The Scary Flash Fiction contest results-FINAL

I don't know why I even try! But every week, I think "I bet this will stymie Steve Forti!" Only it NEVER does. Even when he was on vacation, he posted. This is taking on the hallmark of an epic battle, only I'm on the wrong side!!


Steve Forti 5-The Shark 0

Amanda used one of my favorite words!
Hornswoggle


Three great opening lines:
Jennifer DLozier
’Twas the night before Christmas and Santa was sloshed.

C. Dan Castro
Hiding in a stall, holding my wireless microphone, I don’t croon the standards.
Kregger
The elevator stopped at the gates of Hell.


These two sentences really caught my eye
Lauren B.
The patron saint of unmarked graves.

C. Dan Castro
Leave it to Satan to ruin another karaoke night.


The pun in this is pretty darn funny 
Colin Smith


If I wondered about my ability to make writers crazy
Just Jan's entry reassured me

Hat tip to Peanuts!
LynnRodz

Here are three terrific entries, clear finalists EXCEPT I didn't get them.
(Enlightenment welcome!)

Kregger

The elevator stopped at the gates of Hell.

Out walked a novelist, a comedian, and an Abuela.

The novelist approached Satan. “I don’t belong here. I drew from life’s experiences. I only nicked an idea…maybe two.”

The comedian warded his chest. “Everything’s a joke. I went to the john and ended here.”

Both men disappeared in a flash of light.

The Horned-One turned his eyes to the older woman. “And what is your story, mi kea?”

She blushed at the endearment. “My crime is, worst of all.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” she whimpered. “I forgot to change.”

Illumination from the source!

Kregger

This story relates to last week's post on what makes a story. Not including change and twists disqualifies our stories which becomes a sin of and/or omission. Thus the trip to Hell.

Jay Leno expressed the idea...if the audience buys the piece, they will buy the bit. In this case, the setup/piece is a classic three people walk into a bar joke followed by the punchline of a character (writer) ending up in Hell (also known as rejection) for not changing.

As Colin has said, (paraphrasing) sometimes utilizing the prompt words is easier than making it a story. Of which, I'm in total agreement.

Thank you for the mention, and good luck to all the finalists. 

flashfriday

She’d reworked (how naughty! sweet first: scones and clotted cream) the dragon’s riddle a hundred times (plates heaped with mozzarella and salami kept filled), but there was (chianti chilled in a dewar) definitely something tricky (darn icky, actually—sorry, not you, curry chicken on brioche) about this one.

Maybe (truffles or tiramisu?) it was his wording (fine, both), or maybe her (champagne!) inexperience.

But here, the dragon was clearly raj (oh, now cappuccinos?!) and she the humble peon (extra whip please).

“I can’t solve it,” she said in despair. “I’m just too full.”

“Yikes. Awful!” said the dragon. “Mint?”

KDJames

Their names are a blur, every Tom, Dick and Harry who drew me into the game with slick praise and sly hands.

My memory's selective, skipping fast-forward past needy johns and the thin joints nicked to endure them. Skimming past getting miked up for the cops that time, to nail a murderous rat bastard.

Here on Ward 5, that's all distant--

"Hey, baby," I say, "want to party?"

Just another sad old dame whose past is--

"Check it out, lover."

Who can't remember--

"Got your sugar right here, hon."

--why reciting these lines is hauntingly familiar.

illumination from the source:
KD James

Ahhh, I was going for subtlety and instead totally missed the mark (which I suspected but posted it anyway). Oh well. She's an aging prostitute with dementia, living in a care facility. She remembers some things well enough to *know* her memory is missing a few details, but other things are a complete blank. Like why it feels familiar to solicit the attention of men.

What I learned: It's difficult to convey memory loss in a first person account without some kind of framing or context.

This is just frain funny
John Davis Frain

 Mike, police procedurals, drew the short straw, so our critique group will act out his story to find flaws.

I hit the john, load my Beretta, ready to raise the stakes. Ward, horror (writing and life), joins me enthusiastically.

Drew is new, yet, ironically, historical. He’ll acquiesce.

Nick, noir, is a guest, so a mystery. Replaces John, who escaped in the nick of time. We’d pushed him toward the brink of insanity when we cosplayed his best-selling Dyin’ Eyes.

We enter the gritty sheets of chapter one when I drop the mike.

I’d tell you what happens next – but I’m suspense.

Here are the entries that caught my eye
Samara Lo

Min stalked past shrivelled mummies and cracked urns. She’d loved old and broken things. Loved them so much she’d married a fossil who got thrills from geochronologic names like aegean and animikean. His passion had ensnared her, until she’d discovered he was digging another site before the dust had settled on her wedding dress.

She stopped at the 100 carat diamond looted from a raj.

“Oh no, not looted,” he would’ve chided. “Museums acquire.”

She snickered and withdrew. At 0300 she’d be “acquiring” the sparkling reward in his name. Surely his future inmates loved old and broken things.

I love the "not looted/acquired" play here. How we view things, the words we use do indeed show our view of the world.

And that she's set him up to take the fall is so subtle and elegantly hinted at, I just wriggled.

This is lovely work.

Fearless Reider

“Who put a nickel in her?” groused the coroner.

“Rookie. I drew the short straw. Hasn’t quit moving since we got here.”

We sucked at stale coffee and watched her flit.

“The lock’s been johnnied!”

“Uh... jimmied. Devoured, I'd say.”

"Something's in his throat, Mike!”

I reached in. Drew out a bloody phone. “Fetch me that thumb.”

Click.

Dear God. My stomach heaved upward.

Dr Agnt

U up?

Cant wt 2 tl u abt my nw fction nvl
Almst cmplt @397,666 wds

Call me

— Ishmael

“Welcome to the QPD, kid. We're done here.”

No jury in the world would convict.

this is just so damn funny, who could resist.

And the subtle QPD makes me laugh every time I read it.
Get it? Get it??

Smoketree

Long ago, three witches lived in a crumbly cottage in the middle of a wild wood. Their names were Drewsilla, Johnevre, and Mike. Each of the witches had spiders for hands, and at dusk they would crawl out of the crumbly cottage to spin thick, sticky wards around the property line. These were so strong and so slick that nothing could pass in or out. Later, over cake, they reminisced about their dear, departed sister, Nicklementine. The cake was soon finished.

Not quite so long ago, two witches lived in a crumbly cottage in the middle of a wild wood.

 Starting with the names: this just cracked me up. I LOVE the juxtaposition of the overly mannered names with Mike. 

And then, everything is unsaid. The beauty and elegance of this is that you know, you can just SEE what happened.

I really loved this. Spare, elegant. Hilarious. Terrifying.


Lenon Faris

When I reach the middle, 156 cars have passed me. Last year, I promised myself if someone stopped, so would I.

I’ve wizened up.

Nobody pauses now, anyway. Busy, busy. That’s all.

I reach my old spot. In the pre-dawn grey, fog rolls beyond my toes. Thrill. And terror.

A noise, sideways –another silhouette draws towards the edge.

I run.

“Wait –what’s your name,” I ask. Mike? I’m Drew. I tell Mike about John, my nick-of-time friend.

We call Mike’s sister. Sister arrives —hugs, tears.

I decline their ride. 219 cars pass me.

“See ya tomorrow,” I tell my bridge.

Ok , please tell me you all noticed wizened up, and that it "should be" wised up??
Except there's an implied physical toll with wizened up, which I loved.

And this kind of story just grabs my cold sharkly heart.


Kate Higgins

I live in an old, sort-of-furnished, 3rd floor walk-up.
All my books are soldiered in an ancient wardrobe, much roomier than the shelf in the john
or the origami-keeping-knick-knack-dust-collecting bureau in the hall.

The last someone left one book behind.
The book always stuck out.
It would never stay even; it was like the other books withdrew from this pariah and shunned it.

I never read it, but I kept it.
I kept it as a guarantee.
The old gold-printed spine read, "The Last Book You'll Ever Read!"
I kept it as a guarantee.
and I never read it.

"all my books are soldiered" is such evocative writing I want to pet it.
 "origami-keeping-knick-knack-dust-collecting bureau in the hall" is pinpoint perfect description.
Notice there's no reference to what it's made of or what color it is. So often writers default to brown wood (for example). 


And the repeated phrases at the end.

Well, face it, this is Kate Higgins. We have come to expect brilliance.She makes it look easy, but every writer knows these little flash fiction things are anything but.




Delaney

“Dudley,” Squire Johnson said, “we are beyond grateful that, once again, you have saved our daughter in the nick of time. My wife and I cannot fathom why disasters have beset Luella since we came to the East End. You seem the only man who can keep her safe.”

Dudley doffed his cap. “Glad t’ be o’ service, yer worship.”

He withdrew, rounded the corner, and rewarded the ruffian waiting for him.

“Y’ want another near-thing tomorrah?” the ruffian asked. “Runaway ’orse? Viper, mebbe?”

“Aye,” Dudley said, “’e’s ‘bout ready to ’and ’er over, s’mike it a good ‘un.”

 Well of course any entry with a ruffian has my immediate interest. 
And a horse.
And a VIPER!!

And what made this entry just so damn wonderful is how the writer used vernacular to incorporate a prompt word to mean something entirely different: s'mike (so make.)

This is so deft I expect occult forces may have been brought in!



Amy Johnson

“That’s what makes a story a story,” she said into the mike.

Leaving the conference, she detected the fire twenty-three blocks away. She ducked into a portajohn and SWITCHED into her superhero suit, then flew toward the flames, drew in a super breath, and blew out the apartment fire, saving everyone there.

Then, she thwarted thugs attempting to nick women’s purses, REPLACED a stranded motorist’s tire, and, having no spare COINS, dropped a twenty into a man’s cup.

The feline met her at the front door, paws crossed. “You’re late. What’s your story?”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite have one.”

This entry wins the Duchess of Yowl Seal of Approval.

And mine for thwarting thugs!
 
It's also hilarious, and deft.








Let me know who I overlooked, what I missed in the stories I didn't get, and which of the shoutouts is your choice.


Final results later today!

And here it is: later.

I read these over again, and this week's prize goes to Delaney. All of the entries are wonderful, and I found a lot to admire in them.

Delaney, if you'll drop me a line with your mailing address and what you like  to read, I have some really good books to offer as prizes.


Thanks to all of you who took the time to write and enter, and those who commented this morning.

I love hearing your thoughts on these!