Flash fiction contest results

 

 

It is lovely to see so many familiar names back in the comments section.

Thanks to all of you for writing and sharing your work.

 

 

Special recognition to Colin Smith:

Fork she's a dish might be my new favorite laud.

My former fave? Hubba hubba.

 

 

Special recognition to Kregger for putting Tim Lowe in steerage on the way to Carkoon. Double whammy!

 

 

 

As usual Steve Forti has thwarted me:

 

We were somewhere around Carkoon on the edge of the reef when the kale began to take hold. A week of fast food had me clogged, and I needed roughage. The fiber ‘round here was asbestos (oof) or kale.

I debated for a while.

Now this poo needed daylight. I sliced through the Carkoon Unwelcome Center like a dull knife and crashed into the bathroom stall. Needing leverage, I grabbed my hightop laces for support and bared down.

Once it all went bye bye, I reached for the paper and stopped cold. I shuddered.

Carkoon uses the three sea shells.

 

The use of oof here is hilariously on point given I was late closing the contest cause I was at MoMA looking at the Ed Ruscha exhibit. One of his better known works:

 

 

I'm of two minds here.

One is complete and total disqualification due to subject matter.

 

The second is to just give him a prize.

 

What do all y'all think?

 

 

 

 

On the first pass I listed all the entries that stood out (not necc. in a good way!)

 

Timothy Lowe

CynthiaMc

Steve Forti 

 

Colin Smith

Craig F

Madeline Mora-Summonte 

 

Kregger

BJ Muntain

MaggieJ 

 

Just Jan

KDJames

John Davis Frain 

 

flashfriday

NLiu 

 

shanepatrickwrites

Mallory Love

 

 

Then I went through and kept those that were a story

 

Here are the semi-finalists.

 

CynthiaMc

"Didja hear? The dish ran away with the spoon," the bartender said.

"Muffet's a floozy," said Mother Goose.

"Not our place to say," said Mother Hubbard.

"Old King Cole was an idiot " said Tommy Tucker. "She just wanted his money."

"He was smart enough not to give it to her," said the bartender.

"Knife to his heart," said Hubbard. "He needs a good woman."

"Like you?" Goose asked.

"Man's at a fork in the road," said the bartender. "He's looking."

Mother Hubbard grabbed her purse. "I think I'll offer condolences. "

"Not if I get there first," Mother Goose said.

 

This really made me laugh.

 

 

Madeline Mora-Summonte

Lizzie studies the empty dish then looks around. She doesn't know this place.

At the stove, an old man hums, spoons scrambled eggs into a bowl. She doesn't know this man.

Lizzie flings her fork at him. She tries to run, but she's wearing slippers, a robe.

He says he's her husband, Paul. Married many years. He points to her diamond, holds her gnarled hands. Says sometimes Lizzie forgets things.

He serves her eggs, butters her toast.

She doesn't remember. But she forgets.

Or so he says.

He turns away. Lizzie slips the knife into her pocket.

Just in case.

 

Oh man, this one gets ya, doesn't it?

 

 

 

 

 

BJ Muntain

Seven plates. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...

Seven forks.

Seven spoons for dessert.

Six steak knives and a butter knife for the kid.

Dishes for the Caesar salad. Dad's favourite!

Bringing out the food now: ham, scalloped potatoes - cheesy, just the way Dad likes them - creamed corn, peas...

The turnips. Where are the turnips? Dad will freak if there aren't...

Oh.

oh

Burning eyes, removing the place setting at the head of the blurry table, avoiding the looks of the others as they take their seats.

No turnips tonight.

 

I really like things that are understated but pack a wallop, like this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just Jan

When their memoir placed at the top of the NYT Best Seller’s list, I almost puked. I’d been in bed for a month with double pneumonia--a consequence of blowing down houses for a living--and too weak to lift a spoon. Now I was nursing an undeserved reputation and a budding ulcer.

Those fork-tongued porkers didn’t care who they knifed--they were squealing all the way to the bank. Yet, I’m the bad guy.

One day, it’ll be my turn to dish. I’ve already written the first line: There were three apples, one for each pig.

 

 

I'm always a sucker for the other side of the story!

This one is wonderful.

 

KDJames

“You have to come, see for yourself,” my sister said. “The dementia’s getting worse.”

Dad carefully places dishes out for tomorrow: bowl, spoon, cereal. Plate, fork, knife, for the frozen meal he’ll insist on for dinner.

“G’night, Timmy,” on his way to bed. It’s barely seven.

Timmy. My twin who died when we were ten. “Sleep well, Dad.”

I grab the milk carton next to the bowl, return it to the fridge.

He needs the visuals: Rolls of tp piled on the bathroom counter. Mismatched clothes laid out. Old photos of Mom.

And I wonder… will I, too?

 

 

 

oh. oh. oh.

 

 

 

 

shanepatrickwrites

Bye bye fork. Bye bye knife. Her foods requiring only a spoon and a dish in this place. Twice a day the slat slid open to deliver something soft and digestible. That left fifteen hours, forty-seven minutes to consider that hard and repugnant act that put her in the Land of Banned Silverware.

 

Love the entries that are elusive and intriguing.

 

 

 

 

Mallory Love

Marty was my everything: the cream to my coffee, jelly to my donut, big spoon to my little. Until he left me for Betty. Her threat level was more butterknife than razor-blade. I never saw it coming.

I saw them everywhere. The grocery store. The post office. Even church. When those dishonest yahoos walked in without pitchforks raining down, I questioned my faith a bit. But it wasn’t my place to judge. I left that up to Betty’s husband, who had been overseas. Rumor was he was a great shot, and the headlines the day after he arrived confirmed it.

 

Love a good revenge story!

 

 

 

Let me know what you think in the comments column.