Flash Fiction Contest of course, BUT a new wrinkle:
Your entry MUST start or finish with one of the entries from the LippLibs post. It can be your own; it can be someone else's. If you use someone else's, you MUST credit them at some point in the comment.
Question from a reader:
I'm a little confused. You say we must credit a person "in the comment." Do we just credit them after our story? Or do we have to use their name as part of the story and therefore part of the 100 words?
Answer: You must credit them in the comment/entry that you post, but it does not have to be part of the story, and does NOT count as part of the hundred words UNLESS you include it in the story.
Example:
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on it being dependent on the payout of my own life insurance policy. Fortunately my twin looked just like me.
Lib source: french sojourn
The name is not in the story, so not in the word count.
Example:
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on it being dependent on the payout of my own life insurance policy. Fortunately my twin, using the moniker french sojourn to his his identity, looked just like me.
The name (french sojourn) IS in the story so it does count for word count.
These are dreadful examples of actual entries, but it's first cup of coffee and no revisions.
Return to original post:
The LippLib counts as part of the word count.
You may NOT modify the source LippLib to lower the word count.
No required words.
Maximum word count: 100
1. Post the entry in the comment column of THIS blog post.
2. One entry per person. If you need a mulligan (a do-over) erase your entry and post again. It helps to work out your entry first before you post.
3. International entries are allowed, but prizes may vary for international addresses.
4. Titles count as part of the word count (you don't need a title)
5. Under no circumstances should you tweet anything about your particular entry to me. Example: "Hope you like my entry about Felix Buttonweezer!" This is grounds for disqualification.
5a. There are no circumstances in which it is ok to ask for feedback from ME on your contest entry. NONE. (You can however discuss your entry with the commenters in the comment trail...just leave me out of it.)
6. It's ok to tweet about the contest generally.
Example: "I just entered the flash fiction contest on Janet's blog and I didn't even get a lousy t-shirt"
7. Please do not post anything but contest entries. (Not for example "I love Felix Buttonweezer's entry!")
8. You agree that your contest entry can remain posted on the blog for the life of the blog. In other words, you can't later ask me to delete the entry and any comments about the entry at a later date.
9. The stories must be self-contained. That is: do not include links or footnotes to explain any part of the story. Those extras will not be considered part of the story.
Contest opens Saturday 6/29/19 at 2:07am
Contest closes: Sunday, 6/30/19 at 9am
If you're wondering how what time it is in NYC right now, here's the clock
If you'd like to see the entries that have won previous contests, there's an .xls spread sheet here http://www.colindsmith.com/TreasureChest/
(Thanks to Colin Smith for organizing and maintaining this!)
Questions? Tweet to me @Janet_Reid
Ready? SET?
Oops, sorry, too late!
Contest is now closed.
28 comments:
“Your daughters got your ex-wife’s eyes, sergeant.”
“Ain’t that the fucking rub.”
“Well, luckily, the genetic defect doesn’t run in your family.”
“Like I said Doc…I’ll get you the money and the eyes. Just be ready, I’ll see to it.”
***
“You’re just staying with Aunt Susy tonight.”
“Alrighty.”
“You get some sleep; I love you kitten.”
“Nite dad.”
***
I drove home crying.
After chambering a round, I dialed 911 and thought.
“I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on it being dependent on the payout of my own life insurance policy.”
“I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on knee-deep in the mud of a conflict zone while trying to jump start a UN truck. Those ambassadors inspired me to run for office. But how do we beat the Senator when he’s rigged the voting? I can’t pin my hopes on that cocksure attitude of his blowing up at the worst time. Even if he is a mojo IED. “
“EVIV. Read about it. End-to-end Verifiable Internet Voting system. Push for that to combat his corruption.”
“Maybe… or maybe Pericula Ludus can write the ending, too.”
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on joining a cult whose sole purpose was herding cats and massaging sharks.
Red flags circled the compound, flapping in a stiff breeze. And speaking of stiff, the body was four days this side of rigor mortis. The Reverend smoothed his dyed hair and straightened his fake smile. “We have loose cats. And a tank of sharks in need of full-body rubdowns.”
I should have screamed. Should have turned heel and run.
But cats needed herding and sharks needed massaging.
I got the shovel and began digging.
“You guyz crack me up.” Janet said it. I saw it. I read it. I’m using it.
While tormenting us with LippLibs, I’m sure her comment as an opener is an instant disqualifier. So be it.
My point:
One of us should be brave enough to mention to our esteemed ‘Leader of the Reif’ that recent shark attacks have gotten completely out of hand. (If you still have a hand.) I’ll bet Ms. Reid says I don’t have a leg to stand on. (So far I do.)
Swimmers don’t thrash.
She’s hungry. Eyes always open. She’s knows her waters.
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on it being at the bottom of this cup of burnt diner coffee. Heart skittering with anticipation, I stare inside it.
Swish. Clack.
Tongue. Teeth.
Not mine.
I steady myself. It's time. Keep THEM from coming through.
Slurping from deep within the cup. The cold, bitter swamp disappears. Lips smack.
I'm not mad. I just know things others don't want to believe.
An eye stares up.
I slam their doorway closed. The cup's shards rain like confetti. The other diners scream, cheering their hero.
(LippLibs entry by Kate Larkindale, 6/25/19 2:26 pm)
"You guyz crack me up," said Janet Reid. She had been flash frozen by the Thermolords, but could still talk somehow -- amazing!
Someone -- Steve Forti? -- had toppled her over; she lay shattered on the marble floor. Now fanboys and fangirls were feverishly puzzle-piecing her back together. Some parts were easy -- the eyes, face, fingers, toes. Other parts -- not so much. The brain, the internal organs, the hair, the HAIR! Oh my! Puzzles are hard.
"Hurry," someone shouted. "She's thawing!"
And thaw she did.
What a sight! Like a franken-polar-bear prostrated in the summer heat.
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on finding it at a table in a Chinese restaurant on a rain-soaked side street in Paris. He walked in.
I spoke English, he, French. No matter, we spoke in other ways.
I loved jazz, he, rock. So? We both loved music.
I, vegetarian, he, carnivorous — we dined together.
I loved dancing, he didn't, but that night we danced.
I worship one way, he another. Nonetheless, we both believe in God.
Thirty years later we're still together because in Paris, Texas you take what you can get.
(LippLibs entry by Terri Lynn Coop)
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on a successful career as a coroner.
Dead people are more compelling: death stories are of more consequence than life stories. The more complex, obscure, twisted the death the better.
But there is only one way I can guarantee my own substance on the mortuary table, so I position myself, swallow the venom- 30 seconds for everything else. I yank the wire attached to the crossbow which fires the arrow which propels me on to my sword. Now I wait a few seconds more to become interesting.
(LippLibs entry by DH)
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on under the big top dressed as a clown.
Winter feasts on the homeless. Just as January relented, releasing its icy grip, February blew through and bitch-slapped me. Seeing countless friends frozen drove a renewed desperation to escape the streets.
The paper stapled to a pole reeked of suspect salvation.
"Fun! Laughs! Oversized shoes! A red honking nose!"
I passed the audition with flying (trapeze) colors, and settled into the unexpected.
Thus began my career as the man-toy of a plus-size contortionist with an Emmett Kelly fetish.
“You’ll love it! Our private sanctuary.” He gloated over the loblolly pines and deep, clear lake.
All I saw was snakes—under the car, on the concrete porch, and in the lake. Long and lethal.
“If I find a snake in the house we’re gone. Understood?”
He flashed his trademark smile. “Gotcha.”
A hundred bucks and a jumbo garbage bag to a local sealed the deal.
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on a five-foot black snake coiled around the hot water pipe under the kitchen sink.
After high school we went different ways. She became the Fed her RA dad wanted. I became an intellectual property thief. I was her pet project
I got hung up in Singapore. They were celebrating an old friend.
I didn’t notice her until she delivered my Char Kway Teow.
“I guess that I’m caught.”
“I could have caught you years ago, but I had other plans. I’m a PI now. I want you to partner with me. I’ve missed you.”
I knew that I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on BordainDay and Singaporean street food.
My own post
Blind Ben showed up one morning following Gentle Jenny.
Then Lily the Calico arrived carrying Child Hercules dangling from her mouth.
Both of them mostly bone, half dead. Fleas crawled around their eyes as they purred over the feast I offered.
Next, Charming Bucky led Tripod Tom home.
And Felix, with bleeding ears, half healed scars, and eyes like fire cautiously crept near until he too joined us in my small home.
I knew I would find my joie de vivre but had no money on planting catnip in the back yard.
The tunnels are dark, stinking arteries inhabited by rats and unseen creatures swimming in the mire decanted by the city each day. They have become home.
I had been a child of daylight, delighting in shooting the vermin in my Granddad’s barn until one day I killed a two-legged rodent as opposed to the usual four and they took my gun away. It didn’t matter his intent, only that I had shamed the family.
Here I can shoot anything.
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on the sewers with their river of filth.
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on under the big top dressed as a clown. The charity organizer had been very persuasive. My own mother didn’t recognize me.
Hans was in the adjacent ring, a shriveled and scarred tiger tamer. The circus was the only family he’d ever known, but he’d be homeless if he didn’t perform.
I took him away from all that. I sent Hans to live with my grandfather, where they spend their days trading war stories. And the tigers? Now they work for me. My name is Charlie…
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on finding it at Dollywood with my sons and nephew looking on.
It’s always been me and little Andy, but no more nine to five for me. Jolene from two doors down told me about the gig. Two Walmart bouncy balls and I could lip sync to fool any Romeo; gel insoles for my stiletto red shoes help me make it through the night.
I’m no dumb blond or backwoods Barbie. I will always love you, but I’m not coming back.
But....no....here you come again, Dumplin!
I had curly hair, she had straight. Her straightness always made it easy to tell us apart. Straight As. Straight arrow. Straight to Stanford.
Straight over when I drunk-dialled again. She was all new pumps, old pity, and I decided she'd stolen my happiness somehow, sucked up my half when we'd shared a womb. She wasn't my twin; she was my tumor.
But hating her wouldn't fix things. I needed to straighten up.
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on it being dependent on the payout of my own life insurance policy.
(Prompt credit: french sojourn)
“What’s this?” he asked when he saw the freshly painted walls.
“It ‘s the chic new color.”
“Those shows! Blood red walls, deconstructed meatloaf. It’ll take five coats to cover it!”
He was wrong.
“It’s Musty Merlot. We’ll light candles, it’ll be like we’re in France.”
He perked up at the sound of that. He remembered France.
Two weeks later he was dead from food poisoning.
I knew I would find my joie de vivre but had no money on it being after the seventh coat of Misty Moonlight finally covering the incredibly ill-thought-out Musty Merlot on my bedroom ceiling.
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on planning life goals for a talking yak. – Claire Bobrow
It was impossible, they said. Most production animals were built, not plucked from the zoo.
We convinced them.
The show was called, “Yakkity Yak, Don’t Talk Back.” Loads of onstage banter.
“She’s a cash cow,” my co-star said.
“Maybe if she didn’t sound like an out-of-tune foghorn,” I quipped.
My yak emitted a bray that churned the first few rows, spreading uproars of laughter.
Then she spoke.
An ill-timed heart attack followed.
Plans disintegrated.
We await unemployment.
I thought it was cooking. Bought Alex Guarnaschelli, Bobby Flay, and Rachael Ray. But all I got was mushy pasta and burned chili.
I took up painting, but my inner Bob Ross was not my little friend. Abandoned me after a day.
So I tried the violin. This time I went three days until the neighborhood cats started throwing trash at me.
Finally, despondent, I went to the movies. And there it was. In a crowded room watching “The Last Jedi.”
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on schadenfreude.
“I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on my joie de livre,” she typed. Seeing the words in black and white made her feel like a sang-froid achiever.
Baccarat fever had caused her week’s allowance to déjà leave her. How to find comfort without resorting to hors-la-loi ivre?
Her doigts seized her library app. She’d never been a Robin du Bois believer but now she would merrily ninja aggrievers. The story turned her imagination into a hoopla New Year’s Eve-er.
So she was writing again! Cash flow doit suivre.
Credit: Bonnie Shaljean
I hate lawns –
all that feeding, weeding, watering, mowing.
No matter what you do, they look like shit.
But when Larry threw down the gauntlet -
“50 bucks says my lawn’s prettier this year!”
Well.
I busted my ass.
And so did Larry.
What is it with big brothers?
No one enjoys life more, when a bet’s at stake.
Except Larry’s kids.
Summer vacation -
all that free time to play outdoors with the hose.
(And a Slip-n-Slide, courtesy of yours truly.)
Oops.
Sorry, Larry.
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on schadenfreude.
(Lib source: Colin Smith.)
In the eighties, before I’d ever heard the term “bucket list,” I had an annual “joie de vivre list.” On January 1, I’d write ten things to accomplish by December 31. I've never completed all ten.
2018 looked bleak. Six for ten when December arrived. I moved no closer by Christmas.
But New Year’s Eve, I passed a grizzly bear climbing to the summit of Mt. McKinley before gawking at the Northern Lights … when a kid offered to tattoo a shamrock on my butt.
For fifty bucks.
I knew I would find my joie de vivre but had no money.
(Prompt courtesy of Casual-T, who won’t admit it but has the same story.)
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on my wife being so supportive of the journey. When I told her I was setting out to find myself, she was so excited she even paid for the plane ticket and packed my bags.
-The look on her face when I flashed the companion ticket!
Tragically, my dreams shattered: she checked into a sanitarium for a sudden, mysterious illness.
-Her face when I lovingly checked in next door!
“Happy?” I later tapped on the wall.
-She pounded and howled back, but I understood her meaning.
Joie.
.........(Prompt courtesy of Where There's A Quill)
6, 12, 18, 22, 34, 48
Eight million bucks. Only one winner the news said.
Bloody right only one winner.
He put food on the table.
What’d the missus do? Sat on her fat arse lookin’ after the kids.
Stupid bitch bought the ticket with his money.
Now she wanted a share. Half she said. No fuckin’ chance.
He tipped the powder into her glass.
Reached down for the whisky.
Didn’t see the funnel web.
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on it being a spider bite.
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on knee-deep in the mud of a conflict zone while trying to jump start a UN truck.
"Pericula Ludus." She wiped greasy hands on her shirt.
We clambered back on. The Toyota's engine howled, wheels churning but working their way up and out.
"Danger is our game," I said, recalling childhood Latin.
We lurched forward. She smirked. Danger and Latin and the love of the game. We'd go far.
We told our son we’d married in ’96; it was actually ’97 but changing one little number saved us some big questions about legitimacy.
Our friends asked about Jackson when he moved away. What school did he attend? What about his career? We told them he went to Yale (Jay’s Bartending School For Ale - the letters are there). He was planning on taking the bar (-tending job at Friday’s).
Last year, my wife left me. I still wear my ring; classy ladies love widowers.
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on “editing.”
(Prompt courtesy of John Davis Frain)
Who needs writer’s block when you have fourteen minutes until deadline?
Gahh. Little demons be damned. Word count? Worry about it later. Story? What’s a story?
He sat at the computer, cursor blinking, heart beating like Hades. No characters appeared. On screen, the pulsing line gave a mischievous wink.
Meanwhile, behind him, a dark figure scowled. No -- a sable figure. No -- a grim-horned figure with a wicked looking scythe . . .
This is too sick. Need something happy. I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but I had no money on “editing.”
(The guy behind me? John Frain, of course.)
I knew I would find my joie de vivre, but had no money on a successful career as a coroner.
Dead hearts. Dead eyes. Dead lives.
Some people would say that it’s too morbid, too macabre.
But there’s something about looking into the faces of the lost and knowing the truth.
Knowing a secret.
Because dead men tell no tales, not even to the one who heard their voices last.
(LippLibs entry by DH)
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