7 Sizzling Sundays of Summer Flash Fiction CONTEST
By Writer Unboxed | July 1, 2012 |
Summer. The days are long, the nights are hot. Time seems both to stand still and slip away. Inspiration for writers is all over the place–at a lake as a father plays with his child, in the crackle of melting ice in a glass of tea, with an exuberant dog chasing the spray of water from the sprinkler on the lawn.
Sound like fodder for a contest? We thought so. And because summer seems to go by in a flash, we decided that this year we’d host a flash fiction contest.
What’s flash fiction?
Flash fiction, is a highly addicting form of writing, and like a Twitter version of storytelling. Brief. Potent. Forcing the writer to strip a concept down to its essence. Though each story is told with a minimum amount of words, usually less than 1000, it also has a beginning, middle, and end. We like the Irish Times’ take on it.
In essence, a flash fiction is a very short short story, the classic example being attributed to Ernest Hemingway: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”
It also can be written in a flash. Back to the Irish Times:
As a writer the appeal is the immediacy,” says Canadian author John McFetridge, “the very short trip from initial inspiration to finished product. I just spent almost three years working on a book, but a flash fiction can be done in a couple of days.
It can even be finished in a couple of hours, if you’re truly inspired.
(Learn more about flash fiction at Flash Fiction Online, Flash Fiction.Net, and Flash Fiction.in.)
So about that contest…
Here’s the scoop:
- Each Sunday until August 5th we will post a prompt (most or all will be provided by our own Debbie Ohi). The story must be inspired by that week’s visual prompt.
- Each submission must be 250 words or less. That’s a far cry from the 1000 words we mentioned earlier, but we know you can do it. Consider it ultra-flash fiction. Also, 250 words will fit more easily in our comment section.
- Each story must contain a beginning, middle, and end. Like all stories, a compelling narrative is essential, and the restrictive word count means that each word is crucial.
- All submitted work must be original–not published anywhere else, and written by you, for this contest. After the contest, what you do with your flash-of-brilliance story is up to you; we hold no claim on your work.
- Post submissions in the comment section of the prompt post. Each week, the deadline will be 72 hours after the prompt is posted on Sunday morning, meaning Wednesday at 7 a.m. EST. Stories posted after the deadline will not be eligible for the contest, but feel free to post them anyway — we’d still love to read them.
- No more than two entries per person, per week will be eligible for that week. If a person posts more than twice on a prompt, only the first two entries from that person will be considered.
- The top three stories from each week will be selected by a mix of votes in the form of Likes in the comment section and our own discretion.
- On the 7th Sunday, we’ll present a roundup of the top three stories from each week along with a poll. From there, using poll results and our own discretion, we’ll choose three finalists.
- Within a week of the poll, we’ll announce a first, second and third place winner!
- Winners are happy. We are happy. We all have a deepened appreciate for flash fiction.
“Deepened appreciation”? Does that mean there isn’t a prize?
Please. Do you really have to ask that?
The GRAND-PRIZE WINNER will receive a bounty of goodies intended to help capture writerly inspirations in a flash, even if you’re not in front of your computer. UPDATED to be even more fabulous, with a more powerful recorder and Dragon Naturally Speaking Voice to Print Software!
- A Sony ICD-SX712D Digital Flash Voice Recorder, perfect for dictating story ideas and dialog fragments while on the road–driving or walking. This recorder also comes with Dragon Naturally Speaking Voice to Print Software. Here’s the official product description:
Sony ICD-SX712 Digital Flash Voice Recorder has a built-in 2GB memory with an SD card slot, which affords an additional 16GB of storage capacity for lectures, notes, music, meetings or any other audio you may want to record. The maximum recording time afforded by the internal memory is 500+ hrs, but a 16GB microSD card can expand the ICD-SX712’s maximum recording time upwards of 4000+ hrs.Making recording and playback more convenient, the ICD-SX712 is equipped with an LCD-backlit display, multiple language displays and record date, time and elapsed time displays as well. It has an LED operational indicator and can be set in various modes such as Continuous Play, Easy Search and Noise-Cut during record and playback. It also features Direct Record to Play, Erase, Move File, Protect, Play/Stop, Record/Pause Scene Select, Low-Cut and Track Mark functions as well.As an added luxury, the ICD-SX712 boasts the Sound Organizer PC software. It also features a USB port, 3.5 mm stereo mic input and 3.5 mm stereo headphone output. The ICD-SX712 has an integrated speaker for listening back to recordings out loud when privacy is not a concern. It comes with two AAA batteries that can last up to 25 hrs. The device is USB charge capable and the recorder can fit easily in your pocket or purse and is barely noticeable in your hand, weighing a scant 2.4 oz.
It really is a great tool.
- a Scuba writing slate with pencil for the tub or shower–because the shower is a magic place where storytelling unfurls! Basically this is a lightweight white board and pencil that can be drenched and still function perfectly, but here’s the official description in case you’re flummoxed:
Diver’s Underwater Writing Slate for Snorkeling, Scuba Diving to Tell your dive buddy what you are seeing by simply writing on the face of this easy to use underwater communication device. Great item for communicating underwater, especially for trainers.
- a Night-Writer pen–a bright, nighttime friend to help you capture those two a.m. inspirations
- the first EVER produced Writer Unboxed T-shirt, featuring the WU logo. You tell us the size, we’ll make it happen.
The SECOND-PLACE WINNER will receive the second ever produced Writer Unboxed T-shirt, along with the first EVER WU coffee mug.
The THIRD-PLACE WINNER will receive the third ever produced Writer Unboxed T-shirt. Which, hey, is still pretty cool.
When does the contest start?
Right now! Use the drawing posted below as your prompt. And don’t worry if you can’t participate in this week’s contest; there are still five more chances to share an entry. Good luck!
Drawing courtesy © Debbie Ridpath Ohi, illustrator of the soon-to-be-released book for children, I’m Bored.
Writer Unboxed began as a collaboration between Kathleen Bolton and Therese Walsh in 2006. Since then, the site has grown to include ~50 regular contributors and a variety of guests on rotation throughout a given year.
In 2016, the Writer Unboxed team published a book with Writer’s Digest / Random House. AUTHOR IN PROGRESS: A No-Holds-Barred Guide to What It Really Takes to Get Published is a comprehensive guide focused on helping writers over/around/through hurdles faced at every stage of the novel-writing process. It’s received some ***** reviews; we hope you’ll check it out.
If you’d like to be among the first to know about the next Writer Unboxed UnConference, which will likely tie-in with WU’s 20th Anniversary celebration, please sign up for our mailing list!
Write on!
I can’t play Star Cancer Patient anymore.
The nausea hasn’t been criminal for a few days, but I can’t deny the smell anymore. It’s not the “I’ve been backpacking for a week” funk. It isn’t even the sour stench from when I had pneumonia last year. This is the reek of cornered prey.
Avoiding the shower won’t work much longer. Even if I stay in bed, it’ll come off on my pillow when I turn my head.
Star Cancer Patient would stalk to the bathroom, grab the clippers and shave it off in the name of not letting chemo steal her crowning glory.
It doesn’t have to be SCP cutting off the hair. I’ve never waited for anything to “just happen.” I yanked out all my teeth when they were barely wiggly. I’ve gone after every boy I liked.
It takes several squeezy blinks to clear the spots from my vision when I sit. Then again when I swivel out of bed and stand. I hate this shuffle-walk I’m reduced to.
The shaver is heavy. And cold. When I push the switch, it vibrates like I’m holding a jackhammer.
It drops, buzzing against the tile. Feet pound up the stairs and I sink into a ball on the floor. My mother picks up the razor. I shut my eyes. I hear it but don’t feel it. The razor stops and I peek. She’s bald.
She’s out-SCP-ed me.
I do the symbolic first pass and let her finish the job.
Her joyful facade betrayed the heart pounding fear and gut wrenching loneliness cloaking her soul while her husband fought in Afghanistan. Only his safe return would allow her to dispense with her aging mask.
Josie rifled through every mask in the bargain bin. Heather’s mandatory masquerade party meant Josie couldn’t just pull something out of her closet. Her friends would be all spiffed up. She’d again don two-for-one finery. “Nothing,” she said to herself, padding everything back together. Josie felt a tap on her shoulder. A round saleswoman crooked her finger, cocked her head, and walked away. Josie followed, entranced.
The clearance section was a bountiful mess. Strands of balding Mardi Gras beads cost a dime. Wands with missing sparkles, seventy-five cents. Boas, tutus, clip-on earrings, a quarter. Josie filled her plastic basket, and then noticed the tiaras. $4.99. “Worth the splurge in this case, don’t you think?” the round woman asked, walking away.
To what case had she been referring?
Josie chose a tiara that looked real when she squinted, and then she opened her eyes to look at her watch. Lunchtime was almost over. Josie fumbled with her ten-dollar bill while scampering to the register. She stopped hard and almost tripped out of her flip-flops when she noticed a mask hanging on a hook next to St. Patrick’s Day buttons and Easter bunny ears. The mask was perfect. It was light, bright, blonde, and smiling: everything Josie wasn’t. It was also a little smudged, torn, and tattered: everything Josie was. There was no price tag. She added it to her basket anyway. For the first time in a long time, she had a good feeling.
[…] own great, or good, or in any case your very own flash fiction as part of Writer Unboxed’s 7 Sizzling Sunday’s of Summer Flash Fiction CONTEST, which starts today. But you’d better hurry: the 72-hour clock for getting that first 250 […]
The Deception Hour
Anastasia peeled the grotesque mask from her face, disgusted. The whole affair was a farce. Gaudy wealth dripped from every inch of the masquerade. Puppets pretending to laugh, flirting with the fake and the meaningless, she thought, feeling her skin crawl.
“May I offer you a drink?”
She tilted her head towards the voice, removing her scowl. “Thank you,” she accepted the small crystal=clad cordial from his silver tray. To her delight, he didn’t leave. “I apologize for everyone here. Butlering for them must be dreadful.”
A sly smile surfaced to his mouth. “Dancing among them would be worse.”
She laughed, “They are vultures, vampires seeking blood and bragging rights. And, according to my mother, the elite from which to choose a spouse.”
His smile grew toothier. “Isn’t it scandalous to discuss such matters with the servants?”
She displayed her mask to him, “No one here is who she appears to be.”
“Have you yet seen the gardens?” he gestured towards the glass doors to the patio. “I understand they are lovely.”
She paused. Her mother would be furious, but the servant was the most promising companion of the evening. “Are you at liberty to escort me?”
“I am, for you.”
Anastasia welcomed the crisp air as they escaped to the outdoors. At the edge of a sculpted herb garden, she forced introductions. “Anastasia Dumarche.”
He kissed her fingertips. “Arik Lyon, Count of Mounteschell, your humble servant.”
Her heart fluttered like the stars. Her mother would be pleased.
OK. I can’t be succinct enough to even try my hand at flash fiction, but I see you two in the new avatar for this WU post and I want to know when the photo was taken. :-)
About a month ago, at a concert. Kath took it on her phone, and we decided to use it to replace our former icon–the picture of two young bears walking down a road, which Kath fondly referred to as the “bear butts.”
She laughed, cheeks rosy from her third martini, and let insincere praises for the hostess flow.
“What a wonderful bash you throw, Nancy. Better every year! I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Who made those delicious hors d’oeuvres? I must get the recipe.”
It was only because her husband worked for Nancy’s at the bank that she attended, that she put on a smile for his sake and hoped that the next promotion could bring an end to the charade.
She could see him in the corner, making social love to the white-collared management and smoking cigars. For a moment their eyes met and the only true emotion of the night shone in her eyes. Then his attention was drawn back to a fat man in a suit, and she returned to the cards.
When the party ended, she kissed the hostess on the cheeks and lied about coming to her book club, already thinking of the excuses she would make. She got in the car and peeled off the mask of social acceptance, her face drawn with exhaustion and loathing.
“Thank you, honey,” he said, and squeezed her hand. She knew what he meant and returned the gesture.
Once home, he took off his suit and she slipped out of her dress. She hung up his jacket; he washed his face. Just as they slipped into bed, she peeled back the second mask, and in his arms she was able to be entirely herself for a few sweet hours.
I sit looking at the envelope. I have no need to read words which will only set my heart off in unnatural beat. No need to know the details, the figures, the date by which I would be expected to leave.
I look around the flat, at ornaments which once meant so much to me. Just stuff now, irrelevant, having lost any lustre and glow. Even the photographs do not hold me in place, chastising me to adhere to the usual routine, to keep on, to get through. Instead, they sit smiling, almost mocking me. People always smile when having their photo taken, even though inside they feel less than real.
I take a nice bath then. It feels good to be warm and held. This is what I need, and want, to be cosseted, made safe, to feel as if I am worth anything at all. I wearily dry off and then go to dress. I have pulled my very best from the wardrobe and drawers, all the special and newest of clothes making me feel fresh, good, ready, prepared.
As I reach the door, I take one last look around. Then I leave with resolve, closing it hard, risking no chance of changing my mind, using my anger to move.
Down by the lake, I pack my pockets with stones, filling their place with my regrets so nobody will know, and then with one last lingering look at the sun, which is setting now, I dive…in.
Every morning, I have to put on my face. The one that’s not me. The one that everyone expects me to be. They want me to be pretty, because that’s expected, but I’m tired having to be pretty all time. They tell me I should always smile and be happy, but sometimes I don’t want to.
That’s today. I sigh, a bone-weary sigh, as I stare at my reflection in the bit of broken mirror. The candle flame flickers, making my skin turn shadowy. This time something inside me rebels. A knot forms in my stomach, pulling tight. It and I know the truth: If I put the mask on again, I feel like I will disappear and never be who I am.
My fingers tremble. I can’t. And yet, I must. No one — no one can see what I am.
I pause, considering. The mask does not hide everything. I can still be a monster today.
I put the last touches on the mask as I waited for my next customer. If I hurried, I could finish and run out for something to eat. It’s not like anyone would notice if I did shoddy work. I rubbed my temples. No, I would be late and didn’t want an angst-ridden secretary pacing my workroom when I returned.
I checked my schedule. My eyebrows rose. A woman was penciled in over a crossed out name. This wasn’t one of the regulars who had to make appointments months in advance.
A knock sounded on my door.
Usually, I made them wait, but I called, “Come in.”
The door swung open without its usual squeak. A woman glided in, her fingers stroking the side of her mask. Probably nobody’s eyes but mine could discern the slightly ragged edge. A cold snake coiled in my gut. It wasn’t my work.
I slipped the generic mask I had been working on into the trashcan, opened a drawer and took out a box. I placed it precisely in the center of my desk.
The woman’s eyes swept over my long black hair and bare face. “You don’t play the game.”
“Never.” I pulled the bow binding the box and it shriveled away.
She pushed aside the cover and gazed at the mask within. “I could ruin you with this.”
I smiled without humor. “Only if it doesn’t destroy you first.”
Her eyes glinted behind the black holes of her mask. “Try me.”
“I’m Jim’s Wife”
For nineteen months I wasn’t able to say anything after “I’m” except “Jim’s wife”. He made me be that way, made me do a lot of things—but now the mask is off and I’m myself again. Well, my current situation’s a little restricting—might be some time to get back to where I was.
I can still see it: December thirteen, in big red numbers on my little flip desk calendar at the office. The very same day Jim proposed, I drew the fanciest heart with our initials and an arrow through it that my Bic Four-Colour Retractable Ballpoint pen would allow. You know which kind I mean—with the red, blue, black and green—god I miss that thing. The scribbled heart-shape went through onto every page clear past Christmas and almost to New Year’s. That’s about how long we lasted—before the fighting I mean.
He had a big contract coming up, so we postponed the honeymoon until the following summer. Sure enough, Jim lost the contract and his plumbing business went into the red. That honeymoon page had its own Bic pen drawing of a cruise ship, but the ship never sailed, at least not for us. Every time I saw that scribbled ship shape day after day fading away to nothing, I just got madder and madder.
None of that’s worth beans now. Jim should have known better than to keep hitting me; I even warned him once that I was gonna kill him. I guess it wasn’t really fair warning though, being it was right before I swung that blade across his sick fuck neck. He didn’t even see it coming, poor guy. See, I feel remorse, but the judge said I didn’t. What the hell does he know?
Her heart was sad. Her face was glad. Her mind was mad.
No matter how many times people called her beautiful, Liz couldn’t accept it. She thought, “Everywhere, there are barriers.” Her ex-husband’s constant barrage of insults and fists plagued her.
As she stood in front of her therapist’s office, she thought, as she always did, that maybe this would be the magic week – the week she found herself again. But, as usual, she didn’t have high hopes that her wish would come true. Instead, she saw her reflection in the mirror and thought, “I’m a hideous mess.”
This week, she sat down in the chair. The therapist told her she was perfectly normal. Liz did not feel perfectly normal. At the end of the session, the woman suggested Liz try something that scared her. That wouldn’t be too hard. Everything scared her.
“Have you ever tried walking across fire? I run a firewalk.” The therapist suggested.
Liz shrugged. “Only crazy people do that.”
A few weeks later, after a long seminar, Liz found herself staring across a field of hot coals. She wasn’t sure she could do it, but her feet behaved differently. She walked across and hugged a woman on the other side. The woman hugged her back and said, “If you can do this, sweetheart, you can do anything.”
Soon Liz found new love, started a new business, and in the mirror she saw beauty. Her motto became “Try to stop me, but I walked across fire.”
“Get out of here,” Sarah commanded her dad. “Go relax. Have fun. I’ll take care of everything.”
He glanced at his wife with a frown, but nodded. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Don’t hurry.” Sarah turned to her mom, who seemed a little more oblivious than usual, caught in the glow of the TV. Time to pull out the mask. Brightness and cheer. “Watcha watchin’?”
Mom blinked. Tore her gaze from the TV, froze. “Do I know you?”
Sarah’s mask didn’t flinch, didn’t lose a bit of composure. Thank
God. She’d been dreading this day for years, but if she made a scene it would just confuse Mom that much more. No reason for them both to panic.
When Dad returned, Sarah drove away weeping. But there was a small kernel of pride. I can be whoever Mom needs me to be. For a little while, anyway. I can love her to the end.
“He said it was dark.”
“Well, yes.”
“Yes, but he said it like it was a bad thing. ‘Monochromatic’ was the word he used.”
“That’s pretty apt, actually.”
“Sure. But he doesn’t want monochromatic.”
“He rejected it? They’re rejecting it? Are they allowed to do that?”
“They are allowed to do that. He said he wants another Vivian Lovelace—he thought that’s what I was working on. He said, ‘Vivian Lovelace is the kind of heroine women want to read about. This woman in your new book is just depressing.’”
“Did you point out the redemptive ending and the theme of rebirth? I actually found it uplifting.”
“He wanted to know whether Vivian is going to accept Troy’s proposal in the next book, or get back together with Julio. He’s also very concerned about how I’m going to resolve the problem with the shoe shop and the overbearing landlord.”
“Did you tell him that you want to explore themes of loss and hope and—”
“No, you know, I didn’t. I told him I thought Vivian would probably accept Troy, but that Julio wasn’t out of the picture yet.”
“You’re giving in, then. You’re going to write what your publisher wants.”
“And what my fans want. He’s right about that. The Vivian Lovelace books are popular.”
“But you’re giving up on ‘Into the Dust’?”
“He said it wasn’t… me.”
“Did you tell him that’s exactly who it is?”
“I told him I did think Vivian might lose the shoe shop.”
Now I can let go. Josie checked and double checked to make sure that her one-year-old and two-year-old were asleep at last. Now I can just be.
All day she’d done her best to be a Good Mommy. She’d pushed the stroller that carried her kids all the way to that neighborhood oasis, the park called Totland. She’d talked politics and buttermilk biscuits with other parents, and brandished wipies and string cheese and goldfish crackers so that her children wouldn’t get hungry. If the smile on her face never reached her eyes, no one seemed to mind.
In the moonlit kitchen, Josie rifled through the kitchen drawer, looking for a corkscrew. A little dip in a bottle of wine would do wonders, she told herself. Deep in the drawer, her hand brushed a serrated knife and she blanched. She couldn’t—shouldn’t– look at anything sharp. Knives were too hypnotizing, too inviting. A knife could cut through your numbness, lickety-split.
Tiny footsteps padded into the kitchen. “Mommy, I peed da bed.”
Josie shut the drawer. As she washed the two-year-old, her one-year-old woke with a start and began to cry.
Josie crawled into bed with her children. Now I can just be, she realized. She nestled into the soft sheets that smelled of baby wash and talcum powder. Her one-year-old began to nurse, and the two-year-old snuggled into the small of Josie’s back. Now I can let go.
Tomorrow–Josie let the tears come–tomorrow I’m going to talk to someone.
PS: I’m technologically-challenged and couldn’t get the italics to work. I hope the meaning is still clear!
I just noticed that Amy Sue Nathan also has a protag named Josie. I’m sowie!! It was my great-grandma’s name : )
Last delivery of the day. Thank God.
I peer at the glass vessel on the seat beside me. The mask inside is all golden curls and thick eyelashes and full lips. Hardly remarkable. Barely even beautiful.
What’s the point? If I had the money, I’d transform into a superstar, not a housewife!
Rain splats against the windscreen. I enter the client’s name and address into the Sat-Nav – Kim Low, 445 Grooble Street – then press “Go”. The car lurches forward and weaves into the steady flow of traffic.
The rain drenched city goes by. Billboard after billboard. NuFace4U! Girls With Curls! Star Features! Beneath them, the jobless try to stay dry.
The further I go, the taller the buildings get, until the sky is just a slither above me. Then the car draws to a stop beside a cement tower block.
Kim Low must have saved up for years for this new face.
And it’s not even nice.
The car door pops open. I slide out, heave the heavy glass jar into my aching arms and struggle up the drive. By the time I reach the porch, I’m soaked.
Irritated, I slam my palm onto the intercom button.
There’s a pause, then a male voice cracks through. “Hello?”
“Package for Kim Low,” I say.
“Fancy Faces?” comes the wavering reply.
“Yup.”
There’s a spluttering sound. Sobbing. Choking. And between the noise I can make out one word, whispered over and over.
“Thank you…”
Great read. Interesting, different, and well worded.
Thank you so much, your encouragement means a lot to me!
Best Friends
I found Chloe in my locker at the new grade school where they sent us kids from Great Lakes Naval Base. We moved to Wisconsin in the middle of the year and the school was bigger than any I’d been in.
She wouldn’t go home with me, but everywhere we moved, Chloe showed up in my locker. Tan or gray metal, tall or short, dented or scratched, she didn’t care. She was there all through grade school, middle school and high school. During that time we moved from Colorado to Guam and then to Minnesota where we lived after my dad got kicked out of the Navy for his drinking problem.
Chloe caused mischief after hours but who could blame her for getting bored being cooped up all day? They always found the spray paint, bleach, permanent markers and whatever she’d stolen in my locker, but they never found her.
After high school I got a job at the Save Mart and lived on my own, but I really missed Chloe. I installed a yellow locker in my apartment that I found in a thrift shop and sure enough, she showed up.
It didn’t take long for her pranks to turn into crimes, but I stopped getting caught.
Love love this.
Who Needs the Mask Now?
I didn’t have a good vibe about it when this one paid for me. I hoped she was just having a bad day, needed a little pick-me-up. Some of us get the kiddy parties or masquerade balls, hold-ups every now and then. I had to get bought by Depressive Dee-Dee here, hands ‘round my neck nearly 24/7.
I’m adjusting. You know how a horse reads his rider’s hands through the reins? I know who she’s talking to in the diner, what she’s thinking and feeling just by the hold she’s got on my neck. Most customers, she does this Goldilocks thing: not too tight, not too loose. But there are a few — the cop always asking for extras, that mom with the triplets, the gluten free nut – that tighten her up on me like I’m the safety bar on some Six Flags roller coaster.
You’d think by the time we get home I could take a full breath or two. Apartment ain’t too much: pull-out couch in the living room, little bitty pocket of a kitchen, a bathroom you’d miss if you blink. But it’s clean and quiet. And it’s hers. No matter. Minute she turns the key, I feel the triplet grip coming on.
I used to love sunrise, getting ready, keeping my smile rouged and ready. I loved the anticipation, the party planners, the birthday kids. No more. Five days out and I’m already aching for sleep. Just like her. It’s the only place we’re both free.
On the day of the big party, Monica Crane was mortified to realize that her signature red lipstick had gone missing from her makeup drawer.
“You look a little under the weather” her guests said as they filed in. “Are you OK?”
Monica stepped up her game in order to ensure them that she was, in fact, feeling tip top. Tea was served with lemon AND honey, jokes were laughed at, whether fully understood or not.
“Get some rest” they whispered in her ear upon their departure.
She awoke the next morning with every intention of proving her health and well being.
“Ten feet tall” she chanted as she readied herself, only to find that her signature black pumps had gone missing from her closet.
“Aren’t you usually taller?” asked the receptionist as she reported to work.
Monica chuckled, as if it were an airy joke, and reveled in her newfound ability to spread her feet out as she walked heel to toe, navigating the office hallways with increased speed.
She hardly even noticed when her “extra black” eyeliner, “barely there” rouge and Highgloss! smoothing conditioner went missing.
The implausible shade of blonde growing out of her hair by the day, she swam without fuss, and she played chase with the children at the park, she danced, she stretched, she ran.
“Wow, Monica. You really look…..tired lately.” Her friends said with furrowed brows.
“Yes,” Monica smiled to herself “I am a bit tired.” And nodded off as she pleased.
[…] This link will tell you how it works, and they’ll supply the prompts. A fun way to hone some writing skills, read other contributions, and maybe win a mad awesome prize. […]
She lived in a beautiful house, some might say a mansion, with her two beautiful children and her handsome investment banker husband. She was the perfect wife with the perfect life. Her days were spent at the gym, charity luncheons, and school functions.
Her husband had thrown her a lavish 35th birthday party last week where he had professed his love to her in front of the 150 guests. To show the extent of his love, he had given her a Tiffany tennis bracelet. Her children, 10 and 7, had then been ushered on stage to give her matching diamond earrings. They had all smiled through the pre-orchestrated farce.
Two weeks earlier, her husband had confessed he was in love with his assistant. It was such a cliché. For 15 years, she had devoted herself to him and to her family, and now he wanted to run off with a 20-something. But he had asked her to keep up the façade of their happy marriage for a while longer – he was up for a promotion. She had agreed on the condition that he not file for sole custody of their children.
Soon everyone would know the truth. She wondered which of her friends would lend her a shoulder to cry on, and which would turn their back, interested only to be associated with the perfect life.
Tammy snuggled into the blankets and let out a sigh. A quick look around the unfamiliar bedroom confirmed her joy.
She hadn’t wanted to face another desperate party, but she had made herself pretty by painting away the years and the hidden sorrows. She turned away the visions of foster homes where she was never wanted. She thought about the man who would care for her and bring her joy.
And last night a tall, athletic stranger had scooped her out of her sadness. Frank was soft spoken and kind. His exotic green eyes were gentle and full of life. When she wandered over, he had looked majestic. Not only had they hit it off after a quick introduction, they had headed back to his place. It was different this time, and she knew it. He made her feel special. She felt safe and comforted. He was everything she wanted.
So this morning she now had the pleasure of soaking it all in. Forgetting herself, she said a dreamy “Hi” when she heard him walk into the bedroom. But then he walked right past, obviously unable to come up with her name. “It’s Tammy, she whispered to herself.”
He ran out the door and the little girl sadness came back in a tidal wave. “No matter, I’ll find my knight.”
Phone texting with Cindy had gone on too long, but there she was: ‘Luvd the party. U?’ If she texted again I’d hurl. I turned off my mobile and began to remove my makeup. Red lipstick. Seriously? So not my color. He stood there in silence. Watching. Gazing at me in my mirror. Thinks he can come haunt me? Taunt me? It won’t work. I hated him now as much as I had loved him then. I couldn’t stand the sight of him anymore. I told him so. He didn’t flinch.
Too bad my arched eyebrows have to hide behind modish bushy fakes. He told me I would always have his heart. He didn’t mean it though. And I was a fool. Even when I saw him kissing her at O’Dell’s he denied cheating on me! An Ex, he said. He had told her I was the only one for him now. And supposedly that was a goodbye kiss. Well, he made his bed. Now he could rot in it.
I am prettier without pale powder and rouge. But I hate the blond wig most of all. I never cry when it’s on. Streaks would ruin the lighthearted style. Sometimes I cry when my hair is wild and I notice my eyes in the mirror.
It seemed right then. Even. Stephen. You put a knife in my heart. I put one in yours. So don’t come here to stare at me now. We both know it’s too late.
Koko Loses Face
Koko woke up one morning: there was a car alarm banging itself against her walls and the sun had entered in through a crack in the blinds. There was a hot strip across her face. She rubbed herself against the sheets for a while, remembering her arms and legs. She got up.
Koko was so hot she had to wash her face, her least favorite part. Her face was covered in soap and it felt loose. When she finally looked at herself, she thought she didn’t have a head anymore, but really it was just her face. She looked just in time to see the last edge of it going down the drain.
Where her face had been there was just a blurry spot on the surface of the mirror. Two little holes broke out of the top part for her eyes but that was it. She thought to herself, this is terrible, and then she said out loud, “this is okay.”
Koko was tall and skinny. She had a body that looked like a bird. Without her face she was interesting. It was charming in a frightening way.
Koko went to a party with some other people. Everybody stood around in various attitudes of social ease. She surveyed the crow, tried to stand in on a few conversations, but she felt awkward and it was hard to listen without her ears. She went to the bathroom where there was a full-length mirror. Her body looked good. She practiced standing in front of the mirror so she could see. She looked best from the side. Somebody knocked on the door and started cussing. She went out and walked pat them, trying to make her stomach growl.
It wasn’t possible to speak through her head so she nodded a lot. Most people seemed to like it. They talked and talked and she just nodded.
Koko made sure she was standing just right against the wall, her hips out a little. She wanted to look disinterest, disengaged. There was a very attractive guy across the room. Every so often he looked over at her and she tucked her hands deeper in her pockets.
Later on when he and Koko were screwing he pressed his mouth against her “ear” and say you’re a dirty girl aren’t you. Koko nodded.
Koko walked home in the dark, looking through her little eyeholes at the moon glimmering on the river water. A white truck crept slowly past her and in the seat two men were sitting and watching her very slow-like. Ooh baby, you are so fuzzy. The truck rolled past and its brake lights faded. It rolled past, down and away. She sang to herself, I am going. I am going. I am gone.
I invited the salesman inside my house before he had even asked.
“Hey, Plain Jane, do you need a lift?” His teeth were gleaming pearls and his shoes were black obsidian.
That’s all he said, and you know what, I smiled when I saw his suitcase. Not because I was lonely or desperate or dumb, but because the suitcase was filled with locked up promises. When he creaked open the leather case, little bottles clinked together like champagne glasses. Each bottle was blue and beautiful.
Years ago, I had auditioned for a school play and the girls had scoffed and said that even the spotlight thought I was ugly. I had shrugged my shoulders, walked home, and smashed every mirror except for one.
I offered the salesman a fist of crumpled bills.
He refused, leaving with only his leather case.
The bitter liquid slid down my throat and immediately I felt my face heat up. I fished the mirror out from under my bed. Slowly, I lifted it to my face and peered at the reflection. She was radiant; she was lovely; she was me. It took me many minutes, maybe hours before I set the mirror down. I looked around my room, once luminous in the afternoon sunlight. Now, it appeared cracked and gray. I gazed outside the window at the willow tree and the canna lilies in bloom, and they too looked ashen. My hand reached for the mirror and found my mask to be the only beauty.
“Thanks babe,” says Karl. “I’ll pay you back.”
So I smile as I hand over the money. That’s best. And he shoves it in his back pocket.
But now I’m late, no money for lunch, and no time to make it, so I head to the kitchen and grab some biscuits and an apple.
“Don’t you get fat on me,” he laughs, blocking the door. But he doesn’t mean it funny. Not really.
Not today, Karl, not today. He’s standing right next to the calendar. A big red circle round the twelfth.
“Forgot to make lunch,” I shrug. “You know me.”
“Yeah.” He slaps me on the rump. “Scatty mare.”
And he takes the biscuits out of my hand.
“Pick up one of them salads you like so much.”
“Oh…right,” I say, looking away. “Good idea.”
But he sees it.
The slip.
And now his mask is slipping too…..
….after he’s gone, I make it to the bathroom, and wash my face, change my blouse, but it’s not so bad. Nothing a bit of foundation won’t cover.
People expect to see this face. New low-life boyfriend every month, it’s what I deserve.
I rinse my mouth, and I’m watching the red and pink threads swirling down the plughole, when my phone reminds me about tonight.
Like I need reminding, but nice ringtone, Karl. Thanks.
I smile as it howls again.
I never did thank him properly.
But it’s not too late.
It’s a full moon tonight.
The alarmed beeped from under the pillow intended to smother it. Roslyn breached the surface of her slumber and tried to sink back to sleep. Timing her breathing with the muffled bleating, she lay there for another twenty minutes before giving up.
Hunched over, she pulled on a t-shirt and shorts and stumbled to the bathroom. She filled the toothpaste-flecked cup in the sink and guzzled cold water. The liquid seeped into the parched cracks of her mouth and throat but clashed with the sour, taut, emptiness of her stomach.
The telephone’s shrill ring interrupted her heaving.
Face framed with damp sweaty hair, lips glossed with bile, Roslyn turned towards the sound and willed it to stop. It did. Her stomach calmed.
After a cold shower, she lay on the couch just trying to survive. The phone rang again, and it was within reach and she had just enough energy to pick it up and mumble a greeting.
“Roslyn, where are you?” her mother said.
Roslyn groaned and listened to her mother harp about her future, or lack of it.
She hung up and thought of her mother waiting in the car below. Her fury capsulated in perfectly, sculpted, too-smooth skin and brushstroke eyebrows. Roslyn imagined her potential future; emotions and desires hidden behind a smiling mask of fake interest and polite charm.
Roslyn rolled over and went back to sleep.
I balance myself carefully, with one foot on a stack of books, and the other on last night’s pizza box. I look at myself in the only mirror I’ve been able to keep uncovered. I check to make sure my mask is perfect before I leave the house. Perfect makeup. Perfect Hair. Just one more thing I need. I spray on way too much perfume. I grab my purse and step carefully to the door. I open to door to face a clean world outside, and quickly close the door on my hoard.
Fog rose from the floor in my kitchen, and it smelled like lilacs. I was in the middle of making a sandwich, but I wasn’t particularly hungry.
A man walked into the kitchen. Something told me his name was Brian. “Is that sandwich for me?” he asked.
I nodded and pushed the plate toward him. He thanked me and then gave me a funny look. “Work has been awful today. I’m glad I was able to come home for lunch.”
Home? This is his home? I thought this was my home. I could feel tension taking over the muscles in my face. “Why do you look so cheerful?” he asked.
My mouth dropped open and I was unsure how to answer. I didn’t feel cheerful, so why did I look cheerful? I turned and caught a reflection of my face in the mirror. But the face staring back at me didn’t appear to be mine. I don’t have blonde hair. And I never wear lipstick. I’m more of a chapstick kind of girl. I made a few movements just to ensure the face was truly mine.
Suddenly, the blonde hair, pale skin, and lipstick began to melt away. I turned toward the man in my kitchen in horror, but he continued to eat his sandwich.
I let out a scream and swung my arm around. It hit a pillow. I opened my eyes, sighed, and felt the comfort of my memory foam mattress. It was a dream?
Mommy began waking me up early because Lilly Smith’s foster mom started bringing her to our house to catch the school bus. And just before she came that day, mom said, “Jimmy, make Lilly feel welcome. She’s had an abusive family life and deserves kindness,” which was a crazy thing to say to her eight year old son. What did I know of kindness, and I felt no welcome towards a little girl with ratty hair, and a grumpy personality to boot.
But as the years passed by, my way of looking at Lilly started to change. Her knotted hair, became sleek gold, her lanky body grew voluptuous, and her husky voice sent electric shocks down my entire body. Soon we shared our first hot kiss and frenzied embrace, that led to a secret romp in moms bed. Our fourteen year old hormones, gave us no peace, for we were intoxicated with passion, and the seconds apart became pure agony.
The kids in high school thought our lust was hysterical, and it wasn’t long before other girls, curious to see if I was the stud, Lilly thought I was, was a good “lay” in bed. At first, Lilly and I laughed this off, but I could see it was taking it’s toll on Lilly, but I did not realize how much, until I found Lilly dead in bed from a drug overdose. My golden haired girl, had become that scared, ratty haired child, from her past, once more.
It was time for the princess to turn back into a pumpkin. I slipped off the mask and looked at it. It was a thing of beauty. The red lips and perfect hair, the smile that could light up a room. I set it on the counter in my bathroom and looked at my reflection.
My hair was dark and straggly. It had been beautiful at one time. My skin had taken on a grayish tone from being hidden so long, but I didn’t care. No one saw the real me. They saw what I wanted them to see – a beautiful, happy person. That’s all they needed to know.
No one would believe that the woman who spent her days spreading smiles spent her nights at the window rocking back and forth with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. If someone saw the real me, I’m sure I’d have been hauled off to a hospital by now. But I was careful.
I try to remember how I got here. What did I do so wrong? How could I have come to this? I love the mask because it’s who I want to be, but I hate it too. Every morning when I look at my masked reflection I have hope that today is the day it’ll stick and I can be this happy person forever, but every night it slips off as though it’s barely attached. Hope is gone, at least until tomorrow.
She dwells deep within me—evil creature—to stop her—I must kill myself. If I had minded Nana—listened when she warned me not to eat the sugared flowers offered by the acolytes in The Garden of Echoes, I would not be here, stranded on this desolate asteroid, infected with a witch shadow of Almaris. I’m nauseous from her binding to my neurons, poisoned by her wicked intent to overtake me. Ah, hindsight—a cruel and useless vision—I’ve no time for regret.
There is perhaps an hour before the suns on the Belt of Attar surrender dominance of the sky to Almaris’s sister moons. I must take the draught of Final-Fire before the sisters’ rise, or I shall become a shadow of myself cast by this parasite witch.
And so, I say my goodbyes, and place into this vacuum seal, my voiceprint, and a dropper of my tears. If by chance, you are a member of a search crew listening to this log—having recovered my small, downed ship—know that I’ve set the blowers so that the ashes of my self-destruction are forever mingled with the red dust on this ruined star, this third day of the Seeker’s Month, year-five-decade-Falcon. My last wish—my preserved essence used to clone me. Please instruct the re-animators to inoculate during gestation against the Alamaris Infection.
Nana—I hold you close in dreams of resurrection.
This is Bellantina Lamaras, Phoenix Scout-Girl Guides-Terra II, signing off.
This used to be my face. You’re wondering which one I mean. I wonder too.
I am, of course, well appointed for this task. It won’t be easy, but you need not worry.
Well, not much.
You are calling upon me, I assume, because of my impeccable reputation. A well deserved reputation, I might add. But you already know that.
Experience has taught me that these things must proceed delicately. There must be no misunderstanding. Misunderstandings can be so awkward.
I shall, as always, employ candor and grace to create the illusion of charm. Charm is a deadly distraction, you know, and I have learned to use it well. It is my cloak. And my dagger.
And it always works.
Almost always.
You should not look away when someone addresses you. Poor eye contact suggests you lack conviction – not a good trait in one such as you. Perhaps also it is the way your hair falls across your forehead and your lip quivers. I say this only to educate, not to criticize. Consider it an extra. My gift, if you will.
Now, where were we? You have a plan, I assume. You have made the arrangements?
You must stop trembling lest your body betrays you.
You are having second thoughts, I see. Too bad.
I understand the importance of caution. But I would not wait too long. One should never wait too long.
It only takes one person to change the world, you know. Pity if it were not you. But then, that is not for me to judge.
I feel the electricity from behind the great curtain. An acrobat passes me, whispering “Awesome crowd!” I plaster thick white and red makeup onto my face. “Clowns, 5 minutes!” I step into my oversize shoes, breathing in and out, letting the hum of excitement wash over me. The smell of popcorn and cotton candy mingle deliciously and I step out.
All is dark except the center ring where the trapeze artists wow the spectators. A hawker yells, “Snow cones! Get your ice cold snow cones!”
Suddenly a collective scream unleashes from the audience, I turn my head just to see Sergey hitting the floor with a thud. “Medic!” someone shouts from behind me. John rushes to the center ring with a stretcher. Sergey lays unconscious, his legs impossibly twisted, his face wet with sweat. Our loud, obnoxious music amplifies the hush of the arena. John and a stagehand move Sergey to the stretcher. I make eye contact with the Ring Master, sobs threaten me, his eyes hold mine with urgency. I swallow, my heart pounding and walk down center, my fellow Clowns following.
Lights on the trapeze shut off, our lights are up and the scared, shocked people of front row are staring at us. Our routine feels stiff, but I force a smile and transform myself. In my element, I am an exaggeration. Soon the crowd eases, forgetting the earlier scene. I bow to thunderous applause and hear John through the noise, “He’s waking up!”
Nicely done Miss Em.
I am the taker of faces. Well, a borrower really. I always given them back eventually, though once I’ve worn a face it stays in my collection forever, to change into at will. It isn’t that I don’t like my own face. I do. But in my line of work, I can’t have people knowing what I look like.
Today, for instance, I’ll trade my black hair for canary blonde, my dark eyes for green ones. My lender is walking past, just a brush against her shoulder and now it’s mine. I keep my wide-brimmed hat dipped low and step to my left so no one detects the change. My lender may notice that her features are a bit blander than usual, a tad undefined around the edges, but she’ll shake it off as lack of sleep and go grab another latte. I’ll be done with this face soon enough, before she gets too perturbed.
Now to the task at hand. First, locate the item for delivery: a set of arcane scrolls located in the Museu Calouste Gulbenkian, Lisbon. Next, remove them. And finally, take them to my client in Calais. With a few more face changes along the way.
Tomorrow I’m lifting a sculpture in Japan, and the day after a shaman’s staff from Chile. In fact, I’m pretty booked clean through next year. After all, there’re an infinite number of artifacts to be stolen, but only one skin-shifting delivery girl.
She stared sadly at the row of faces. After years of therapy she was no longer just a blank slate for the masks to define. Now she was a scrawled canvas of conflict and confusion, sadness and despair, waiting for a whitewash, a do-over, something to cover and simplify her. She hadn’t been sleeping well lately, the nightmares pushing past the walls of drugs and alcohol, the voices arguing, criticising, demanding. Her life sucked. Even the faces – once an escape – bored her now.
She jammed her hair back with a few pins, leaned forward and ran a finger along the base of the display.
Which cliche to choose this time?
Confident, intelligent business woman? No, better to save that for tomorrow’s bank merger. She’d need the boost from it to deal with that new accountant, as her own math skills were almost non-existent.
Super mom? It was six months now since Ken had left with the kids. That mask sat unused and dusty.
Coquetish flirt? Boring now. She’d seen the same face on too many other women at the bar, all desperate clones, all chasing the same guys.
Pretty Barbie? Just what she needed.
She settled the mask over her cheekbones, felt it flow into her face, watched in the mirror as her hair softened and curled. The voices dulled, her hamster wheel mind slowed, she smiled.
“This baby cry all day long, and she called Rosie. This baby should be all smiles with a happy name like that,” Jujube said to Kathy, the night nurse in the maternity ward of St. Berenice Hospital.
Jujube put down her mop. “Now, look at her sister, happy as a clam and called Maud. But that’s who she is.”
“Identical twins. I’d cry too,” Kathy said, laughing.
Jujube looked at the two sisters lying side by side in their bassinets — Maud, pink and calm, Rosie, red-faced, ready to burst. Jujube reached into the bassinet and picked up Rosie. She held the distraught infant to her breast, swaying her large hips rhythmically. Rosie cried louder.
“All I’m saying is, whoever named these babies got it all wrong. I mean, look at me. I was christened Jujube, after candy.”
“And just as sweet,” Kathy said.
“Not sure this be true if I was a Hillary, Alison or Beatrice. My mama was no dummy. She knew a name says almost as much as a face does. And together they say it all. Rosie here, she knows her name don’t fit.”
“But what about Maud?” Kathy asked.
“Maud won’t mind helping her little sister out,” Jujube said.
Kathy thought about this then removed Maud’s name band. Jujube took Rosie’s off. The two women exchanged bands on the babies’ wrists — Rosie on Maud’s, Maud’s on Rosie’s. Rosie stopped crying.
Old Ma Wichita trailed her fingers over my offerings, lingered a moment as if savouring my nephews blood stained football socks (item 3: blood from a small boy’s injury) and placed them on her silver scales.
It was two weeks since my last visit, two weeks since the list of a hundred items. “Pick ten,” she’d said.
My eye was drawn to the glint of my father’s ring (item 5: ring from a dead man’s finger), and our eyes met.
“Your payment is a little light,” she said, her sharpened nail picking it from the scales. “He wasn’t wearing it when he died.”
Her kohl rimmed eyes regarded me closely. “He took it off to meet a lady friend.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said in a small voice, and it had been the hardest thing to add to the pile. The only thing he’d left me.
“It’s still acceptable,” she said. “I just need a little more.”
I was desperate now.
Some of the items had just fallen into my lap, like Sandra being rushed to hospital to have her baby early, and me being there to give Pete a lift, (items 4 and 7, hair from a newborn boy, and tears from a joyful man).
I looked at the mask on the table. I was so close to getting what I wanted.
“There is always item 53 my dear,” she purred. “And it won’t hurt a bit.”
Item 53: eyes of a jealous woman.
Why not?
Hi gang,
The contest is now closed for this prompt, so any stories posted after the deadline are ineligible for the contest, but please feel free to post them for our enjoyment.
Vote for your favorites!
[…] Visit Writer Unboxed and enter this summer’s weekly flash fiction contest. (WU is routinely read by agents and […]
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Congratulations to the finalists and honorable mentions.
Hellfire
Oscar rode from the house in the blue-black darkness just before sunrise. It was scary being out so early in the morning, but here he was. “You’re not a baby, anymore,” he said. Today he was ten years old. “I’m not a baby anymore,” he said again and felt better.
Over the first hill and halfway down the second, he stopped. After stumbling around the dusty base of a dead juniper, Oscar found his secret spot. He unearthed a backpack and dumped out a package of hostess cupcakes and a box of little candles.
Just once, he was going to have a birthday cake. It might be a sin, but Jehovah was probably too busy to notice one boy on a hill in Colorado. Oscar tore the package open with his teeth. How big a sin was it to have a birthday cake he wondered? Would there be a meeting? Would old men at the Kingdom Hall whisper and shake their heads like they did when Uncle Dan went away?
He pushed five stubby candles into each cupcake and dug out the lighter he’d found in the WinDixie parking lot. The candles smelled just like Bobby Wiederman’s cake at school. Down in the valley, a church bell began to clang.
Scared, Oscar kicked the pastries under the tree and jumped on his bike. Time to go. He was almost home when the hillside burst into flames.
I’m sorry, God,” said Oscar, as sirens wailed. “I just wanted a birthday cake.”
I had begun something for this week’s contest but forgot about it until I was reminded of the contest again with today’s post. After reading Kathleen comment (above) this morning, I decided to finish the piece post it here, for fun.
Behind her Venetian mask, the grey rain, which had fallen steadily since Midnight, threatened to wash away all trace of her real features. But she no longer cared. She had been foolish to believe that fairy tales came true. The coach that had brought her to the ball had turned back to a pumpkin on the twelfth stroke of the clock. The coachman had reverted to a rat and scuttled into a nearby hole. Her ball gown and shoes had evaporated into thin air. The only thing left was the mask a street vendor had given her the day before. She tossed it into a trash can and began the long walk home.
“Well done.” The voice startled her, though she recognized it.
Cinderella turned. “What do you mean, well done? It was a waste of time.”
“Did you believe masks and dresses, and becoming a prince’s wife, was all you were fit for? That’s not why I answered your wish to attend the ball.”
“I thought you sent me to find true love.”
“You won’t find it in a prince,” Fairy Godmother said. “Trust yourself. You’ll find true love. You made it happen. All of it. All I did was add a bit of sparkle.”
Cinderella raised her hand tentatively.
The rain stopped. The stars grew bright.
Fairy Godmother laughed with delight.
Cinderella wove such magic that night, and ever after, she never again yearned for a masked ball or a fairy tale prince to save her from herself.
They all ignored Geetha at Saint John’s Elementary, all the other girls, with their flying pony-tails, forest-green sweaters, and green plaid skirts – the white stockings and dress shoes, deftly skipping away from the jump-ropes.
To the other boys, Geetha was so invisible that they did not even bother to tease her. I became uncomfortably aware that the only person who saw her was me.
Geetha always looked down, never up. She sat still, sad and cowed, like an animal that has been beaten. She slouched in her chair, in class, with her hands over her head as if shielding herself from blows. When called upon by the teacher she stirred herself slowly, cautiously, but pulling her head down even closer to her book spoke rapidly, in a very precise Indian accent. Her answers were perfectly correct. And yet everyone, including the teacher,ignored her. I always held my breath, silently rooting for Geetha. I don’t really know why. It was like observing a cocoon, I guess, waiting for the threads to break, for the butterfly to emerge.
I saw Geetha speak with one of the other girls only once, and to my surprise, she sent the girl to ask me what grade I had received on a particular assignment. When the news was relayed back to her, she looked at me only once, briefly, with a demure, genuine smile. Then she sank back into her cocoon.
It was only years later, in college, that I learned that Geetha’s name meant “Song.”
[…] 7 Sundays of Summer Flash Fiction Contest by Writer […]
There are fifty-three videotapes on Daisy’s shelf, the boxes torn and stained over the years. She keeps them in order; there is one tape for every episode of “Accidental Family”, which ran for two seasons in the 70s.
Daisy watches one episode every day. When Penny, the adorable blonde star, speaks her precocious dialogue, Daisy leans forward and whispers each line.
When Penny is off-screen, Daisy reaches for another bag of potato chips, or walks heavily to the kitchen for a carton of ice cream. Sometimes she tucks a hank of hair the color of curdled milk behind her ear.
[…] Writer Unboxed on Jul 22 2012 | Filed under: Contest The Sundays keep on sizzling at WU! We are blown away by the FANTASTIC flash fiction stories submitted for our Flash Fiction contest (if you somehow missed the announcement, check out the rules and fabulous prizes HERE). […]
Fraying Rope
The kitchen was cool and sterile. The voice was loud and abrupt. It spoke into the phone with a shrill, chirping character.
“Shirley, I have to tell you about Linda. She’s been seeing a boy from Nastookit who works as a mechanic. I mean, really, I have no idea where her head is at. Ever since she finished school she has been undermining me.” The voice seemed to reverberate slightly in the cavernous room.
Linda heard this, cringed, and walked toward the door, the voice growing more distant by the step. She entered the midafternoon air and walked away.
Inside, the voice went on and on, now unheeded in the empty vacuum of the house.
It ‘s our 20th year class reunion. I have not attended in the past. Becoming single may have something to do with it. The party is at a club where I grew up. The memories from that place are great. I did not know it then, but those were my best years even though I was consumed with the need to be approved of by others. Maybe it will be different now. The older more sophisticated me might be successful in making friends finally. Would my old boyfriends be there? Would they be friendly or will their wives hate me? Will the mean girls be nice now or devour me with their gossip and giggles behind my back? It is too late. I have arrived. As I walk through the club nobody says hello. I don’t recognize anyone. The club lights are intense and the music loud. Suddenly I hear someone call my name. My heart is sinking. It is Laura. The friend I lost over a boy. We had hurt each other. She was smiling. As I get closer I can see a whole table of women I had once known. We are all round and pink. Everyone sipped drinks nervously and chattered on about their children and spouse. Ahhh! The night is not so bad. We all have had enough to drink to dance. Polite, humble, and relieved to finally be accepted.
The ever tormenting voice of my so called lover whispers, “You are nothing. An utter waste.” I lower my head and squeeze my eyes shut. My long black hair is brushed away from my shoulder. My new enemy kisses the nape of my neck. I shudder and open my eyes only to see his gleaming at me with menace. If only I could run. I could escape my fate. I could be something more than a housewife. He grabs me and growls, “Time to do your job as my woman.” I lean back and pray I don’t scream until he is satisfied.
He falls asleep soon afterwards. I quietly go into the living room and cry. I look out of the big bay windows and watch the sun rise. My husband will be getting up soon.
I go into the restroom and place makeup all over my face hoping that it will cover the new bruises. I feel as though I am painting a clowns mask on my once porcelain complexion. I open my closet and take out one of the dresses my husband has given me. Time for church.
As I walk through the heavenly doors all the members smile and say how beautiful I look or how I am so lucky to have such a loving husband who buys me such nice things. No one ever asks how I am doing. I simply smile and pray that this will be the day God has mercy on my soul.
How many faces will you wear today? You will go to a small restaurant and have lunch by yourself. Bring your blank mask. There’s no reason to pretend for anyone there.
“Take your order mam’?
“Orange juice and two pancakes.” He hurries off to put the order through. What face is he wearing? What face does he have when the mask comes off at the end of the day? He comes back with your food. You eat it, tip your masked waiter and leave.
Next, you teach history at the local high school. Bring your resilient mask. You must be strong.
“Mrs. K?”
“Yes?”
“Why do we have to learn this? What’s the point in focusing on the past so much when there is so much I’m gonna do in the future?” he says with a smirk on his face.
“To learn what mistakes not to repeat.” You say back to him.
“What mistake did you make?” he says back to you with a chuckle. Everyone laughs. He fancies himself the class clown. But are you? When you go to sleep at night and take off your mask, what is revealed? What face do you live with when no ones looking?
End of the day. You’re walking home and see a handsome man looking your way. Quick, put on your attractive mask. But it’s too late. He’s gone. Put on your disappointed mask.
You lie in bed and take off your mask and go to sleep. Who am I really?
[…] Sunday left in our Sizzling Sundays of Summer flash fiction contest? (Rules and fabulous prizes HERE). We are so blown away by the fantastic entries that choosing three finalists every week to […]
Masque
Marge saw herself as dark and light. She kept the darkness hidden. She let the light show. Well nothing unusual about that, everyone does it. We all have two faces, one private and for our own uneasy viewing, and the other for the world to see. Rarely we might meet someone we let close enough to view our second face, our private one. Marge had Bill. Bill was her husband and they had been together for 25 years. He had known her as a young woman, uncertain and still with much growing to do. What hadn’t been shared, Marge thought, was that the growing would take her and Bill so far apart. He went one way, she another. Sometimes she thought he stopped growing altogether, that he become fixed in his safe little bubble of reality. He smoked marijuana, every day if he could afford it, and Marge thought he smoked more toward the end because he felt the slow dying of his spirit and the drug helped ease that somehow. Marge watched Bill’s decline and finally his death, from behind her society face, the smiling vacuous one. Bill’s death happened so quickly, but also as if in slow motion. Now there was nobody else who knew her dark self and she was left to try to alter its somber visage all alone. Bill got to realize his lighter self in the end. Perhaps that was the final lesson. That in death we finally get to remove our masks forever.
[…] I really loved the story by Gail Mackenzie-Smith, which was one of the winners last week. Link to that story here. […]