Flash Fiction Contest Round 7
By Jo Eberhardt | July 4, 2015 |
Photo by Flickr user Rocky Raybell
Thank you to everyone who participated in round 6 of the WU Flash Fiction Contest. There were so many great stories — although I have to say that I’ve never before read so many tales of suicide, depression, death, and grief in one place!
Our July contest is now open. You have seven days to write a 250 word story about the picture above to be in the running for an absolutely fabulous prize pack.
The rules:
- Each submission must be 250 words or fewer.
- Each story must contain a beginning, middle, and end. Like all stories, a compelling narrative is essential.
- All submitted work must be original, not published elsewhere, and written by you. After the contest, what you do with your story is up to you; we hold no claim on your work.
- Each submission must be made in the comment section of the prompt post.
- No more than two entries per person, per prompt will be eligible for any given month.
- Deadline for entries will be one week after the prompt is posted, meaning 7 a.m. EST on the second Saturday of the month.
- The winning story each month will be selected by a mix of votes in the form of Likes in the comment section and our own discretion (which includes a blind-reading of the entries by a panel).
What the winner receives:
Each month’s winning story will be announced the following month, and republished on Writer Unboxed, along with the author’s bio, and links to the winner’s website and social media accounts. As well as this platform-raising exposure, the monthly winner gets bragging rights and the exclusive opportunity to compete for the grand prize in December.
In December, each of the monthly winners will be asked to write a new flash fiction story based on a new prompt. The overall winning story will be selected by a mix of votes via a poll and our own discretion.
The overall winner of the 2015 Writer Unboxed Flash Fiction Contest will be announced by the end of December 2015, and will receive:
- A signed copy of Dave King‘s Self-Editing for Fiction Writers
- A signed copy of David Corbett‘s The Art of Character
- A 15-page manuscript critique by bestselling author Catherine McKenzie (double spaced, normal margins, Times New Roman 12pt font)
- A one-hour Skype lesson with Scrivener expert, Rebeca Schiller
- A free, non-transferable pass to attend the next Writer Unboxed UnConference (does not include travel or hotel expenses)
The other finalists will receive the a beautiful “Edit” poster from Three Figs Villa, as kindly donated by the generous Cyd Peroni.
Good luck and happy writing!
And now… announcing the winner of Round 6 of the WU Flash Fiction Contest.
Photo by Jo Eberhardt
HONOURABLE MENTIONS
Vincent Bracco (“A Thing That Can Never Go Wrong”)
Nancy Hatch (“How long could regret last?”)
Matthew Eaton (“The river ripped as the stone skipped across its surface.”)
Congratulations Vincent, Nancy, and Matthew. I can’t wait to see what you write this month.
WINNING ENTRY
Congratulations to Tonia Marie Harris, whose story won this round, earning her a place in the 2015 WU Flash Fiction grand final!
Please read and enjoy the full story, “The Baptism”, in its encore performance.
Every year they drew the lottery,
the old folk
for their baptism, their limbs scrawny
skin like old letters worn
out by the lover’s reading.Everyone, including us, who changed
their bed pans and kept their pills
in plastic boxes, lined up and categorized
like tin soldiers,
forgot they had once been beautiful
like the trees that bowed over that
strip of riverbank.I thought I knew one thing
nature is not a friend, time is a stranger,
unkind and leaving us all to fend the waters
for ourselves, drowning, unknowing
the depths never tested. They told me,
young and uninitiated,
to take them and I patted their grey heads
settled them into the van.
We drove into the late summer heat,
their chattering like old records
worn and familiar.They stripped down
to their underclothes, embarrassed, I wondered
when gravity
would take hold of me, how long I had to
breathe in smell of water and green
in wide gulps before I bore lines on my face
and aching in my hips.In the wake of silence I turned, afraid the river
had claimed them.
They bobbed along,
each face lit like white butterflies,
Accepting the current that bore
them away.
I tried to shout into the stillness,
plead with them to come back to me.I ran after them, brambles tearing at me
Like grief, like bad dreams.I dived into the river
Consumed by charging darkness
Bore up again by gentle hands
Into shallow light.
Alone.
Tonia Marie Harris writes poetry and speculative fiction. Her work has been shortlisted for the Mashstories.com competition, appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, and been published in Twice Upon a Time, an anthology of retold fairy tales. She claims her muse is a cross-dressing goblin with a penchant for drinking and Kafka novels. Chocolate is her kryptonite. You can also find Tonia on Twitter @TMarieHarris.
Congratulations, Tonia!
Jo Eberhardt is a writer of speculative fiction, mother to two adorable boys, and lover of words and stories. She lives in rural Queensland, Australia, and spends her non-writing time worrying that the neighbor’s cows will one day succeed in sneaking into her yard and eating everything in her veggie garden.
The leprechaun teamster union, Local 5 Clover, was tough. They didn’t cater to stupidity.
Flargan repeated this with a heavy sigh. He opened his eyes and stared at Larry, the American, as he flashed a goofy grin and tilted his head.
“You know where to put the rainbow, right?” Flargan asked.
Larry nodded. “No.”
“How can you nod when – No, that’s fine.” Flargan pointed to the mountain behind him. “Rainbow here, right?”
Larry shook his head. “Yes.”
“There’s something not right with you, lad.”
Larry grabbed Flargan and squeezed him hard. The large leprechaun lummox dropped him soon after and raced to the Rainbow Machine with a girlish squeal.
Flargan rubbed his head. “Why did my sister marry this idiot?”
Fleegle, the Canadian, grabbed Flargan’s hand and hoisted him up. “Lamenting familial bonds, I see.”
Flargan let his icy glare speak for him.
“Perhaps your primitive status prevents acceptance of those with superior education.” Fleegle glanced at Larry struggling with the Rainbow Machine. “However, the quandary foisted upon you is rather unfortunate.”
“Stop showing off your brain.” Flargan pointed at the mountain. “Rainbows mean more money from tourists. We’re on a deadline.”
“Perhaps your acceptance of simplicity can alleviate this precarious issue.”
“In Leprechaun, Flee.”
“You could always tell Larry you love and accept him.”
Fleegle returned to his work, leaving Flargan agape.
Maybe acceptance of all Leprechauns and their flaws was right. Perhaps Flargan was too hard on him.
The rainbow appeared on the next mountain range.
“Larry!”
Thanks for your entry, Matthew.
Gold Rush
I rode out toward the hill lit up by the rainbow. The mist cleared, rainbow faded along with my liking for this area of wasteland. I reined up to turn back and go down through the forest to the lake, when an almost naked man staggered from the brush, singed and bruised. He rushed the horse, grabbed my arm and jerked me from the saddle. He mounted and took the reins, leered down at me then promptly passed out over the horse’s mane. I got up rubbing my left thigh and grabbed the reins. Made to pull him off but there came a growing sound of hoofbeats, and three deputies rode up.
“See you got him,” said the lead guy.
“Yeah,” I said, faking it.
“Pretty nice reward for this one.”
“Yep. Looks like I found my pot of gold.”
Thanks for your entry, Emily.
The trail was hard and I was angry. Why couldn’t we go away like my friends? Why couldn’t we go to Disney? My legs burned, my feet hurt and I was deeply invested in my sullen ire. This was a stupid vacation. I should have stayed with Mom. Mom had Paul, she didn’t need me. Dad took me along for pity, torture or something.
“I need to stop.” I whined to his retreating back. He wore a stupid khaki hat and a heavy-looking backpack I’d refused to help lighten.
“Almost, Pumpkin,” he called back as relentlessly cheerful as he’d been since he picked me and my anger up at the airport.
“I need to stop!” I repeated with increasing volume. He continued, though I was certain his jaw tensed. I took solace in that. I considered sitting on a rock, waiting to see how long it took him to notice except I had no faith that he would. Besides, the rocks were wet from the sudden rainstorm that had done nothing to ease the heat or humidity.
“Yes!” he whooped.
My eyes were downcast as I savored my resentment which made me bump into him. I grunted, bit back the words I knew he’d disapprove of and glared at him. Then, looking past him I saw what made him stop, a band of colors, from sky to land.
“Oh…” I sighed, my fury dropping from me with a dull thud even as his backpack hit the trail.
“Yeah.” He breathed.
Thanks for your entry, Aimee.
I’ll be back with a story soon, but I’d just like to say WOW. Absolutely stunning writing by Tonia. Fabulous imagery. Mellifluous and melancholy and haunting. That last line, last word: Alone. Just wow. Terrific. Congratulations, Tonia! Well deserved win. :)
Thank you so much. :)
Cara’s shoulders burn as she dips her spade deeper and deeper into the ground. Sun filters through the rain that patters lightly on her forehead but the sandy grit in her mouth reminds her of the night they’d put the box here. That terrible, terrible night.
Even as she digs, she doesn’t really believe what she is about to do. Her resolve comes and goes; Like the spade in her hands, one moment she’s in, the next, she’s out.
The shovel thuds against wood and she jumps in, scraping around its edges with her fingers until the box is finally free. She doesn’t need to open it, she can hear the telltale scrape and tumble of what’s inside when she tucks the box under her arm to climb back out of the hole.
She carries it out to her car, feeling terrified of what she is about to do. As she rounds the corner towards the parking lot, she almost turns back, but a rainbow lights the sky ahead of her. She smiles and gets into the car.
Thanks for your entry, Celeste.
It’s there again, that strange light of many colors. This one is wider than the last. When I asked mother about it the first time I’d seen one she advised me to ignore it and not pay it any mind; but how?
Looking around (as I did the first time I’d seen one) I notice it was again the only one. One time, beneath very threatening clouds mixed in shades of white through dark gray, I saw two of these descending from the sky. I always thought the clouds brought colors to dry the ground after rain, but there are no clouds anywhere to be seen today! These beams are getting more aggressive. This one is creeping out of the sky from … nothingness!
Why is no one alarmed at the width of this one? Why is no one running for cover and sounding an alarm of impending doom? How can anyone possibly remain so calm as we gather food for our winter storage? What if there is to be no winter to gather for? What if the increase of this bright colored nothingness without mass is the end that we hear people speak of ¬–¬¬ caused by a God they argue about?
“Stop day dreaming and get to work. The North wind is blowing colder with each passing day. Time’s growing short,” mother reprimanded.
That’s what I’m worried about, I thought as I lifted my bundle of berries and seed to fly back home to our Sparrow’s nest.
Thanks for your entry, DL.
The young boy scrabbled to the top of the cliff, his fingers digging for purchase. The jagged surface scraped against his knee and sliced three symmetrical lines in the dirty, pale skin. A thin trickle of crimson oozed from each. Too exhausted to respond, he merely stared at the sunlit valley before him. The singular beauty of colors drawn in a perfect arch lifted his weary spirit for a brief moment.
For three days, stretched to an eternity by loneliness and fear, he had struggled to make his way back to his family’s campsite. But for three days each step had taken him farther, not closer, to safety.
His first day was spent in hopeful optimism. He couldn’t have wandered too far?
The second day brought an overwhelming need for water, and threatened the clarity of his decision-making.
The third day and night found him huddled against the trunk of massive Douglas fir, in an attempt to avoid the rain. Heated summer skies had unleashed an elemental power. Thunder bellowed while lightening sent white-hot flashes through the air, illuminating the dark forest just enough to make the return of blackness even more terrifying.
The sun-filled morning of the fourth day brought a glimmer of unfounded hope. He tried to stand, but wobbled. Fear, hunger and thirst combined in a perfect storm and he fell backwards. His small form tumbled, limbs askew, and came to rest against an outcropping of shale with a sound that no human body should ever make.
Thanks for your entry, Leslie.
If I could just reach the end of the rainbow. My time is short, and it will disappear. I have to keep moving.
If I could just be in it’s radiance, a kaleidoscope of colors swirling around me, I wouldn’t be able to see my scars.
And in my mind, all the dark, ugly words and deeds stored there could not survive the brilliance, the joy, of the rainbow’s light.
Heaven’s promise.
I have to keep moving. Why, oh why, does the rainbow keep its distance from me?
The clouds move over the sun and the rainbow grows faint and passes away. I feel cool raindrops on my heated body. I’m tiered and I sit on the hard ground. The clouds burst over me. I lift my face to it.
If I could just float away in the fresh, clean clouds.
Thanks for your entry, Jan.
“Daddy, pull over! I want to take a picture of that rainbow!”
“Honey, I can’t stop. I’m driving the car at 65.”
“Daddy!”
“I’m sorry, sweetie. There will be lots of rainbows at other times. Just enjoy it.” Robert dreaded these trips back through the hills with his daughter Julia to his ex-wife. The 9-year-old did everything she could to express her ambivalences covertly.
“But I like *this* rainbow. Please stop the car. *Please.* Mommy would.”
Now it was overt.
Robert glanced at the road ahead of him, late heat burning off the broad landscape of low hills of browned grass and sturdy pines. Maybe he could pull over. No, he couldn’t cave in like that.
Then he saw it: a green pickup truck veering off the road coming from the south, heading right towards them, gashing through the meridian, ripping through the 1000 yards of scrub grass and bouncing bet flowers as if they were a landing strip.
“Crap!” he yelled, slamming the brakes while veering to the right, somehow sensing that the lane was clear. Julia shrieked, whether in fear or at his language he wasn’t sure. In either event, the truck hit the embankment, flipped over and landed upright, southbound in the northbound high-speed lane.
Robert unclenched his hands from the steering wheel. He was angled oddly in the traveling lane, but had avoided being hit. They were safe. He took a deep breath and turned to look at Julia.
“O.K., Daddy. I got my picture.”
Thanks for your entry.
It was fun!
We stand, hand in hand, looking over the grand rainbow with cool eyes. It would’ve been a lovely, breathtaking sight to see if our hearts weren’t already sealed shut.
Our heads are half empty from the fog that is poisonous to our memories and wiped them away with each breath of the foul air. Our arms and legs are sore from the instinct of survival and adherence that pushed us. Our hearts writhe silently for those who lost themselves in the flood, the memory-wiping fog, for those who are still battling for what they have left to get to this safe land that she and I found.
For three days we were on the verge of becoming lifeless souls. If we had stopped, we would’ve been lost, not knowing what to do with ourselves. But we had an advantage, a secret that was told to us, a little hope that saved us. The old, wise woman’s promise of a place where we’d be safe, where the fog can’t touch.
The want, the need to hold onto our memories, the things that make us who we are, kept us running even when we couldn’t any more. Stopped us from hesitating to jump into the massive flood that accompanied the fog and swimming to stay afloat. When everyone was giving up, letting themselves go, we kept going.
“What do we do now?”
I might’ve lost her name in the fog, but I know who she’s supposed to be. “We stay here, safe.”
Thanks for your entry.
A Lasting Promise
Fly-boy picked the scab off his elbow and passed it to the kid next to him. It was an old ritual, testing how quick someone snapped at the smell of blood. How strong was their hunger. He moved his hand to the knife tucked in his belt. L’il Joker took the offering between his fingers and let it hover at his lips. The kid’s eyes were focused on colours in the distance.
“It’s a sign,” one of the others said.
“Stay away.”
“Eater colony.”
“Grass burn.”
“We should tell Homecamp.”
Fly-boy was the oldest. He’d seen one before and remembered the dank smell and fear, before the Oldie gave it a name.
“Rainbow,” he said.
“Rainbow,” L’il Joker’s eyes relaxed.
Fly-boy had learned there was power in naming things. He watched L’il Joker slide the crust of blood to his mouth, making the sign before slipping it in. Fly-boy eased his hand off his knife handle. He wandered back into the forest, his eyes scanning the bodies for crawlers, something to ease the sting off his morning hunger.
A few stayed to watch, tensed, waiting for the colours to reveal their anger. For them, a name wasn’t enough. Their imaginations filled the quiet valley and coloured light with the promise of more violence. Eventually, the rainbow dispersed and they were left to wonder at their disappointment in the vanishing.
Thanks for your entry, Sean.
You’re welcome!
Luck
I laughed when me, Elmer, and Billy come over the ridge. A rainbow was in the valley where Fairchild had his spread.
A pot of gold seemed unlikely, but me and Elmer had spent a great proportion of penitentiary time plannin’ how we was gonna get back what was ours. We hid the horses and walked real quiet.
I figured the wife was the best way to keep him agreeable. We was told she was a sweet little thing, come in on the train and bang they was settled down—a sorry turn for the local barmaids.
We come up on her outside the house, shovelin’ dirt in the orchard. She wiped her hands on a cloth and asked us what she could do for us. Elmer started in about being old friends. But she wasn’t no little thing; she was tall. And her dress was too frilly for farm work. Truth be told she looked like a whore.
“Where’s Mrs. Fairchild?” I asked.
“With her husband,” she said, and nodded at the pile of dirt next to her.
I looked at it, so I missed her pulling a pistol from under the cloth. She killed Billy and Elmer, and shot me, but I had time to bring the shotgun up, or I wouldn’t be sittin’ in this cell. I was bleedin’ bad, and the horses spooked and run, so I would have died except some neighbor heard the shots and brought me in on a buckboard. Lucky for me.
Thanks for your entry, NTJ.
The Rainbow
Holy crap, Frank said. Look at that rainbow. He dug in his pack and got out the camera he’d found in his dead neighbor’s trash, an old-fashioned 35-millimeter. God, he’d hated that guy, a loud, conventionally-opinionated drunk who was just smart enough to pay you a compliment right when he knew you were about to deck him. Not that Frank had ever hit anyone in his life – he prided himself on his yogic equanimity. Like now. The rain had finally stopped and Helen had just stormed off into the bush after vowing never to speak to him again. She’d be back – this time she’d forgotten the water treatment pills. Her yelling still echoed across the valley like a wilderness anti-mating call.
Frank did some yogic breathing. It works really well, he thought. I’m totally calm.
“Hey, babe,” he called. Was that her traveling down below? Given that her jacket was green he wasn’t sure. He must remind her to buy one in a more visible color. “Hey, Helen! You forgot something!” No answer. Frank sighed. Well, at least I’ll get a few good shots out of this, he thought, and aimed the camera at the rainbow. It was gorgeous and fleeting, like life. This one is for me, he thought. For me.
Helen returned an hour later looking tired. “Which way is north?” she asked. Frank pointed. “Right,” she said, and gathered up the items necessary for a three-day trek. Then she left, and Frank was suddenly and entirely alone.
Thanks for your entry.
The Friendship Bird.
“What are you holding, Grandma?”
I turned the small token in my hand. “It’s a friendship bird.”
Curious young eyes sought more details. I opened my hand and sat the bird on my palm. “It’s one of a pair. I have this one.”
“Who has the other one?”
“An old friend.” I paused. Life memories hurt sometimes.
My granddaughter carefully touched the bird’s beak. “It’s hard.”
“It’s made of iron. It won’t break.
The little girl tilted her head, thoughtful. “Did your friend die? Like Grandpa?”
“No.” A wistful chuckle rumbled deep in my throat. “She’s flying somewhere, following her dreams.”
“Does she still have her bird?”
Did she? “Of course. Friendship birds are special.”
The little girl stroked the birds head but a kaleidoscope of colour breaking through the mist made her shout with excitement. “Look, Grandma! A rainbow!” She ran to the veranda railing, her face bright with hues of different colour as the clouds drifted from the sun. Then she turned to me with her inquisitive frown. “What are rainbows, Grandma?”
I looked across the valley, followed my dreams over the rainbow, past the distant mountain range to a blue sky where birds fly free. “A rainbow is a promise of hope.”
Small hands clapped together. “I’ll hope for strawberry ice cream for breakfast. What do you hope for, Grandma?”
My hand closed around the bird. “Not being too old to fly.”
Thanks for your entry, Pauline.
The trip started with great promise. I have been walking for days searching for a treasure to photograph. After several days with nothing catching my attention, I am starting to lose hope. On a trundle through the hazy drizzle. On and up into the darkening skies. All the usual companions are hiding in their dens, obviously smarter than me.
A sudden caw of a single crow catches my attention up ahead. It flies towards me and playfully, I hope, dives past me before continuing on. I grumble to myself, but it answers me off in the distance with a shrill reply.
As I turn to curse its abuse on my senses, instead I see the sight I have been looking for. Trapped in the folds of the suns rays, A glowing of prismatic hues.
Raising my camera, I take my shot. Knowing even as I do, it will never display the true grandeur. Glad at having turned back, the true treasure lies before.
Thanks for your entry, David.
The child sat at the edge of the pond, knees drawn to her chest. The birds chittered, daring her to dive in. Not that she needed to be dared. She always felt more at peace in the water than she did on land. In the water, she could pretend she was safe. Her bruises and scrapes were invisible. Her muscles didn’t hurt. As much as she longed to swim, she wouldn’t. She was told to stay dry, and punishment for disobeying was swift and harsh. She tilted her head back and looked up at the rainbow that had been keeping her company the last hour.
She closed her eyes and imagined herself sliding down the colorful arch, hair flying behind her like a mane on a wild horse. In her mind, she slid faster and faster until she flew off the edge of the rainbow and into the middle of the pond. She swam as deep as she could and then broke the surface of the water with a gasp. The rainbow wrapped her in warm light. She floated on her back and let the colors heal her broken soul.
The bell’s measured ringing pulled her from her daydream. She didn’t want to leave, but when her mother rang the bell, she had just a few minutes to get home, regardless of how far away she was. She turned away from the water and light and raced into the dark forest without looking back.
Thanks for your entry, Dannie.
The morning sun rose over the hills, striking the last of the rain and breaking into a perfect rainbow. In any other situation, Kyle would have smiled to see it. Now, he cursed it as fiercely as his weary body allowed him to.
The growing light illuminated a bleak scene: dirty brown water swirled below his perch in the crotch of an ancient oak,. Not far away, what has been a small, meandering creek roared past filled with all manner of debris. As he watched, a large section of roof swept into view, stuck a tree that stood in the flood, sheering off a limb and adding it to the deadly cargo the water carried.
Kyle saw no bodies, neither animal or human, and he silently blessed that one small mercy, for he knew that somewhere downstream were the bodies of his wife and two children.
The rain hadn’t been heavy when they’d gone to bed in the vacation cabin by the creek, but in the hills, it must have poured down. The deep base of the rising waters had woken him in the night, but by the time he’d gotten to the door, the water was already rising over the porch. Despite everything he could do, first his son, then his wife and infant daughter were swept away. Now it was just him, soaked to his skin, wishing he were dead too. He thought of letting go, of falling in and dying, but then who would remember his family?
Thanks for your entry, Andrew.
sorry I didn’t check back earlier, but thanks back to you for letting me enter.
Linda shoved the egg crusted frying pan into the sink.
Everything has to be his way, she fumed, as she squirted the detergent into the water.
She needed air, her muddy hiking boots were by the door. glancing at the clock, did she have time before work?Grabbing her cell phone on the counter she shoved it in her jacket as the storm door slammed shut.
The air was cool and damp against her face, and her breathing deepened as the ground sloped upward. Why was she always so furious and frustrated after an argument? Emotion would take over so she could not think a clear thought.
Reaching the top of the hill she paused to catch her breath and looked over the ridge. The rainbow pored down from the sky, at first it seemed to her that it painted the land and trees in a golden light. Looking more closely she saw all the colors were clearly defined and shimmering. Standing quite still absorbed the display in the sky her mind became quiet observing its beauty. The rainbow started to fade and when it had just faded to a few strips of color she turned and started down the hill.
The phone vibrated in her pocket.
“Hello”
“Did you see the rainbow over the ridge?” he said
“Yes, it was wonderful”. Neither one of them spoke.
“OK, well I’ll see you tonight” he said
Linda took a breath, steady, strong and clear, she answered, “tonight”.
Thanks for your entry, Janet.
Larry and the Leprechaun.
“None for them and all for me and I’m as wealthy as can be.” Larry patted his bag, hummed some more then stopped.
A Leprechaun sat on a log, smoking a pipe, right in front of him. He blew a ring of smoke into the air. “’Tis a weighty bag you carry, friend.”
Friend? Larry narrowed his eyes but then saw a crock by the Leprechaun’s boot. “Not as weighty as that.”
The Leprechaun smiled. “’Tis the truth you speak. I’ve stopped to rest. The weight is but a burden.”
Not for me, thought Larry. He eyed the crock greedily. “Do you gamble?”
The Leprechaun sucked a mouthful of smoke. “I don’t mind a friendly game.”
“Nor I,” said Larry, pasting a smile on his face. He pulled a deck of cards from his pocket. “Poker?”
The Leprechaun looked doubtful. “It’s not my game, but I’ll have a shot.” He lifted the lid from the crock. A rainbow of colour burst into the sky. “Double or nothing? Is that what we do?”
Is it wrong to pray on ignorance, thought Larry? No. “Yes.” He dealt the cards, tossed two, drew two, dealt out one to the Leprechaun then lay down his hand and grinned. “Full House.”
The Leprechaun smiled. “Royal flush.” He grabbed Larry’s bag and tossed it into his crock. The rainbow beamed brighter. Then tipped his hat. “A bluff beats greed every time.” And with a snap of his fingers, he, the crock and the rainbow disappeared.
Thanks for your second entry, Pauline.
Inside the fairgrounds the red-headed man calling himself Charlie gave Ava his card. It said he was a promoter. He didn’t look much older than Cousin Jake, although Jake’s eyes weren’t squinty and his mouth sure wasn’t nervous and twitchy.
She handed back his card.
“That’s yours, sweetpea. You keep it.”
That sweetpea business was enough to prickle your skin. You had to know a person a good long time before calling them sweetpea and darling, and this bird Charlie wasn’t anywhere near that place.
He took a step closer. “Bet you have one sweet voice, darlin’.”
“What if I do?”
“Well, today’s your lucky day.
Ava had the same feeling this morning, seeing a rainbow outside her window. It meant something good, and this bird had her thinking.
He paged through a datebook. “Damn, wish I wasn’t always tied up with appointments. But I tell you what, sweetie. I sense your talent.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“’I’ve seen hundreds of girls your age, hundreds. Know how many have that special look?”
“What look is that?”
“Confidence. Teachers give you a hard time? Your parents, too?”
“Yeah.”
“They look with jealousy. I look with . . . love. You seen that rainbow this morning? Darlin’, you are my rainbow. There’s sheet music in my trailer. Don’t break my heart. Say yes.”
“Okay.”
Charlie drove beneath a darkening sky. He knew he was a monster. A better world without him. He could crash and die, none would mourn, nor weep.
Thanks for your entry, Vincent.
The Rainbow
She smelled like lemons. That’s how he would remember her. He would forget how awkward her hand fit in his own, the rough stone feel of her knuckles against his palm. He would forget how she kept finding excuses to pull away as they made their way up the ridge. He thought a playful kick of his boot against her heels would lighten the mood, but all he got was a glare after she’d brushed the dirt off her jeans. He was always trying to make her laugh. As it turned out, she hadn’t brought him there to make memories anyway.
He would forget the exact words she would use to break the news to him.
Afterwards, they stood on the lookout staring over the foothills. He didn’t try to argue with her. He didn’t plea. Instead, he buried his face in his jacket and tried to forget the whole thing.
By the time he got home, he was already feeling better. He thought about the way she used the rain to hide her tears. He thought about how he hadn’t cried. He should’ve cried, but then there had been the rainbow. Like a sign telling them that everything would be fine.
Anyway, that’s how he wanted to remember it. Because without the colours and her tears, all he had of their last afternoon together was the memory of brown hills, his awkward silence and the smell of sweat and lemon soap on her skin.
Thanks for your entry, Sean.
Filleted Fish
It hurt that she didn’t believe in his dream. If she didn’t believe, did she really love him? When she’d accused him of chasing after rainbows, he couldn’t tell her how it made him feel – foolish, a failure.
“There’s no pot of gold.” She took the cleaver from the block, positioned the trout, and brought the blade down with a whack that made him jump. His hands shook as she pulled the second trout into position.
“If we can’t dream, what’s the point of life?”
“The point of life is building a future.”
“That’s all?” he said.
“Love, there’s also love, of course. But love can’t grow without security, a steady income.” She took a boning knife and slid it down the belly of the fish, splaying the two halves. He turned away.
“So that means we’re staying put? No traveling with the band? I’m out?”
“It’s your call.”
“Then that’s it.” He walked to the counter and put his hand near the headless fish. “If I can’t dream about where my guitar might take us, you might as well slice off my fingers.”
Her hands stopped moving. “Just like that?”
He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against him. “Just like that. Because there’s no pot of gold without you.”
She collapsed into him. “I wonder if love also needs a dream,” she said. The knife clattered to the floor, fish scales shimmered on the blade like silver.
Thanks for your entry, Cathryn.
Claire hopscotched over the faded white lines on the blacktop of the K–Mart parking lot. The morning bite nipped at her toes snuggled deep inside fuzzy pink slippers. She heard footsteps and looked up. Her tiny breath hitched. A giant man held up a bag of Skittles. He smiled, the bushy hairs above his eyes danced. Claire could already taste them rolling around in her month, the chocolate center crunching between her teeth.
She cupped her hands and he poured the rainbow colors. Scrunching her tiny features, she gathered the fistful against her chest. She plucked a red one, but before she could pop it in her mouth, he grabbed her, hoisting her up like a potato sack. Twisting and clawing, she fought, kicking hard but her slippers slid off his jeans.
He dumped her in the backseat of a car and slammed the door. She glanced around. “Daddy.” He tried to hold her but shiny bracelets locked his hands together. “Why you sad, Daddy?”
“I’m going away Claire-bear. But don’t you worry, Aunty Jill is right outside, she’s going to take care of you.”
“But I want you.” Her lower lip shivered.
He raised his restrained wrists to her chest. “I’m with you always in here.”
Claire brightened and rose to her knees to give him a real hug. It was then that she saw the rainbow, outside the window. “Look daddy,” she whispered.
“I’d say God made that just for us.”
Thanks for your entry, Jan.
Emma Paterson cut a lonely figure; insular, alone with her thoughts. She never spoke a word, using gestures instead. It was of concern to most of the staff, but I liked the sense of calm. She had a memory box, in rich wood, with initials engraved on the top – JC. She was one who was never a trouble, and I would sit by her side as she took out the contents.
Old, gnarled fingers flicked the clasp, and as the lid creaked back a host of butterflies took flight; red, looking like droplets of splattered blood as they alighted on the bedspread. Next was an orange flower that burst into life as she sniffed its scent before laying it across a yellow ribbon, which came spiralling out as though attached to a kite scudding across the sky. A book of green held elegant writing in blue that flowed across the pages like a meandering stream. Out snaked an indigo scarf of intricate pattern, which was often tied around her head. Last was a violet stone that she held up to the light.
This day, she nodded towards the window, so I took off the brake and pushed her chair across.
Her eyes went wide. ‘Look,’ she breathed, staring up at the rainbow.
It was quite a shock as this was her first word in ten years.
I tried for more. ‘Who is JC?’
‘Judith Courtney.’ Her voice was hoarse and low. ‘The love of my life. She never knew.’
Thanks for your entry, Julia.
Not another rainbow. I mean really, how many rainbows does it take to get our attention?
Once you’ve seen one rainbow, you’ve seen them all. Yes, I know—symbol of hope and diversity, Noah’s Ark, Gay Pride, Land of Oz, Pot of Gold, Bridge to Asgard, Greek Goddess Iris, Tibetan Rainbow Body … yadda yadda yadda.
I mean really, there’s nothing original about a rainbow. It’s been done to death.
So why does my heart soar every time I see one?
And this time it’s harder than ever to ignore the luminous sprites clamoring for my attention as they joyfully ride the rivers of color … as always, beckoning me to ride with them, always tempting me to leave this dull world and merge with them into the rainbow.
But I have responsibilities here. It’s not time for me to dissolve into light. Not yet. So I haul my painful, limited body around my little room, remembering that I chose to come here, I choose to be here, and I am choosing to stay here. For now.
Choosing to stay for my sweet little grandchild, for my family and friends, and for those who are drawn—who knows why—to ask for my help.
I have nothing to offer, except to point to the rainbow and say, remember this is who we really are. And remember, we are choosing to stay. For now.
The world needs all the rainbows it can get.
Thanks for your entry, Veronica.
This is our rainbow story, Cassie’s and mine, the one that will lead us to freedom someday.
It’s a story of hope, written upon the sea mist, and washed away with each setting sun.
We hold hands, my little sister and I, turning our backs to the mountain as we gaze at the luminous colors arching over the sea, enticing us to venture beyond our little lives and set sail to explore the Wide World.
“I hear the mermaids singing,” Cassie says, confident in the existence of all things magical … and why not? Like the stars that fill the night sky with glittering diamonds, the colors shimmering above us are as magical as the mermaids, unicorns and fairy godmothers that fill her storybooks.
Cassie takes a trembling step closer to the water, but I pull her back.
“Not yet,” I whisper, “someday, I promise, but not yet.”
I am working on an escape plan, but for now we have our chores to finish, collecting driftwood and any trinkets we find that might be of value. We follow the shoreline, dragging the heavy sack of wood behind us.
Soon it will be twilight, time to return home, time to deal with a different story, this one written with hard edges and angry voices. Not even the sound of mermaids singing will drown out that story.
But soon we will flee, Cassie and I; follow the rainbow, sing with the mermaids, ride on unicorns … someday, someday soon.
Thanks for your entry, Veronica.
THE WAY BACK
The inside of my hiking boots couldn’t have been wetter if I’d been standing in the river. The shower had lasted all of two minutes, but we were wet through. Not that she sounded bothered, yelping like an over-excited puppy that had just won the lottery.
“Isn’t it amazing,” she gushed.
“It’s just a rainbow.”
“Just?” she said. “Come on. “
“Where are you going?” I said.
“Down into the valley. Look how close it is. You can see where it ends. Hey, maybe we’ll find a crock of gold.”
“Crock of shit, more like.”
“Jesus, you’re so negative.”
“No. Like I keep telling you. I’m realistic. Rainbows are like hopes and dreams. The closer you get to them, the further away they become. And just when you think they’re within your grasp, they vanish, leaving you empty-handed and feeling stupid.”
“We came out here to wipe the slate clean, to try put all the annoying crap in your life behind you,” she said.
“Interesting thought,” I said, turning away from her. “If I face this direction, then I am.”
“Hey I’m over here too,” she said with that smile in her voice. “You’re not thinking of leaving me behind as well.”
That little girl voice she effected was like nails being drawn down a blackboard.
The sun broke through the cloud overhead.
“Guess I never considered it as an option before.”
I started back the way we came, taking a steep path she wouldn’t be able to follow.
Thanks for your entry, Graham.
DINOSAUR TRACKS
The canyon’s walls blur as the rubber raft drops into a pocket of the river, drenching its occupants. Jeremy, the smallest rafter, is the embodiment of pure joy with his wide smile and two thumbs up.
The guide paddles, yelling to be heard above the crashing roar of the rapids, “Taco Rock.”
A second raft drifts over the rock, its sides lift like wings before pressing together and ejecting its occupants into any icy bath.
Around the bend, the river smooths and the raft no longer tries to buck them off, but becomes as comfortable as an air mattress.
As they reach shore, drops of rain fall onto the dry bank. An earthy smell of summer arises beneath their sandals as they trek into the canyon. The boys tilt their heads back and taste raindrops on their tongues.
The guide points to the dinosaur tracks preserved in solid stone on the vertical rock surface.
Eyes wide, Nick, the older brother, presses his hand against the rough stone footprint. “How did they walk up the wall?” he asks.
“They didn’t,” the guide explains. “Millions of years ago this wall was the beach and a family of dinosaurs walked along the sand like your family is doing today. Over time, the compressed soil became the rock we see now.”
Nick doesn’t appear convinced.
The rain sputters to a stop, and the sky lightens with a wash of colors as a rainbow encompasses the past and the present in its glow.
Thanks for your entry, Christine.
Sandra was 10 when the monster came into her parents’ house on a crisp April night, and destroyed her life forever; sleeping soundly with only the crickets, and frogs as noise in her room at the top of the stairs. Her parents Jake and Annelise were downstairs watching a famous suspense movie on lifetime as always. When her mother got up to come check on Sandra, seeing her sleeping peacefully without worry etched on her face, when she heard a crash downstairs. Julie ran quietly down the stairs to find her house a wreck, glass and wood everywhere. In the mist of it was a man in a ski mask punching her husband Jake repeatedly.
“Oh my gosh! Jake! ” Annelise screamed, picked up a piece of broken glass on the floor and came barreling towards the attacker. Jumping on his back, and stabbing him only once in the back before he ran backwards and pushed her into a wall full of framed pictures, cutting her head and neck; Making her fall to the floor like a rag-doll, red crimson blood covering the floor.
“NO! Anne! Honey! You leave her alone,” Jake growls, waking up Sandra in the process. She tip-toed down the stairs to see the monster covered in black pull out a gun and shoot her dad, and mom 8 times each. Little Sandra shell-shocked, and shaking with fear ran upstairs, grabbing the home phone on the way to the attic and dialing 911.
“911 what’s your emergency?” “My mommy and daddy have been shot,” Sandra whispers. “Alright, sweetheart take a deep breath and tell me where you are, and what your address is.” “114 Windsor Drive Rosemount, Maine; I’m in my attic, and I’m really scared,” Says Sandra.
“It’s okay, the police are on their way, and I’m going to stay on the phone with you until they get there if that’s alright with you?” “Yeah, I would like that,” Sandra sighs. “Now, tell me what your name is honey; mine is Callie.” “Sandra, but my friend Rose likes to call my sandy,” She giggles. “Nice to meet you Sandra, How old are you?” “10, Callie, when are the police going to be here?” Sandra says with a hitch in her breath. “In about 3….2….1, now I’m going to hang up since they are there, but if you need anything call 911 and ask for Callie Marshall” Callie says, relieved when she hears the police enter the house, and hangs up.
For the rest of the night Sandra dealt with the police, detectives, and social workers. She just wanted to wake up, and for everything to be normal again, but that is something she did not find for 12 years.
Thanks for your entry, Samantha. Just as a note for next month, please make sure your story is 250 words or fewer, as per the rules above, so it can be considered for the prize.
Sermon in the Vail
We gather in the hills. Alone we are together – the misfit, the anguished, the unloved, the desperate, the seekers. In the vale she stands radiant and divine. Hands on chest. Head down in contemplation. A gleaming pillar of hope. The radiance of the divine. Our tower of hope. Her golden robes wave in the breeze. Storm clouds gathers. En masse we gather round her. She raises her arms and the wind provides the beat. The rain the rhythm. The voice is hers. Striped of what we were, we dance. The powders fly. Our skins red, yellow, green, blue, purple. We dance till our eyes cry, our ears ring, our lungs ache. She lifts her head. We dance more. The sun brakes. It streams to her. She glitters. She glows. She glares. “Dance!” she cries, “for Me! For glory!” And we throw away fatigue We dance till our knees wobble, our feet bleed, and our backs ache. Some fall. We dance on them. Her golden robes drenched in color turn to red. Still, she smiles. “All mine!” she sings. “All mine.” We dance all the more.
So many on the ground. The hills are red. At last I reach her. I kneel. “Bless me, Sister.” “My little rainbow,” she says. She reaches for me. Long nails of gold caress my neck. My blood runs swift and clean. “Be mine,” she whispers in my ear. “I am.”
Thanks for your entry, Kathrine.
It was late but Minister Wright answered the telephone. A parishioner, Mandy Greene, asked if he would come to her house, now.
“What’s wrong?”
“I need . . . please.”
“You hurt? Need the police?”
“Hurry, please.”
“On my way.”
He’d heard rumors about her estranged husband, and lately, she’d missed services.
The old country road was deserted, except for a rusty pickup truck, taillights glowing. Years earlier, a woman named Leah had called him, asking for help. The bruises on her face explained everything, but then she changed her mind, refusing help from him or anyone. He left, his conscience bridging respect for the woman’s wishes and reporting it to the police. He left it in God’s hands. He fasted for seven days after her funeral a month later.
Ahead, the pickup swerved, most likely a deer. Dusk was their time.
He found the house, pressed the doorbell several times. A man answered.
“Yeah?”
“Minister Wright, to see Mandy.”
“Sleeping.”
“She called me. I’d like see her, please.”
“Back off, minister.”
“Just…” He couldn’t get passed the man. “If she’s all right–”
“Sleeping!” The door slammed. The Minister waited, then left.
The headlights caught something up ahead edging the road. The minister discerned the dark lifeless familiar shape. He stopped, tired of tears, of fasting. Rain fell on the just and unjust. In it’s wake, rainbows, pallid only to those seeking such absence. He turned back and drove without regard for his life. It wasn’t too late.
Thanks for your entry, Vincent.
Thanks for the prompt, Jo!
Homestead:
I burrowed into Mama’s quilt when our covered wagon rumbled to a halt.
“Beck?” At my father’s call, I shrank deeper between our belongings.
He swung down from his driver’s seat. Instead of coming for our bedrolls, though, he unlatched buckles he’d secured before he’d ripped me away from the world I knew and the dead we’d left behind.
“What are you doing, Pa?”
After dumping tent stakes, he lifted the canvas. My father didn’t look my way as he hooked the eyelet and dragged his toolbox near.
“Why are you unloading?”
My father tipped his head as if the wind had asked instead of me. He muttered then hauled his toolbox from the wagon.
The gap remaining in the canvas showed me dusty yellow slopes and stalks of evergreen. No tiled roofs or plowed land teased, just emptiness. Still wrapped in Mama’s quilt, I wormed across the wagon’s bed in search of more to see.
From behind gray rain clouds, the sun peeked out and painted a rainbow into the air. The arc dove into a valley, brightening trees where no one lived. The land seemed to soak in the color, though, to come alive, to have a heartbeat and hope.
In silence, my father shared my view.
“No one’s here, Pa.”
He put a finger to his lips. “Listen to your mother.”
I strained to catch anything other than the rustle of unkempt grass, but my mama’s ghost didn’t speak to me.
“What’s she saying?”
“That we’re home.”
Thanks for your entry, Kate.
COLORS OF LIGHT
Clair stared out of the window and her spirits sank, as leaden as the lowering sky. Not an auspicious day for a job interview. She pulled a beige raincoat over her black suit, grabbed her briefcase, and made for the garage. An old, white VW Bug awaited. Colorless. Just like her.
At the end of the road, a fallen tree blocked her way. Damn! Now she would have to go the long way, across the brittle-grassed foothills. Sighing, she turned the VW and pressed the gas pedal down. She’d be late, and she so needed this job.
Rain came down in a rush. Water leaked through the withered windscreen gasket, and splashed into her lap. The wind rose, shrieking as it drove rain in a thick blanket, until she was driving blind in a submarine world.
She pulled over and sat huddled while the VW rocked and creaked, and fountained water through its rusty seams until she feared she might drown. No chance now of making her interview, sodden and dejected as she was.
The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The wind died to a sigh. She opened the door and stepped out, shaking water from her hair and clothing. The sky was still black, but splashed across the clouds were not one, but two rainbows, arcs of brilliant color and light.
Breath held in wonder, Clair hauled her painting gear from the trunk, and began to paint the picture that would make her fortune.
THE END
Thanks for your entry, Mary.
Breaking Through Rainbows
A thick curtain of gray clouds drape behind the dry hills, quickly blowing this way. If it weren’t for the ridiculous stories my grandmother told me of pots with gold at the end of mythical rainbows, I wouldn’t know the real treasure from the bowing ghost of mist and color. Everyone in our village scrambles to collect the first rain we’ve had in my lifetime.
“Adam, I yell to the undeserving husband I keep at arms-length, “grab the pails … no wait … help me straighten the catchment tarps, quick!”
My name is Josephine Baker and the people in our village think of me as a hard worker, a problem solver who keeps this village alive. The truth is that I only work through each day because I’m too afraid to die.
It has been over seventy-five years since the droughts parched these lands and the earthquakes swallowed our cities whole, leaving nothing but dust and barely enough to survive on. But today it’s raining. Rain means water, water means growth, and growth means life. I laugh until my tears mix with the coming drops. I grab Adam and kiss him, our bodies soaking in rain. For the last twenty-nine years I’d been a survivor, but because of that rainbow, today is the first day I’m actually alive.
Thanks for your entry, Christopher.
Conversation with Mrs. N
When he first mentioned getting a boat, I thought here it goes – midlife crisis. After all, the man’s like five hundred years old! It was all he could talk about. Said, God told him to build it. It kept him busy and out of the house. So, I went along.
He worked on that thing for just over a hundred years. It looked terrible sitting in our yard. So big, and how were we supposed to get it into the water? We didn’t live anywhere near a lake?
People started talking, but the flood prediction really got them going! It was impossible for me to go anywhere without somebody asking, “When’s that big flood coming?”
We spent a year on that ark. Trust me, it really tests a marriage. Eventually, things started drying up. God sent a rainbow and my husband eventually got rid of the boat. Funny to think, we are celebrating our anniversary this year with a cruise? No pets, of course.
Thanks for your entry, Bryan.