It's Friday so I'm treating myself to a flash fiction contest.
You write, I enjoy!
Let's see if I can get results posted a bit more quickly this week!
The usual rules apply:
1. Write a story using 100 words or fewer.
2. Use these words in the story:
core
corps
sells
cells
birth
berth
Yes, there are SIX prompt words.
To compete for the Steve Forti Deft Use of Prompt Words prize (or if you are Steve Forti) you must also use: adaxial
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: Saturday, December 17, 9:15am EST
Contest closes: Sunday, December 18, 9:15am EST
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!
Sorry, too late. Contest is closed.
18 comments:
The corpse washed in with the evening tide and berthed on the hardcore spit: an incongruous, deliquescing monster.
Barnet wept for joy. Home was a frigid cell, spouse and child lost to the iron winter. But here was meat, oil. Even the bones would sell. Silver and heat for a few days’ butchery.
He hacked and wrestled. Blood froze on his oilskins.
But his hands met – how could this be? The torn monster gushed, birthed a fishtail, slippery and warm. And a mer-child smiled in his arms. Tiny fingers closed round his. Her eyes were an ocean; his heart, becalmed.
Two detectives survey the murder scene.
“Sweet suite.”
“Why groom this particular groom?”
“He’s a Baron.” The first detective examines the broad axial symmetry of the blood spatter on the wedding bed. “Her third marriage. Barren.”
“You’re kidding. No kids?”
“Gave birth a wide berth. What happened to the second husband?”
”Dishonorable discharge. He illegally discharged his weapon.”
The first detective plucks an eagle-shaped pin from the carpet.
The other grunts. “Seal of a SEAL.”
“Hard core, that corps. Murder weapon?”
“Battery with a battery.”
“The lobby sells D-cells!”
High-fiving, Detectives Homograph and Homophone depart to check the surveillance cameras.
“Happy Birthday. You’re gonna love these books!”
“Thanks. No spoilers. I haven’t read any of these.”
“Jane’s a heavy sleeper. Edward dies in the fire.”
“Don’t. I said no spoilers.”
“Yosarrian loves the corps. Montag resells the books on eBay and Jose Arcadio names his kid George.”
“Why’re you doing this? I’ve given you a wide berth, but this is mean.” (Fingers in ears) “LA LA LA LA”
“Hester never gave birth. Moby was an albacore tuna. Hercule’s little cells were purple.”
“Stop! You know better!”
“Then you stop telling me who gets sent home on Great British Baking Show.”
At birth life’s a gift. Everything’s new, but it’s scary.
At five, those core pillars of you start to form.
At twelve, it’s sex cells and meiosis to study. Each day a new lesson.
Eighteen the corps calls, citing duty and honor. You listen, you’re brave, you can kill the Others.
Twenty-one. Maybe. You’re angry, alone. Hungry and broke, but you remember that lesson: sex sells.
Twenty-three. Desperate for that feeling when life had axial rotation, something to base your world around. Then you feel the swell in your belly.
At birth life’s a gift. Everything’s scary, but it’s new.
Mama always said Dusty was destined for big things. Ever since he arrived at 14lbs and she gave him a wide birth. (Her words, not mine.)
After enlisting, he learned how ships affect ocean ecology; it rattled him to his Marine core. (For him, “Semper fidelis” pertained to all God’s creatures.) They’d shaped Dusty, but he was rotten to the corps--portrayed them as a cancer.
And whaddya know, cancer sells. His crew overran the base; other supporters formed cells down the river, giving Dusty complete berth control.
Bastard. Now my unit’s entire arsenal points his way.
Big things, indeed.
The corpse is sunken and doughy, but the bride has experience with these matters.
Five minutes on high zaps it back to life. A nip here, a tuck there, fill the core with jam and it looks like something she could sell.
She lights a candle…
Then, humming the birthday song, big-haired Bertha carries the resuscitated confection down three flights of stairs to the secret underground laboratory where she reconnects the adaxial electrodes on the OTHER corpse to the array of lithium-ion D-cells and flips the switch.
“Wake up Darling, I baked a cake.”
The core ad hoc Botany professorial corps droned on, lecturing on the birth and death of adaxial cells of the Ginko Bilboa radial branch berth geometry, according to Ellis Ellsbury et al.
"Whoever they are." I wrote: Rad Axial Rose.
The guy in the row behind me tapped my shoulder. “Horrible band name, mate. Try again.”
I whispered out of the side of my mouth, “Lead Zeppelin is taken…”
“A garage-grunge band needs a…stink about them. Something earthy.”
“I got it. Butt Sweat and Tears.”
“That’s it, mate. You’re golden.”
On the chalkboard, a TA wrote: Luxurious abaxial foliage…
Dearest Sarah,
The corpses came again last night.
Darkness births them. In daylight, I gather my skirt, walk among the sloughed off skins.
I am not mad. Though, in truth, the clacking of their bones once scored my sanity. But no longer!
You feared for me, alone in this isolated place, but my home is not my cell, sister. Lawrence sells his wares, his travels far, but I am not lonely. You see, the corpses speak now.
They whisper without words.
They want to come inside.
Tonight, I will let them.
Worry not, Sarah. All is well.
Yours,
Bertha
From his cushy berth aboard his soon to be repo’ed luxury 757, he hatched a plan.
It was the birth of a tremendous idea, phenomenal. Greater than Einstein, Newton, all those geniuses.
There will be abs of steel, core strength like you wouldn’t believe. Heroic poses. They’ll lap it up. Esprit d’corps and red meat for his millions, with millions for him. They’ll all be on their cells shouting you gotta get some of these before he sells them all!
Digital NFTs at 99 bucks a pop? It’s bigger than the entire Earth turning on its adaxial.
Harry started the autoclave. “It could work, but where would I get the raw materials?”
Maisy repositioned a slide under her microscope. “You could collect them from a corpse, or from afterbirth.”
“Ick.”
“Baby.” She checked another slide. “How about the amber theory? Fossil bone marrow and all that.”
“Sounds hard.”
She snorted. “Are you trying to be funny?”
“I’ll try harder next time. Any other bright ideas?”
Maisy produced a business card. “If you’re willing to spring for 2000 units, try her.”
“Sally Schwann. Biotech supplies? She can get what I need?”
“Absolutely. Sally sells T-cells by the C-score.”
The waiting room whispers at the IVF donor clinic can be claws-out catty.
"There's Amber, the walking sperm magnet."
"I hear she mails a hundred birthday cards a year."
"Anonymously, I hope."
I pitied them, and their paltry four-figure rancor.
P.S.: Note to self. Never mention my biggest score, the Greek heiress who paid me a cool $500k to spend two months at her beach "house" on Mykonos, so I could "relax and center myself" before the harvest. Quite the payday… or days.
Call me a new spin on that old tongue twister.
She sells she cells by seashore.
From birth to berth, we were inseparable. We had plans to join up together, become the core of the Corps.
Then the lines weren't drawn where we expected: now my blood is clean, but she sells T-cells by the sea shore.
Instead of fighting shoulder-to-shoulder, we're two ships passing in the night.
"Anything on radar?" Lieutenant barks over her shoulder.
"Not a thing, ma'am," I lie. My onetime friend slides past.
My birth sign said Taxi. For years I took it to my core.
Rambling was in my cells. Corps of people flowed by and I took what I wanted from the faceless mob. Then a clear face. When she moved on, she took more than just my wallet.
I felt as empty as a berth after its ship had sailed. I began to search for her, but she didn’t want it to be easy.. Hired a guy who sells such information.
I tried to surprise her, but my face was clear to her too. Her name was Bonny, I’m Clyde.
“What’s the score, boss?” said Greg, watching his friend.
Aiden’s expression was unreadable. “Another corpse. Bertha McFay.”
“Three in one day. Ada Xi, Alan Cahill, now this one.”
Aiden glanced up at Greg. “Has the law been by yet?”
“Nah, I ain’t seen no-one, but I’m sure they’ll be here soon. You think she sells?”
“I dunno.” Aiden rubbed Bertha’s hand. “Hard to tell. Let’s see.”
He jabbed a small device into Bertha’s wrist.
“Rich in plasma cells.” He smiled. “Better than the other two. Ka-ching!”
“Christmas,” Greg grinned.
“And Birthdays,” Aiden added. “Help me get her in the van.”
“The elves burned the factory.”
Santa shifted his icy mug. She knew he preferred piping. “Did Rudolph join them?”
“Yes.”
“Rotten to the core, eh?”
The major clicked his heels. “He sells reindeer pep on the side. We’ll flip him before Christmas Eve.”
“Then?” Santa dumped the cocoa dregs in the trash, covering them with reindeer fuzz.
“The birth of a tradition. In the absence of toys, we’ll deliver wooden soldiers to every child.”
“That’s Plan B?” She’d understand, wouldn’t she?
“All cells reporting, sir. Corps standing by in their berths.”
Never again did Santa abstain from eggnog in December.
He taught the theory of cells. (+)
I studied advertising, or the theory of how sex sells.
We met in a bar off campus and then several times in passing on campus. (+)
He was older (+); I was enamored.
He tried giving me a wide berth (-), but I was an apt pupil and could exercise my seduction skills expertly.
The pregnancy was a surprise, for him. (+)
The lack of a proposal was a surprise for me. (-)
The stillbirth broke my heart (-). The evidence that he had intentionally caused it enraged me (-)(-)(-).
His corpse at my feet was inevitable.
He knew the score.
Yesterday, Penny forgot to think about her sons.
Decades ago, she gave birth, yet still wears blotchy stains of failure. Remnants of a child’s longing for a different past. Lodged in the cells, this core belief that oversells blame. The bad genie of genealogy.
She tortured her parents too. Blame that padlocked berth they shared. Holding out faith, Penny awaited permanent revolution. Freedom. Only to discover the corpse of that dream, succumbed to its own scorpion nature.
Yesterday, she forgot to blame herself. Today, a call comes. A son in the hospital.
Things happen when she forgets.
Distance learning had its perks. No more teachers, dirty looks. Show up for Zoom, muted. Five minutes for an A.
Meanwhile, I birthed my baby. Five cells per region. Five regions per person. I love the number five, can you tell?
Took a few months, but our corps of drone hackeneers was finally operational.
Amazon sells, but we collect. GPS reroutes; bicycle-riding teens swiping mid-air, innocent looking Grandmas porch-pirating midday.
After graduation, rented a storage unit. Carved out a core for my berth. Sold at ever changing flea markets. Goal achieved: graduated college sans student loans.
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