It's a scary flash fiction contest!

I'm chortling with glee as I contemplate another attempt to thwart the Fort(i).
Guess what costume I"m wearing for Halloween?

 The usual rules apply:

1. Write a story using 100 words or fewer.

2. Use these words in the story:

john

nick

drew

ward

mike

To compete for the Steve Forti Deft Use of Prompt Words prize (or if you are Steve Forti) you must : NOT use any of the prompts as a proper name (not for a person, or place).

3. You must use the whole word, but that whole word can be part of a larger word. The letters for the prompt must appear in consecutive order. They cannot be backwards.

4. Post the entry in the comment column of THIS blog post.

5. 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, then post.

6. International entries are allowed, but prizes may vary for international addresses.

7. Titles count as part of the word count (you don't need a title)

8. 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.

8a. 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.)

9. 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"

10. Please do not post anything but contest entries. (Not for example "I love Felix Buttonweezer's entry!")

11. 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.

12. 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: 7amam Sat 10/26/19

Contest closes:9am Sun 10/27/19

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?

Not yet!
ENTER!
rats! contest closed!

What is "not a story"

Thank you for writing such a helpful blog! I've learned a lot about the industry from you, as well as gained more confidence in myself (in spite of being a mere woodland creature). I've been following you for a while, though I tend to lurk more often than I participate in the comments.

I also really love reading the flash fiction entries because I learn a lot from your comments on them. One thing you say often for the honorable mentions is "not a story, but..."

Perhaps it's too obvious to write about it and I just need to do more homework, but I think it would be helpful if you explained what makes one entry a story and another not, even though they're both compelling. In longer form stories it's clear: there's a beginning, middle, and end with characters making choices that lead to growth. But in such short entries, there usually isn't an ending necessarily, and yet this one counts as a story and that one doesn't. Why?

I feel very small asking you to explain this, but it would be very helpful to me.

Thank you, and please forgive my running on my hamster wheel.

This is actually a very good question.
Let's use last week's contest for the examples.

There were three entries that got "not quite a story".

Here they are:

Not quite a story, but delightful, and oh by the way have you read The Moon is a Harsh Mistress by Robert Heinlein.

TS Rosenberg

"Welcome, folks! Here on the - "
"Whoa, the moon's GINORMOUS."
"Is Alaska down there? Wave to Grandma in Fairbanks, kids!"
"Hi, folks! Yes, the view is amazing, but first - "
"What's that sprawling green blotch? A holt?"
"The Sumatra rainforest. It's on the Algerian/Syrian border."
"Folks, please listen!"
"This place is too full of tourists."
"Duh, everyone’s a tourist up here."
"Everyone shut up, or I'll open the airlock and we'll all be sucked out! That's better. Welcome, folks! Here on the ISS observation deck, four panes of glass lie between us and the vacuum of outer space...."

I liked the energy and verve of the writing a lot.

It also uses one of my favorite premises: tossing miscreants out the airlock to keep the peace. I first heard this premise in the book I mentioned: The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress by Robert Heinlein.

So, what would make this a story?
If the tour guide did push someone out of the airlock.
Only when something changes or gets revealed (as in a twist, the best kind of reveal) is it a story.

Not quite a story but inventive!

Anu Roy

You won’t know me. My name conjures up nothing. A blank. You stare at me all day but yet, don’t notice me. So let’s talk about me.

Because, well, it’s bloody entertaining.

To be fair, I can bank on the fact you think I’m useless. But if I disappear, you’ll lose your holt on English.

You see the space between words. In every sentence. Yup, that’s me. The name’s Blank.

I’m done being futile. Now, I have a mission – distancing two warring worlds. Putting space between them. See what I did there.

So I’m off to the Algerian/Syrian border.

Kindahardtoreadwithoutme,right?

I'm a total sucker for entries about punctuation, grammar and word play so this is right up my alley.

BUT, like TR Rosenberg above, no one goes out the airlock. Nothing changes, nothing is revealed. There is no twist.
What would have made this a story?
Finishing up the thread of the Algerian'/Syrian border in some clever twisty way.


Not quite a story, but holy moly,

Colin Smith

She was an Algerian/Syrian borderline psychopath. At least that’s how she introduced herself at the speed dating table. The space between us felt uncomfortably small.

She picked up a pencil and asked what I did.

“I’m a banker,” I said shuffling my chair, making the space bigger. “What about you?”

“I hunt,” she said, fixing me with thirsty eyes, testing the pencil point on her thumb. “In the holts.”

“Fair enou—” The pencil flashed by my face. I turned. An impaled roach fell to the floor.

“Call me,” she said, sliding her card.

I did.

Twenty years ago today.

Colin's always got something interesting going on.

This isn't a story because the fact that she's an Algerian/Syrian borderline psychopath (one of the great uses of prompt words) has no further reveal. There's no twist of expectations or events. 




The other thing to remember when reading these flash fiction entries and my comments, is that this is all entirely subjective, and not just cause only one person is commenting. Comments can also depend on mood, and time of day. 

There is no gold standard on what makes a story good, but what makes something a story is a change, or a twist or a reveal.


When you're writing, ask yourself: what has changed here? It can be something for the character, OR something for the reader.

My WIP is a fluke

Dear QOTKU,

Hope you are well! The combination of my well-trodden rodent wheel and the recent blog post on  "how do you know what you are meant to write?” has brought on another round of spinning that’s resulted in lost sleep rather than lost weight.

See, the upside of not having anybody expect anything from me as a writer is that I can write whatever my brain decides is convenient. I regularly write across genre and category—I know, I know, bad me—but I’ve stuck within the realm of kid lit and have found that I tend to stick to contemporary fantasy, so it’s really not that much of a stretch. It helps that read widely in both categories and writing whatever pops into my head brings me joy.

Then along came this idea…

Suddenly, I began researching things. I, the perpetual plantser (to use a Jeff Somer’s term) developed a massive outline. I even wrote a fake query in advance! I was caught up in the whirlwind of planning like I’ve never planned before. Yes, this diabolical mystery concept sunk its hooks in deep.  But it’s not kid-lit. Not one bit.

Thus, after a hastily scribbling out a first chapter, I put off writing it. And I kept putting it off. I threw myself into daily life and other projects and swore I’d forget about the idea. But then someone from Writing Group A as well as a CP asked me about it (creepily in sync).  I dithered, prevaricated, and hid…before turning to Writing Group B and asking if the POV I used for *terrible* first chapter worked because, well Writing Group B won’t lie but they won’t hit me with a sledgehammer either. The answer was a resounding yes. So I sent off chapter to Writing Group A and CP, and didn’t give much thought to it, until my e-mail started exploding with messages from members of both Writing Groups and my regular CP clamoring at me to send along chapters as I write them. In short, they’ve turned into Audrey II (and I’ve been diligently writing to satisfy their demands).

I’ve never had this kind of reaction before. Not once in ten-odd years. At least, not to this degree.

And I’m petrified.

Because I’m 99.9% certain that this WIP is a fluke. I’m probably not going to write anything else like it because, well, frankly I don’t want to write anything else like it.

The problem is that I still want to query it when it’s finished( especially if I don't secure rep from other WIP in my usual wheelhouse that is much farther along in the process). Which brings me to the question of the hour:

How should a writer handle querying a novel that doesn’t mesh with what they typically write and isn’t what they plan to write in the future?

Here is a story answers your question:

It rained for 40 days and 40 nights.
In other words: Portland.

But in Buttonweezerville, the amount of rain was unusual and the river rose dramatically in protest. Flooded hill and vale for miles around.

Augustus Krump, Buttonweezerville's self-anointed grand high poobah of God's Yardstick Squad (happy to comment when you are Not Measuring Up), lived in a small white cottage on the bank of the disgruntled river. His front yard was underwater by Day Seven.

His neighbors, who didn't much like him, but knew their duty, called to say they'd come get him in their spiffy baby blue Amphicar 770.

yup, this is a real car

No no! Gus didn't want to get in something so weird and new. Anyway, God was going to send angels to carry him to safety.

The water rose, and by Day 14 had covered the first floor of Gus' cottage.
Gus retreated to the attic, taking only his autographed Bible (purchased from the True Man of God Radio Show, broadcast live from Pikyapoket, Texas), his long suffering poodle Holy Roller, and a gallon of hooch (for medicinal purposes only.)

The water did not abate.
On Day 21 Gus, Holy, and the bible clambered onto the roof.
(The hooch had mysteriously disappeared.)

A fishing trawler chugged by.
The captain waved "we have room, come on board!"

No No, Gus was afraid of boats, particularly ones with a lot of wet bedraggled hungry people in them. Besides, angels from God would soon lift him to safety.

Another day passed. Gus was getting hungry. Holy too, and eyeing Gus in a way that was starting to feel like the wrong kind of devotion.

On Day 28, another boat came by.
The captain waved "we have room, come on board!"

No No, angels are nigh!

Holy wondered if a dyslexic god was included in the rescue plan.

Another day passed, then another.
The waters kept coming.

By Day 35 Gus was hallucinating from hunger and thirst. He saw huge metal birds in the air, and a man carrying a pitchfork swim by. He found a huge lifesaver but it tasted of plastic so he threw it away.

The waters stalked on.
Over the roof. Over the chimney, over the weather vane on the barn. Almost to the top of the dale  where Gus had lived.

Had, of course, because Gus drowned.
Holy, no fool, had jumped from the roof and barked down a boat back around Day 30.

And just as he expected, Gus went straight to heaven.
He wasn't as happy about this as you'd have thought.

Lord, he huffed and puffed, I've followed you all my life! Where was my salvation?

"Gus," said the Lord a touch acerbically because God is all things and that can include frustrated.  "I sent three boats, a life preserver, two helicopters, and Aquaman. You refused them all."

Oh said Gus, woebegone. I didn't know that was my salvation.

"Gus my son," said the Lord. "What did you think they were?"



The moral of this story is: recognize opportunity when it swims by.

PS Holy Roller is now happily ensconced on Aquaman's couch.

PPS Your WIP is not a fluke. It's a breakthrough. You don't know what the future holds. Proceed. Deal with any bridges ahead only when you're standing on them.

It must now be said

Don't query via text.
Don't follow up on queries or requested fulls via text.

Unless instructed clearly and specifically otherwise: email is the ONLY way to do either of those things.

And this is not just a get-off-my-lawn, not-in-touch-with-the-modern-world position.

Unless *I* have your phone number in my contacts DB, you show up as unknown.
I not only have no idea who you are, I can't find out.

And texts come in when you send them.
Which means that if I'm canoodling with Her Grace and Sleekness, the Duchess of Yowl, your text is interrupting us.

I don't need to spell out the results of that do I. No I do not.


I not only ignore texts from unknown numbers, I block them.
You have the car warranty and IRS hoax calls to thank for that.

Texting is a good tool for some things.
But it's a monkey wrench in your query toolbox.

Flash fiction contest results-FINAL

What an interesting array of entries this week!

Many of you stymied me with holt.
I had to dig in to find several of the meanings, which of course I loved doing, so thank you all for that.

Herewith the results.

Special recognition for a masterful sentence.
Steph Ellis

The space between his brain cells had widened considerably as his ego had puffed itself up

Not quite a story, but delightful, and oh by the way have you read The Moon is a Harsh Mistress by Robert Heinlein.

TS Rosenberg

Not quite a story but inventive!
Anu Roy

Not quite a story, but holy moly,
Colin Smith

She was an Algerian/Syrian borderline psychopath. At least that’s how she introduced herself at the speed dating table. The space between us felt uncomfortably small.

She picked up a pencil and asked what I did.

“I’m a banker,” I said shuffling my chair, making the space bigger. “What about you?”

“I hunt,” she said, fixing me with thirsty eyes, testing the pencil point on her thumb. “In the holts.”

“Fair enou—” The pencil flashed by my face. I turned. An impaled roach fell to the floor.

“Call me,” she said, sliding her card.

I did.

Twenty years ago today.

We all remember Mrs. Smith of course but who knew her interesting antecedents??

--I'm really disappointed relieved to learn from the comments below that Colin's Mrs. is in fact not a borderline psychopath.


And of course, as any oddsmaker should have known, I am once again, THWARTED

Steve Forti

“Ho ho ho, Lt. Dan. Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

Dan McGruff sneered. November, December, it made no difference. Christmas was but a fairytale in this urban kill zone. The Central Asian front had been brutal – the Stans were logical partners. But now alliances were unbound by geography. The combined forces were mounting – Bulgarian/Nigerian/Liberian/Algerian/Syrian. Bordering on unstoppable.

“Stay frosty, Sergeant. I bet we encounter heavy resistance. Let’s pace ourselves.”

“They all run from McGruff the Tough.”

“Mind your tongue.” Even mocking, the nickname was dangerous. He didn’t make the rules, just enforced them. “Weapons ready. Let’s take a bite outta rhyme.”

Two commenters rated this faves.
They are now enjoying an all expense paid trip to Carkoon.

Here are the entries that I thought were particularly noteworthy.

Stephen G Parks

“Listen up! Alger, Ian, Sy, Rian B: orders have come down: You’re going whaling, ship out tomorrow, oh nine hundred. Space is limited; so no alcohol, tobacco or fair trade coffee. I know … the last one’s weird.” The XO shrugged. “Captain’s orders.”

Three weeks in, we’d chased this damned pod up and down the coast, never once seeing them.

“I bet we engage them off the Grand Banks of Newfoundland.” Sy was a freshly pressed middie, too eager for his own good.

“No laddie, We ain’t hunting them.” The Captain tapped his patch, Rainbow Warrior. “We’re leading them to safety.”

Of course, I love the idea of whales being led to safety.

Did you all know about Keiko, the whale that lived in Oregon for awhile?

When my sister took her fourth grade class to the Aquarium, and visited with Keiko, she said she was deeply moved by the intelligence in his eyes. We were anti-whaling before that of course, but after that we were Rainbow Warriors!

This earned a Fave from one commenter.

Jennifer Delozier

A Modern Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, a little girl named Goldie loved fairy tales and rainbows, unicorns and panda bears. But in the short space of time between Grimm and Gatsby, alcohol turned her teeth to rot and hardened her liver to stone.

Papa Bear broke the bank on rehab. Mama huffed and puffed tough love. Baby brother pleaded with God.

Goldie’s funeral was held at Grandma’s house in the hood. The fairy tales are ghost stories now, spoken in hushed tones at reunions far and wide.

And they all lived unhappily ever after.

The End

It's that line: the short space of time between Grimm and Gatsby that really caught my eyeball. One great sentence can do it!
This earned two Faves from commenters.
french sojourn

“I’ll take “Disingenuous Prompts” for $400, Alex.”

“This occupies the space between the Algerian / Syrian borders?”

**buzzer sound**

“Felix.”

“What is the Mediterranean Sea.”

“Correct… go again Felix.”

“I’ll take “Dis-genre-ed” for $300 Alex.”

“Answer is, “This genre doesn’t exist.”

**buzzer sound**

“Go ahead, Holt.”

“What is Dino Porn.”

“I’m sorry, that’s not it.”

**buzzer sound**

“Go ahead, Felix.”

“What is “Fiction Novel? …I’ll take “Vices” for $500.”

“The answer is… “This city was named after the 26th Vice-President.””

**buzzer sound**

“Felix.”

“What is Fairbanks?”

“That’s correct Felix, now the final category, “Entries that aren’t even remotely, a story.””

Ok so I love these meta-entries that purport not to be stories, but are.
Oh So Subtle.
Clearly ya'll do too: Hank got five Faves in the comment column, but disqualified himself.
I will respect his integrity here, but this is terrific work.

Aphra Pell

“Breasts” said the old lady “Are fair, dark or anything between; nipples smooth, puckered, hairy, even missing. They bear no resemblance to spaceships or oysters.”

The writer snapped shut his laptop, concealing pearlescent mounds quivering adjectivally.

“As for ‘she yodelled hyena-like as his manly unicorn charged her moist otter holt’…. I’m not sure if the poor woman needs a doctor or a zoologist, but,” she tapped a golden fingernail against her glass “dear boy, that’s not how it works.”

“How would you know?”

“A life banking memories.” She swigged her whisky and smiled at the bartender. “That’s not over yet.”

Maybe you have to be knee deep in queries to truly appreciate the pithiness of this.
Metaphors Gone Wild is in the top five of Things I'd Like to Never See Again.

And the twist at the end was delicious (that the old lady hasn't retired from the field of hankypanky quite yet!)

This got one Fave in the comments.

flashfriday

The woman asleep at the crosswalk reeks of alcohol. (That is, it looks like she’s sleeping; hard to tell.) A faded blue towel’s scrunched above her like Aladdin’s turban; knots strangle her hair, and she’s buried deep in what might be a North Face coat.


I don’t want to wake her (if she’s asleep?), or I’d stop to ask if she needs anything.

Plus, I’m late: the sun’s already yawning against our fair October sky, and there’s another two blocks between me and my parking space.

Green.

I cross, fast. This light’s short, and anyway, she was sound asleep.

(Right???)

This is very evocative for me.

I've written here before about my former priest Father Santos directing us to show Christ's love in the world via direct action.

Sometimes I think entries like this are a whispered reminder to do better.
Plus, FF wrote it which means it's amazing of course.
This got one Fave in comment column.

 

 

*****

this is just a brutal choice.
I can hear all of you laughing with glee at the torment you've inflicted.
Writers' Revenge should be the subtitle of every single one of these flash fiction contests.

So, who did I overlook?

you were clear I'd missed some:

NLiu got 2 faves

John Davis Frain, Michael Seese, efa foy, Just Jan and Mr. Thwarti Forti each got a shout out.
Whose Who's your choice to take the prize?
yeesh Janet.

I need all the beta readers I can get here!


If Hank (frenchsojourn) hadn't DQ'ed himself, he would have taken the Reader's Choice award. So, this week, no one takes it home.

I'll keep one of the books that was a prize this week, and dangle it in front of you another time.



Each of these stories is amazing, and all in different ways.
I'm starting to get annoyed at how hard these choices are getting!!
Which is akin to complaining that one has too many trophies for the mantle.

I had to sit on this for a while, but in the end, it's flashfriday this week.

 

Are you an Early Fan?

As most everyone now knows, Robert Galbraith is a pseudonym for JK Rowling.
That info was revealed by a total blabbermouth.

It's unfortunate in a lot of ways, but I regret it cause this is a really good book, and it would have been fun to have it as one of those Early Fan Of books: if you've read it, it's an instant connection to others who have read it. It's like having a favorite cafe that's utterly amazing, but not overrun with tourists cause "no one knows about it" except for the regulars.

Other Early Fan Of authors for me:  Jane Harper, Joe Ide, John Straley, Steven Mack Jones, Ingrid Thoft, Mick Herron, Rachel Howzell Hall,

Nick Petrie and Lou Berney used to be on this list.
Veronica Roth too.
Jess Walter.

Then a LOT of people discovered their amazingness.
Which I don't begrudge them a bit.
But it was fun to be among their first fans.


Who were you an early fan of?