Snappsy the Alligator did NOT ask to be in this flash fiction contest! FINAL

Because I was away on Saturday and Sunday morning, the comments were open for a longer window than the contest actually ran.  Fortunately for most of you that wasn't a problem, but there were two entries dq'ed for time (sorry guyz!)

Angel Rodrigues

Karen McCoy

You were up to your usual good writing tricks this weekend as well. It used to be that almost every entry that was a complete story made the finalist list.  Now, too many of you have upped your game, and some really good work is not making the cut. It's amazing, and bittersweet. Herewith the results:

The Steve Forti Award for Awesome Use of Prompt Words

Nate Wilson   

 

The start of a story (or novel) that I'd be too chicken to read

Madeline Mora-Summonte   

 

Special recognition for a masterful turn of phrase

EM Goldsmith

Dear food  

Special recognition for a great line

Kerry Bernard

Convicted of practicing science in the presence of minors  

 

Not quite a story but a great start to one

Marie McKay  

 

Not quite a story but the writing is superlative

Lisa Bodenheim

("artagator"!!!!!)

This entry cracked me up even as it gave me the heebie jeebies

Claire Bobrow  

 

Not quite a story but egad, what great imagery

Steph Ellis  

 

Here are the stories that made the long list:

Barbara

Knock, knock.

"Come in."

Narrator strutted inside, feathers preened to perfection. "Thanks for asking me to dinner, Snappsy."

Snappsy smiled. "You put this gator in a book and made me famous. Dinner is the least I can do. I'm even veering from my P diet."

"Great! Always trust your narrator. We know what makes a story work. So, what letter does dinner start with?"

"C." Snappsy whipped off his tie and trussed her up.

"Snappsy!"

"Never trust your main character. We often take over the story. Ironic, isn't it?" He plucked her feathers. "I'll eat her. I'll eat her not."

Megan V

“Lousy hippies.” Gary’s chew pings against the tin bucket.

“Environmentalists, dear,” I say.

“Don’t start with that PC bullshit Annie.” He runs a cloth over the barrel of his two gauge. “Damn lefties. If they think they can drive me out of my own home over some dumb crocodile, they’ve got another thing coming.”

“Gator,” I say.

“Whatever. If you ask—”

“Gator!” I exclaim.

Too late.

Jaws snap.

Gary screams.

The two gauge flies.

“Annie! Annie, get the gun!” he shouts.

I glance at the fallen weapon, shake my head.

Better not risk it.

I might hit the gator.

Jason

I know it’s odd to say in the bathroom so long, but it’s my only chance for peace. And, it’s my chance for a therapy session.

The spider under the sink listens. It doesn’t say anything, just listens, and ties threads together, making the best of its environs.

“Are you done yet?” my wife asks.

We talk about her, the spider, and I. My wife tells me I spend too much time in there, talking to myself. When I finally emerge and she sees the web, she snaps and runs for the fumigator.

Now, I feel so very alone.

Mallory Love

The guy in the corner booth stared, trying to place me. Once upon a time, I used to imagine this scenario. A drama major with a dream, I moved to Hollywood with fame in mind: red carpets, hobnobbing with celebrities, being a paparazzi darling. But one messy confrontation with an infamous director gone awry sent me seeking refuge in Purgatory, Alaska, hiding in a local bar.

The guy approached. Ten minutes later, I was in the back of a squad car.

Snapping the mugshot, the cop smirked. "Front page of tomorrow's news. Smile. You're going to be famous." Fucking irony.

Kathy Joyce

The detective stroked his beard. “Iron left plugged in.”

“She's sloppy, leaves it all the time, sir.”

“Have to ask. What's your tie-in to all this?”

“Pool boy, sir.”

The detective pointed out the window." Snapdragons flattened, something was dragged over there.”

“Gator, sir. Chased it off this morning.”

“Guess we'll have to see what the camera shows.”

“No cameras, sir.”

“Just installed. She told the company she needed to nab someone. ‘Guilty, in the act,’ she said. By the way, what's your name? I can't put ‘pool boy’ in my report.”

“Gil, sir. Gil Indiac.”

“Middle initial?”

“T, sir.”

Kitty

Where’s your nanna?”

“She’s napping. Why?”

“She said she needed some muscle and asked for a gat or a tire iron. Tire iron’s too heavy, so I got her this Beretta Pico .380.”

“Nanna said gat?”

“Yeah, she must love old movies.

“God, don’t give her a gun; she’s dangerous! We had to take her license and car away because she drinks.”

“Hey, cutie, is that my heater?”

“Nanna, you don’t know how…”

“I ain’t no Dumb Dora.” She grabbed the gun. “It’s puny, but it’ll do.”

She pointed it at her grandson. “Now, sonny, about my car and license…”

Myrna Foster

I had a job interview in 20 minutes, but when I opened my front door, an alligator waited. I slammed the door.

Safe inside, I grabbed my cast iron skillet and hurried out the back, only to find another gator.

Seriously?

It didn’t snap at me, so I booped it on the snoot and ran. More alligators peeled away from my car. They surrounded me.

“Stop!” yelled a woman in a suit and tie. “Are you Maeve Green?

“Yes.”

“Apologize to Allie for hitting her.”

I apologized—so many questions I wanted to ask.

“Excellent.” The woman smiled. “You’re hired.”

Just Jan

“How much are the boots in the window?” I asked.

“Mighty fine, aren’t they?” The old woman untied her apron. “But they’re not for sale. They’re the last thing Walter ever did.”

“I’ve never seen anything like them. Name a price.”

She pulled another pair from under the counter. “Now these are magnificent. Bull gator. The one that snapped Walter’s back.”

I caressed the leather, admiring the fine stitchwork. “I’m more interested in the boots Walter made.”

She shook her iron-grey curls. “Walter didn’t create them, I did. Still, he makes a nice pair of boots, doesn’t he?”

Here are the five finalists

D Willadsen

The whiskey went down as warm as the setting sun, comforting. The river stones far below turned pink and gold.

The highlight reel played in his mind, on and off the gridiron.

Pee Wee football.

The Gator Bowl, tied---a bad snap, a worse sack, a heartbreaking loss.

The gold band on her slim finger.

Knocked around, loving the game. Nickname: “Astaire” for his sure, nimble feet.

The tiny fingers of his baby girl, now grown.

Last week: “It’s CTE.” His wife’s face.

Nope.

He buried the flask---it had to look right---stepped to the edge, and “slipped.”

I had to look up CTE to get the full impact of the story.  It makes sense even if you don't know what CTE is, but when you do,  it elevates the story to heart-breaking. And of course, very topical.

Good writing makes you feel something and this absolutely does.  

 

Melanie Sue Bowles

“What’s she doing?” asked Musette.

“Staring out the window.” Muse-eminent shrugged. “They do that a lot.”

“Let’s snap her out of it.”

Muse-eminent shook her head, displacing glitter.

“Now she’s scrubbing baseboards? Can’t we tie her to the chair.”

“Ironically, they just whimper. Best to leave them alone.”

Both muses followed as Wanna-be-Creative wandered into the garage. They watched her snap on the light above the utility sink then grasp a pair of clippers.

“Unless,” Muse-eminent hollered, “procrastination goes rogue! Quick! Give her inspiration!

Too late. The blades whirred, mauling Wanna-be-Creative’s hair like a chomping alligator.

Muse-eminent’s eyes rolled. Writers.

This just cracked me up completely. Musette and Muse-eminent are brilliant character descriptions. And how true this is! In fact, I'm looking at my garden shears and my too-long hair right now!  

 

John Davis (manuscript) Frain

Principal Newton understood this environment. “Your new teacher starts Monday. Grief counselors are available. You students in AP Physics had a special bond with Mr. Schrödinger.”

Albert, ever the instigator, raised a hand. “We just saw Schrödinger walking the hallway.”

“Toward the basketball court where Mrs. Schrödinger coaches?”

“Ummmm…yes?”

“Your instructor, shall we say, combined elements with my assistant. Mrs. Schrödinger walked in on the experiment.”

“I understand the gravity of the situation,” Albert snapped.

Newton remained patient. “I’m relatively sure you don’t. When you saw Mr. Schrödinger walking? He was alive, and yet … he was a dead man.”

I'm a sucker for science and math jokes and this is an artful example of what I love. It's also a complete story, which is no small feat in these few words.

I love that it requires reader participation. You have to know who Schrödinger, Newton, Einstein, and Schrödinger's cat are to get the joke.

 And it took me three reads to see past the science joke to the real joke.
 This is really terrific.  

 

Brig

Locks clicked, iron creaked, and the alligator ate her.

Snap outrage.

Eaten?!? In a zoo??

Bars added, ties tightened, but admissions remained down.

Tones changed.

They'd never snack in the gator area.

They'd never sit so close.

In short sleeves too.

Her legs exposed.

Not that it was her fault. Of course.

Utmost surprise it hadn't happened earlier. They're alligators after all.

Her hairdresser interviewed. She always asked for 47 brushstrokes. The populous agreed. A dozen too many.

Months passed. The gator kept the fault. She got the blame.

Plus, she was still dead. 

This is brilliant writing (no surprise given the writer.)  The lines with the hairdresser is what elevates this from good to sublime. And "The gator kept the fault. She got the blame." is exquisite.

This entry is a perfect 10.   

 

Steve Forti

Up north, to wild environs, to hunt me some bear.

Downwind to hide my scent.

Up in the tree’s where the snake attacked from.

Down the back of my pants he slithered.

Up… to no good it was, and bitey.

Down to my skivvies I stripped in a flash.

Upping exposed skin to bitier mosquitoes.

Down slashed my knife at the slimy instigator.

Up went my neck hair at growls and twigs snapping.

Down pinned the ATV’s gas pedal.

Up to here, I’ve had it, I need a new task.

Down south, to the city, to hunt me some beer.

If you look up "surprise and delight" in the writer's dictionary, there's a jpg of Steve Forti. He's either deftly playing with the prompts or doing acrobatics with form. This entry is no exception. Notice the play on beer/bear in the opening and closing lines.   Honestly, these could be the lyrics to a hilarious song. 



This used to be a lot easier. I actually had to write out a schematic for choosing the winner here. All the stories are terrific. What's the next benchmark?

If I chose twist/surprise, it would be John Davis Frain

If I chose clever form, it would be Steve Forti

If I chose illumination of something bigger than the story: it's Brig, hands down.

If I chose cracked me up: it's Melanie Sue Bowles

If I chose pulled my heartstrings: it's D. Willadsen


This is just madness now. Each of you wrote something that is certainly worth the prize. Each of you wrote something completely different.

I'm going to post this and let y'all weigh in.
And while you're reading, I'm going to do something MUCH easier: audit royalty statements.


UPDATE: I called in Julie Falatko, the author of SNAPPSY to help out. Here's what she had to say:

This was no easy task. You're right -- all five finalists are completely excellent in their own way, and, in that, very difficult to judge against each other. But, after reading each multiple times, and even reading them out loud, I have to choose D Willadsen's story about the football player as my choice for the winner. Mostly because, as you pointed out, of the feelings it evokes, but also because it is the one that made the prompt words disappear most for me (that is, I didn't read it and think, "Oh, there's the "snap!"). 

So there you have! All in all, a great choice!

D Willadsen, if you'll send me your mailing address, I'll pop Snappsy the Alligator in the mail to you.  He probably didn't ask to be in the envelope, but it was that or this;