to the threshold but then lies down and goes to sleep. From one side, special dancing oysters are on offer. Ursula B. sometimes stands near the doorway, her hands intensely aware of each other. She seems, well, neurotic. She says to the youth on the other side, “Stop! Let me look at you from a distance, as one might admire a rainbow.”
The youth wants oysters and so she comes through. The sign starts flashing SUCKER, but she doesn’t look back. She gathers wild ox-eye daisies whose flowers are the size of a thumbnail. After plucking the millionth petal (the petal of an ox-eye is not much wider than an eyelash), she wants to return to the other side. She hasn’t even tasted the oysters, sizzling on a grill in their half shells. They smell delicious but she is less hungry than tired. She notices that the metaphor looks much older than before.
As things in peripheral vision are likely to do, the doorway disappears when she looks for it. Ursula’s hands are fluttery captured birds. “There?” she points, and nudges the sleeping metaphor, who jumps up and mimes the act of seeking the door. The broken grass where the metaphor has been looks very restful.
Hello Jo
Entry # 2 for Round 5 – thank you.
On Location
Roland Cutgras acknowledged the text message and took the Wells Avenue entrance to the park. The locations manager was waiting.
Cutgras was pleased. His whole body shook. He moved a slow hand across the archway’s smooth gray stones. “We shoot tonight.”
Three hours later the set was ready. Cutgras summoned the lead actors.
“Tracy, Aidan, remember, you’re about to step into an unknown world. I’m going to pan the arch to establish the scene and then close in on Tracy, then Aidan, then closer still on each. Remember, all expression. Nothing spoken. Show the audience what it means to relinquish everything we know and treasure.” He turned to the crew and nodded.
The evening news covered the story.
“In a bizarre twist from the set of Roland Cutgras’ new film, Between Worlds, it seems after months of scouting for the perfect location, the eccentric director was filming the movie’s final scene when he simply disappeared, leaving scene and movie unfinished. Cutgras, known for bizarre publicity stunts, is believed to have staged his disappearance to boost sales after recent flops. In other news . . . “
“Cut.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Cut eccentric. Use progressive.”
“Eccentric, progressive, no one’s going to believe this is the actual news.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Is it true?”
“As Flaubert said, there is no truth, only perception.”
“Flo who?”
“Never mind. Please continue.”
“The progressive director was shooting the movie’s final scene when. . . Roland . . . Roland?”
Despite a record-breaking opening, Cutgras was never seen again.
Hello Jo
Entry # 1 (my first time ever) for Round 5 – Thanks for the challenge.
A Glitch in Time
She stepped off the train at Archway Road, trailed her crinoline petticoat over the footbridge, and descended.
Almost there, she breathed, setting her valise down and pulling at the whalebone stays. She wondered how women had endured the vile things.
She had arrived back at the station in good time, as Malcolm had instructed. Now to make it back to the vector, she would follow the road as it curved up in a northwest swath into the Highgate Woods. At the first crossroads she would veer west towards Edgeware, doubling back towards the railway.
“Make sure you find the same archway in the masonry wall,” Malcolm had warned. “It’s cut right through the rock and there’s a chink in the stone on the left side over the arch. Should be an easy enough breadcrumb for you temporal wayfarers.”
She set out, the image of the arched portal clear in her mind from her time-launch a week earlier. Before long she came to the crossroad and turned west. The railway bridge was visible through the trees. In minutes she had reached it.
She settled under the arch, clutching the valise and parasol close. Fundamental rule of time travel: leave nothing behind. She felt the familiar, flattening dissolution come on, heard the whistle of a train down the track, felt a thrumming through the gray-green stone beneath her gloved fingers.
Then all was still. I’m home, she thought, home to 2015. She opened her eyes. Saw nothing but trees and blue sky.
Thanks for the challenge, Jo! Here’s my entry: Fairy tales.
We stared at the empty archway where the gate had been. Our mother and her contingent of guards, however, hadn’t prevented warped iron from littering the borderland trail.
“She’s right.” Dumping my pack of provisions, I knelt by a jagged piece of hinge. “They lived.”
Michael nudged the hinge’s other half aside. “Fairy tales don’t do this.”
“Then what did?”
“Something. No. Someone.” He thumbed the way we’d come. “Either way, we need to go back.”
“Why?” I squinted through the archway in hopes of seeing who wasn’t there. “She’d be the one mounting a rescue.”
“We have to tell the Council what’s happened.”
“But…”
Michael tugged me from the view and the duty our mother had instilled coated my bones.
“You’re right—“
“Jemma? Michael?”
A pained voice we both knew called from the far side’s dense brush.
“Stay here.” Michael started unfastening clasps on his pack.
“And do what? Wait?” Rounding him, I dug for the knife I’d brought to carve cheese rounds for the contingent’s hungry bellies.
“We don’t know what’s out there.”
“She is.” Squeezing the blade’s wooden handle, I met my brother’s eyes as the stories our mother had shared replayed between my ears.
When the voice called to us again, we both turned.
“She doesn’t sound far.”
“If that’s really her.”
With no other way to find out, we rose and crept beneath the archway, toward the echo of our mother’s voice and all that her fairy tales promised lurked on the other side.
A Short Distance
Never had such a short distance looked so long, the destination obscured. On the other side of the wall, through the narrow passageway, he was waiting for her. She wasn’t a woman who liked to give ultimatums, but it had gone on for too long. They were soul mates, and too many times he’d assured her he was ready to prove it.
A week ago, his hands had been warm on her face. “Trust me. There’s only you. I just need a few more days.” He’d kissed her, long and gently until she yielded, and felt their bodies had merged into a single piece of flesh.
They’d meet today, in the garden beyond the stone wall. She could see it in her mind’s eye – they’d walk toward an unknown future, but heading there side by side was enough.
Yellow leaves rustled like scraps of paper under her feet. She paused and put her hand on the stone wall. It was solid, comforting with its hard, ancient surface. It was so cold, but warm sunlight splashed on the path in the archway and across the grass and apple trees on the other side.
As she emerged from the archway, something glittered in the sun. He was there, leaning against the wall, just as he’d promised. He raised his arm, and she saw the shiny thing in his fist – a large knife, poised to deliver him from her ultimatum.
The baby was squalling and Uncle Colin looked like thunder. “Yer late. Again.”
“I’m—”
“Save it.” He thrust Susane at me. “She had no milk today.”
Was he talking about his wife or the baby? The result was the same, so I just reswaddled Susane and tied her to my chest. Which did nothing to stop her screaming.
I grabbed the tiny jar of goat’s milk and left, talking to her in a sing-song. “You know that passage under the Market Road, the one your Da says is too narrow for a scrawny child astride a fat donkey? I met a girl from the other side: Nerida. Everyone is wrong. There are no sprites, no banshees, no trolls. That’s why I’ve been late. I can’t wait for you to meet her. She says she can make you eat.”
Soon, we were huddled together in the middle of the passage, trying to get some food into Susane’s belly.
A familiar shadow fell from my side.
“Uncle Colin?”
He didn’t move.
“Don’t believe the tales. It’s safe.”
“I’d rather it was a boy, like I thought.”
I ignored that and went back to trying to feed his baby.
“Wait here. Both of you.”
We did, although Nerida was ready to bolt. He returned with a silver serving tray and held the back of it towards us.
Two of the exact same face stared back at me.
Uncle Colin sighed. “Marigold, meet your sister.”
“Sister?”
I looked back at the tray.
Sister.