tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post4701927060394648772..comments2024-03-29T07:29:32.276-04:00Comments on Janet Reid, Literary Agent: A pithy flash fiction contest!Janet Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00615380335938685231noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-73635860597349700632019-09-08T08:41:09.542-04:002019-09-08T08:41:09.542-04:00I cleared my throat.
"It softens easier to w...I cleared my throat.<br /><br />"It softens easier to wallow in self pithy, than to face one's demons. Such is the fatal flaw of the young Danish prince, an inert introvert lamenting his existential existence, whimpering like a muffled pulpy, too timid to bark or bite. Alas, poor Yorick! I pneumo— "<br /><br />"That's enough." I'd come to learn that Professor Cole's arched eyebrow heralded the arrival of a parable posed as a question. "Do you care to explain?"<br /><br />"I dictated my term paper. I guess Google Voice never read <i>Hamlet</i>."<br /><br />"And?"<br /><br />"You gave me an F. So the point is mute."<br />Michael Seesehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03694187657718931214noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-20701842339585105362019-09-08T08:35:13.782-04:002019-09-08T08:35:13.782-04:00I’ve always detested that saying.
Despite both of...I’ve always detested that saying.<br /><br />Despite both of us being sour, Lenore and I ended up at the guy’s apartment. Lenore eventually softened a little. Must have been why he chose her.<br /><br />I saw the sweat drops on his forehead, saw him reach for the knife. I tried with every bit of pith and pulp in my being to save her. But I was mute and unable to move.<br /><br />He pressed the knife to her skin. Then he said it. Muffled it as if making a joke to himself, in that flippant tone. “When life gives you lemons …”<br />Amy Johnsonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05324408700941398495noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-81007701880051355542019-09-08T08:30:58.793-04:002019-09-08T08:30:58.793-04:00They hand me an unmarked box and papers filled wit...They hand me an unmarked box and papers filled with jibberish--muffled heart sounds…hemopneumothorax--nothing to show for a wasted afternoon except a hole in my wallet. <br /> <br />I don’t try to soften the blow. “The tires crushed him into pulp. I’m sorry.” <br /><br />She mutes me. When she comes back, my kid’s wailing in the background. <br /><br />“Jesus,” I say, “what’d you tell him?”<br /><br />She puts a door between them. “That Smokey’s not coming home, and neither is Daddy.”<br /><br />Her declaration is pithy, but undeserved. I toss the box into a Dumpster. Next time, I won’t make it look like an accident.Just Janhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12546035917149403735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-5469935405976315722019-09-08T08:25:11.110-04:002019-09-08T08:25:11.110-04:00“It happens soften-- I mean so often. What can I d...“It happens soften-- I mean so often. What can I do?”<br /><br />His therapist quirked a brow. The pithy yet mute gesture said “go on.”<br /><br />Murphy replied, “It’s a law that rules my life. Things go wrong.”<br /><br />He muffled a scream, biting his knuckle. The masticated flesh was already a pulpy bruise. He’d get gangrene or a spider would lay eggs in the wound. Such was Murphy’s life. <br /><br />His therapist remained silent. A burst pipe began to drip acid on his head. <br /><br />“Talk to me,” Murphy said too loud. Then pleaded, “please?” <br /><br />His therapist sagged and held up her notebook: <i>Laryngitis</i>Sherin Nicolehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06534766663397123868noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-51008898490635188322019-09-08T08:03:09.139-04:002019-09-08T08:03:09.139-04:00It had softened into a pulp, brown mush deliquesci...It had softened into a pulp, brown mush deliquescing into the humus.<br /><br />Rotten. Turned.<br /><br />His beloved? The same.<br /><br />If only they had listened.<br /><br />If only they knew a lie when they saw one.<br /><br />His children's wails were muffled beyond the garden wall. Their steps faded. His fury subsided. He stood mute, grieving. What would it cost to hold them again? He would pay it. Pay anything.<br /><br />He picked up the apple core, crushed the pith until it ran through his fingers like blood. Then hurled it out of Eden.NLiuhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/00184714542401822508noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-73040035233798587182019-09-08T05:33:59.223-04:002019-09-08T05:33:59.223-04:00He thought, after they’d chucked him unceremonious...He thought, after they’d chucked him unceremoniously into the firepit, he’d easily work his way back out. <br /><br /><i>An hour, if that, </i>he’d bragged. Like the old days.<br /><br />But the ash was soft, enfolding him deliciously in its warmth; and the embers’ pulpy glow wrapped round like a comforting muff. Leaving aside the regrettable absence of knight-flesh, for a manmade firepit it wasn’t half bad. If he tarried, who could judge?<br /><br />Even the stars gazed down mutely, dispassionately.<br /><br />He closed his eyes, letting the heat snuggle between his wrinkled scales. Soon!!! he’d roar his fiery revenge.<br /><br />it <br /><br />would <br /><br />be<br /><br /><i>(……shhhhhh)</i><br /><br />legendflashfridayhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06204676781876215647noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-28879873825821977152019-09-08T04:30:14.028-04:002019-09-08T04:30:14.028-04:00It’s the same each time. He goes mute, and a look ...It’s the same each time. He goes mute, and a look of concentration comparable to a super computer built in the seventies playing solitaire, captures my attention. A mixture of pulp and pasteurization gone perfectly wrong. It softens as I peel back the fabric, and the smell is a brash mixture of demon’s breath and spoiled homogenized milk. I muffle my response with a jerking motion and turn away. He laughs, I swear he laughs at my anguish but he is the pith of my heart. The cold air causes a warm stream to slap my cheek, and he laughs.Will MacPhailhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05586481255297618388noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-61005782782671533132019-09-08T04:28:06.732-04:002019-09-08T04:28:06.732-04:00
Elvira Albatross probably forgot about turning th...<br />Elvira Albatross probably forgot about turning the town butcher into a teddy bear.<br /><br />She looked like she’d sucked orange pith the day Artie sold her ‘pnuemonic’ meat, ‘killing’ her 31 year old cat, Muffles. <br /><br />I’m mute, stomache full of dacron. When Bubba James became Little Jimmy I got a bath in something other than Kool-Aid. <br /><br />At the tip I’ll be battered to pulp by the elements. Presently I’m softened; grateful I can close my eyes at night. Small mercies Elvira. <br /> <br /> * * *<br /><br />Weird dream. My teddy was talking. I stare at Rufus The Great’s silhouette.<br /><br />I swear his eyes are closed<br />Iamanoldvampirechildhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03220350416178077932noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-62910825998315703312019-09-08T03:49:27.380-04:002019-09-08T03:49:27.380-04:00Pinch. “Stop it,” hissed Mama. Ike slid down the s...Pinch. “Stop it,” hissed Mama. Ike slid down the sweat-slicked pew, out of reach. The organ sagged to a stop and the choir softened into their seats with a polyester sigh. <br /><br />We waited, mute. The heat-thick air pricked my neck, an itchy woolen muffler.<br /><br />Up to the pulpit rose the preacher. And something happened. His words… they swirled around and swooped down from the ceiling like a cool wind, cool water washing over us. “Maybe,” I thought. We could be different. Better.<br /><br />Outside, Ike socked my jaw. I turned the other cheek, then shoved him down the steps. <br /><br />Not today.Fearless Reiderhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14380936599156619260noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-40723011109094228132019-09-08T03:20:16.285-04:002019-09-08T03:20:16.285-04:00Rip tossed and turned. Entered and exited REM slee...Rip tossed and turned. Entered and exited REM sleep for the thousandth time. Scratched his chin to discover a pulpy beard. Rubbed the soft end again, making sure he wasn’t dreaming.<br /><br />“What the--?”<br /><br />He rolled over, tapped the snooze button. Realized his mistake. Instead of setting his alarm for 2030, he’d set his calendar. Finally, thirty years into his nap, he awakened to the smooth sound of a podcast.<br /><br />Hello, true crime fans. Today we bring you the strange disappearance of Mr. R.V. Winkle…<br /><br />Rip muted the volume. “Get lost.” He muffled a smile, pithy expressions his new black.<br />John Davis Frainhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18020019400599228492noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-30041748708696901682019-09-08T03:14:30.549-04:002019-09-08T03:14:30.549-04:00“Hide the money.” Muffled voice from the tipi that...“Hide the money.” <b>Muffle</b>d voice from the ti<b>pi th</b>at’s next to ours. <br /><br />Wilderness couple’s retreat. Wife’s idea. <br /><br />Yay, me. <br /><br />It’<b>s often</b> the case. I agree to something before pushing the TV’s <b>mute</b> button. <br /><br />Wife hands me some guava drink filled with <b>pulp</b> and not enough booze. <br /><br />Yay, me. <br /><br />I guzzle it, or attempt to before she plops down on top of me with enough force to cause a <b>pneumo</b>thorax.. <br /><br />I multitask, eavesdropping, husbanding, planning.<br /><br />Yay, me. Seriously, yay me. <br /><br />Tomorrow’s the oasis hike. I’ll bow out. Say I’m dehydrated. Locate and rehide the money. <br /><br />Yay, me.RosannaMhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06399732751877180737noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-71165541452262413232019-09-08T01:29:22.059-04:002019-09-08T01:29:22.059-04:00Oh crap! I thought, as the plane’s doors opened, y...<i>Oh cra<b>p</b>!</i> <b>I th</b>ought, as the plane’s doors opened, yet the parachute didn’t. An unexpected turn of events, but as an agent in her majesty’s service, I wasn’t going to panic—just yet. Icy air ignited my lungs. Clouds rushed by vertically, washing Afghani residue off my tuxedo. Beside me a copper-colored <b>pul p</b>lummeted earthward. With minor adjustments, the sheik’s lifeless, kaftan-clad body, trans<b>mute</b>d into a semi-functional paraglider.<br /><br />Anticipation.<br /><br />With a <b>muffle</b>d thud I hit familiar, <b>soft, En</b>glish turf. I paused, slightly shaken (not stirred). Luckily, the worst that came from this was a mild case of <b>pneumo</b>nia. Go figure.Casual-Thttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04091757363609964963noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-48501244290043374332019-09-08T00:21:37.054-04:002019-09-08T00:21:37.054-04:00Words inspired by the Great British Bake Off/ bak...Words inspired by the Great British Bake Off/ baking show? I’m stuck on that show lol.Megan Vhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/00752842865397799428noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-86823814365909891542019-09-07T20:08:11.689-04:002019-09-07T20:08:11.689-04:00My muffled shoes softened my step but I only got t...My <b>muffle</b>d shoes <b>soften</b>ed my step but I only got two steps.<br />“You look more <b>pith</b> than <b>pulp</b>, little man.”<br />“Probably taste bad too.”<br />“You think you can match for me for the princess?”<br />“She is my niece.”<br />“Where is your armor, lance, sword?”<br />“Didn’t do much for the others. I’m using the power of love.”<br />“Think so?”<br />“Her mom did, I am an alchemist, and no I am not going to make you gold.”<br />“Shit, then I must torch you.”<br />“Nope, I brought a can of dragon repellent.”<br />I squirted it into his face. He went <b>mute</b>, then ran.Craig Fhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07157301156577795781noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-71430555273702354852019-09-07T19:27:03.789-04:002019-09-07T19:27:03.789-04:00A glance at Melba softened her heart to a pulp. T...A glance at Melba softened her heart to a pulp. The mute form was obviously deceased. Tonya muffled her sudden sob. Epithelioma had finally taken its toll.<br /><br />She eyed the clock but movement to the left drew her gaze.<br /><br />A phantom wind ruffled its black cloak.<br /><br />"Who are you?"<br /><br />The reaper ignored her but glided forward as her arm began to pulse and glow. Her white coat now felt too tight. A blazing sword suddenly extended from her arm as she fell into a familiar stance.<br /><br />Tonya remembered everything then. Death would end today and by her hand.Angel Lhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14332045281558509974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-69709688296599376232019-09-07T18:29:39.020-04:002019-09-07T18:29:39.020-04:00Tom’s my unlikely wingman.
He’ll stay mute tonig...Tom’s my unlikely wingman. <br /><br />He’ll stay mute tonight. He’s nervous. And nerves bring out his impediment. Ironic, given his life. His flair for the proverbial proverb.<br /><br />A woman stumbles over. “I’m Mandy. I like you.” Her voice softens. “Both of you.”<br /><br />Tom’s nerves instantly fail. “I’m a preetht!”<br /><br />“PRIEST??!” She wobbles away. “STACY!”<br /><br />“Sheeth pithed.”<br /><br />Mandy veers toward a giant. A giant with a flirty girlfriend? A giant who might beat us to the proverbial pulp? <br /><br />“Where’s your Jesus now, Tom?!”<br /><br />Instead, Stacy’s a nearby woman, who muffles Mandy with a gentle hand.<br /><br />Off Tom’s look: “Yeah yeah, praise Jesus.”C. Dan Castrohttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15648247329883078385noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-47299255522738814332019-09-07T17:49:18.966-04:002019-09-07T17:49:18.966-04:00Claudia scoured the shores near Lympne. Umoonasaur...Claudia scoured the shores near Lym<b>pne. Umo</b>onasaurus bones often appeared near seas, just not England's. Still, the photos the Manchester Umoonasaurus Fellowship (<b>MUF</b>) <b>fle</b>w down to her looked legitimate. Any plesiosaur near Loch Ness would be the Australo<b>pith</b>ecus equivalent for Nessie enthusiasts, and her ticket to fame. Claudia’s thoughts ran the ga<b>mut. E</b>ach time she’d made a discovery, Professor Mackray, that <b>pulp</b>ital bore, took credit. Luckily, Claudia knew bones, and some tricks of carbon-dating. She hefted her backpack and smiled at the thought of her future “discovery”: a new hominid found inside a plesiosaur’s belly. She’d name it “Mackraylopithicus.”Johnellhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08042379175433349768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-9389930582298757482019-09-07T17:26:31.364-04:002019-09-07T17:26:31.364-04:00I have decided to take the pith and the pulp of my...I have decided to take the pith and the pulp of my flash fiction entries and turn them into an Anthology titled, "Who Killed Shakespeare". Perhaps thus being the anecdote to soften my ego, mute my self-indulgence and muffle myself in better understanding the literati.Sunnygoetzehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11959742238807980642noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-42089629553931141132019-09-07T16:28:29.551-04:002019-09-07T16:28:29.551-04:00My kids refuse to eat the pith on oranges but thei...My kids refuse to eat the pith on oranges but their grandma refuses to let them remove it. I soften the battle by taking bits off while she naps and the kids watch tv on mute. She says I baby them but I'm trying to prevent the gagging and crying that happens every pulpy lunch. I hate the way she muffles all our desires. Until I can scrape up enough money to move us out it's shitty attitudes all around. And three months of pith, like my kids have been choking on, waiting where I hide it. katiehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05167978830347777260noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-68352784739286310212019-09-07T16:27:51.231-04:002019-09-07T16:27:51.231-04:00The winery was locked up for the night; Roberto’s ...The winery was locked up for the night; Roberto’s muffled foosteps<br />stalked the corridors, his torch softening the shadows. A sound made him <br />duck behind a crate.<br />A muted shuffling step echoed.<br />“Damn it. Paul promised everyone was gone by 10pm.” Roberto crouched, his spine cracking.<br />A shape limped into sight.<br />“I heard your bones speak, boy,” <br />Roberto slammed into the figure, who did not flinch. <br />Instead it pithed his spine with a chisel, leaving Roberto, unable to move, watching the hammer hover over his head.<br />“Brain pulp for the wine,” crooned the nightwatchman, “The secret ingredient for our success.”alyson fayehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13315744969421895990noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-33024931213051849852019-09-07T15:58:25.945-04:002019-09-07T15:58:25.945-04:00Green stems between my calloused fingers, and I tw...Green stems between my calloused fingers, and I twist a bully’s snakebite. The pith cracks, a harsh chiropractor’s pop. Now softened pulp, the flexible stem connects to its frame. I tie it. One finished and more to go. <br /><br />Twist and crack and tie, then untie and twist and crack again. Training plants is a sluggish adventure.<br /><br />When I first began, my fingers had faltered, stumbling panic. My fear of damaging fragile epidermis. I muffled each seemingly ruinous snap, and my progress. <br /><br />Backup plants line the green-tinted windows, replacements in the event of disaster. In their muteness, they are alien.Becca Ralstonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08278722206893850315noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-92089846123540894922019-09-07T15:24:06.823-04:002019-09-07T15:24:06.823-04:00The thief of acclaimed bad repute went mute
when h...The thief of acclaimed bad repute went mute<br />when he clutched Tab’s decrepit hands,<br />Her age was nothing, she could ransom a king,<br />And ransom was all he’d planned.<br /><br />A hostage she was and a hostage she’d stay—<br />so Hootie had originally thought. <br />He’d muffled her cries, but found to his surprise, <br />Tabs wasn’t the one who was caught.<br /><br />She offered Hootie an monarch’s dowry; <br />He offered to love her true.<br />Though the pulpit’s a coffin that grief visits often,<br />Tabby laughed as she told him I do,<br />I do, <br />I do.<br />Tabby laughed as she told him I do.<br />Bethany Elizabethhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12829932931010851406noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-74264926953580717732019-09-07T15:05:11.653-04:002019-09-07T15:05:11.653-04:00It had been a good year for windfall in Eden. Eve ...It had been a good year for windfall in Eden. Eve had mashed the apples, forced the <b>pulp</b> between a rustic press and left it to ferment. Adam had merely watched. As usual.<br /><br />Her mood did not <b>soften</b> as her <b>mate</b> continued to leave the bulk of the work to her. As usual. Fell asleep. As usual.<br /><br />“Why don’t we add a secret ingredient?’ hissed the snake. ‘You know, something which is the real, um, essence, of you.”<br /><br />Eve grinned, <b>muffle</b>d the splashes as Adam slept. Then poured his drink ready.<br /><br />“Tastes like <b>pith</b>,” slurred Adam. <br /><br />“Hope so,” said Eve.Steph Ellishttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02353775819602714643noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-9147709889086241362019-09-07T13:34:43.791-04:002019-09-07T13:34:43.791-04:00This is the part where I should make a pithy comme...This is the part where I should make a pithy comment. The thing is, I’m not funny. My attempts at humor are like a muted gray—besieged by mediocrity. The blow of every punch line is softened by my inability to withhold the answer to a joke. For example: <br /><br />Writing is a dance. Dancing hippos wear ballet slippers. So why must writing hippos wear rain-boots to make pulp fiction…ahem…why must writing hippos wear rain boots? <br /><br />Perhaps I’ve earned a muffled laugh? More likely none at all. Of course, it’s really hard to tell what goes on behind the screens.<br />Megan Vhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/00752842865397799428noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-52550556264801539212019-09-07T11:39:11.935-04:002019-09-07T11:39:11.935-04:00“Is this orange pulp, Granny?” Rosalind said, exam...“Is this orange pulp, Granny?” Rosalind said, examining the clay bowl’s contents. Malcontentia snatched the bowl and dumped the pulp into her cauldron.<br />“Yeth!” she snapped.<br />“Did you soften it with this?” Rosalind picked up a small hammer.<br />“Yeth!” Malcontentia snapped again.<br />Rosalind found strands of a soft white substance next to the orange peel. With a glance to her grandmother she ate them.<br />“That’th thtwange!” Rosalind said. Malcontentia frowned, then smiled as Rosalind coughed. She tried to speak, but her words came out muffled. And then they were muted.<br />“That’th what you get for taking the pith,” Malcontenia sniffed.<br /><br />-----<br />While these words can all be found in the poems of John Keats (<a href="http://ota.ox.ac.uk/text/3259.html" rel="nofollow">http://ota.ox.ac.uk/text/3259.html</a>, I suspect Janet came across the word "pith" (maybe in a Keats poem), looked it up, then went on a Thesaurus journey from pith to pulp to soften to muffle to mute.Colin Smithhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03292997431935215499noreply@blogger.com