The Stymie Steve Forti Flash Fiction Contest RESULTS!

This flash fiction contest was the perfect diversion for this weirdly cold, then sunny, then snowy and sunny, then cold weekend.  Thanks to all of you who took the time to write and enter.

Words I had to look up: scry (Kregger)

Special recognition to Lennon Faris for a superb illustration of a reverse poem.

Special recognition to Cecilai Ortiz Luna for her hat-tip with a twist to The Godfather!

Special recognition to Cynthia Mc for her superb use of a prompt word:

"For tis sim...o shoot!"

Special recognition for CED, for an entry I didn't understand at all but I think is pretty

funny if you do.

The Duchess of Yowl award for good taste and acumen: Will McPhail

Special recognition to french sojourn for a great line

Florida, it’s not the heat, it’s the stupidity.

that I think is part of a story that holds more truth than we might realize

I'm fairly certain FlashFriday's entry is brilliant, but I didn't get it.

I think it's something about Snow White??

And the main event, the headline in tonight's Thunderdome of Words: Steve Forti

“I need to suck life’s marrow. A reason to exist beyond mere mimicry. There’s so much I haven’t done yet. I wanna build an igloo, see the northern lights. Develop custom AR. Zip a new cable across Viamala Gorge.”

“Sounds ambitious. I’m terrified to even switch a vocation.”

“Why not? Live a little. Let’s do G’s,, pull G’s, whatever, in a fighter jet. Tell me, where do you most want to explore? I say some ancient Roman fort.”

“ISS. I mostly dream of space.”

“Perfect! What’s stopping us?”

“Barbara’s staff meeting in ten minutes?”

“Oh. Yeah… Meet you in there?”

and I toss in the towel, tilt the king, surrender the fort, beaten so completely I don't have words to describe.

Timothy Lowe is clearly giving Mr. Forti a run for his money:

You call that a contest?

Horrible grammar!

Zip!

And zero talent!

Poorly encrypted prompt words!

Complete havoc!

Some war! Hey, what do you call someone who creates her own personal Waterloo?

Sent packing!

*chortling*

What’s his prize? You know, the winner? Forti?

SSI, most likely.

What?

You heard me.

Why?

Turns out, flash fiction doesn’t pay very well!

*guffawing*

What about the shark?

You mean, the underdog?

*sniggering*

You didn’t hear? She’s going on SSI, too.

How come?

She went blind reading entries!

*Statler and Waldorf slapping backs in the balcony*

*Cue Muppets Theme*

Here is the short list of standouts

Jennifer Delozier

Love, Jim Jones

November 18th, 1978

Cyanide tastes like marzipan, if you close your eyes. While you cry your last tears, the almond-scented confection wages war on your Temple, wreaks havoc on your lungs, and loosens your bowels. As rabid dogs foam at the mouth, so shall you. You’ll become one with God.

How do I know? Not by personal experience, of course. I’m preaching this lesson, after all, and not even a reverend survives Rapture by cyanide. A friend’s sacrifice showed me the way. So drink your Kool-Aid, my loves, and, eyes closed, tell me—was he right?

I don't think you can parse this out to what works/what doesn't. Or point to any one thing and say "this is a perfect sentence."

It lets the reader figure out what's going on and what it means.  

And in the end, it does the only thing a story needs to: it stays with you.

  

It's the kind of writing that Shirley Jackson did in The Lottery.

Very plain.

Very tidy.

And you're never the same.

Richelle Elberg

“The fuck was he doing out there? Shouldn’ta been out there!”
I stare at the dead coyotes, the dead man—the worst of the dogs.
I cry, convincingly I think.
“Hard ta say who hit him,” Billy says. “It was havoc.”
“Call the sheriff,” Jack says. “Hell, it’s just a hunting accident.”

Home, Sheila bounds out of the kitchen, three beers in hand, her long hair loose, gleaming.
“Where’s Dale?” she asks, looking past me.
I explain. My wife’s smile fades; she collapses. Wails.
I hold her through the unwarranted reaction.
“Hon, come with me to the next coyote hunt.”

 I love this cause it takes a minute to figure out what's going on.

I love that kind of subtlety.

JustJan

The War of the Worlds started the day after I asked my girlfriend to marry me.

“Cathedral mass,” said one mother, crying.

“Backyard ceremony,” the other sniffed.

“Seven course meal.”

“Vegetarian pot luck!”

“Vegas?” I asked.

“Islands,” my fiancée corrected.

So we cut loose and made our vows, serenaded by a pack of stray dogs and a justice of the peace.

“Blissful.” I sighed.

“Magical,” my wife agreed.

Back home, havoc reigned. One father, an attorney, scrutinized the marriage license. The other, a dermatologist, bemoaned our tans.

Nine months after our planets collided?

Peace treaty. 

This just cracked me up.

K

No "Hello, Osen" today. Instead Father greeted me with, "The barn has scorch marks!"

I waited, face impassive. Marzipan wouldn't melt in my mouth.

He'd blame marauders. But if Father wanted guard dogs, I'd object. Not around Bertha. I scratched the cat's fur as she twined through my legs.

Then Father surprised me. "It wasn't marauders."

What did he know?

"Arson. It was arson," he said.

My unvoiced cry of fear dissolved. Father didn't suspect the true cause: Bertha vocalizing. Like all growing dragons, attempted fortissimos created flames.

Someday I'd tell Father the truth about my cat.

Just not today.

 Her Grace the Duchess of Yowl has decreed this entry to be one of the finalists.

The reasons we agree of course are different.

She's glad you realize cats are mighty creatures.

I think it's funny.

We both agree it's the winner.

K, if you'll email me with your preferred mailing address I'll get a prize to you.

And Steve Forti?? 
We shall meet again my friend!!!

 

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