All Good things Must End

We all knew this time would come. We had ourselves psyched up for it even though a kernel within us hoped for a reprieve. That, however, never happened, so we're here at the inevitable conclusion.

I am happy to present, as the denouement of 2013's Flash Fiction Challenge, a tale by a relatively new author who also happens to be another Brit - Londoner, to be precise. Patsy Middleton is hard at work on a novel that spans the Georgian, Regency, and Victorian eras in English history. She was kind enough to pull off that long enough to write this tale about a vase. I think you'll enjoy it.

Even though there are no more entries to my challenge, it will remain open until 15 December, so feel free to send more of these not-so-easy to write stories...if you dare.

The Sèvres Vase

©2013 by Patsy Middleton 

He walks into his library where she kneels, sobbing, and something pulls him forward. A tear-stained face turns. She stands. She wears servant’s clothes.

“I broke a Sèvres Vase. My father owned one. They will turn me away.”

Face buried in hands, she cries.

“They will not.”

“It is irreplaceable. The Master will be furious.”

“He will not.”

“Do you know him?”

“Intimately.”

“Who are you?”

“Who asks?” How does she know the rarity of Sèvres?

“I must not tell.”

“Who is your father?”

Her tears fall, her head bows. With pity and curiosity, he lifts her chin.

”Sir William Surtees. He is dead.”

He understands, takes her hands, “I see.”

“You knew him?”

“At one time. He was my father’s friend. An unfortunate accident.”

“I found him.”

“Oh, God, poor child!”

Her sobs recommence.

He embraces her, caresses her hair. Her crying stops. He kisses her forehead. She kisses his cheek. Their faces are close; their lips meet in a gentle, warm, compassionate, caring kiss.

He moves away. “Forgive me.”

“It was to comfort me.”

Another silent embrace. A rare, eternal moment; being in each other’s being.

They part. She stands. He keeps her hands.

“What is your name?” He needs to know.

“Charlotte.”

Now she can move on.

 

So, like Patsy's heroine, Charlotte, we can now move on. I've greatly enjoyed this challenge; so much so, that I am cooking up another for after the first of the year. Stay tuned.

 

Slainte.

The Princess and the Beggar

We are honored indeed this week by a wee tale from the prolific mind of Suzy Stewart-Dubot. Suzy has written a thought-provoking vignette from Paris, but worry not, you needn't know how to read French. Enjoy.

Rue St. Honoré

by Suzy Stewart Dubot

"Look at that poor woman, Papa. Please give her something. She must be hungry."

The child sitting in the car with her father was upset by the old woman leaning on her cane. She didn't look clean and, in fact, everything about her looked grey. Her cloche hat and coat may have been brighter when new but now they matched her hair and skin.

The woman waited by the traffic lights until the red light required cars to stop. She shuffled over to them, left hand on the cane, the right held out begging. Guilt alone prompted each driver who stopped to give her change and sometimes more.

This was the poshest part of Paris, and she did well each day.

The regulars at the corner café watched her progress and guffawed each time she added money to her coat's pocket. They greeted her when she came in for a break from begging, asking her how well she'd done.

They were in the know.

She smiled when buying each one a drink in acknowledgement of their camaraderie.

She could afford to. She owned and lived in the luxurious building on the corner opposite the café.

She only begged from boredom.

 

 

Slainte.

Collateral Damage

Well, Barnaby Wilde strikes again. If you've read his works, you know exactly what I mean; if you've not, you've really been missing out on some great writing. So, hie thyself over to Smashwords and give him a look. Meantime, be warned: this ain't yer usual Wilde story.

Collateral Damage

©2013 by Barnaby Wilde

Farrukh adjusted her niqab and studied the indifferent fruit piled on the market stall in front of her. The fat stallholder halfheartedly flicked dust off the pomegranates and oranges and wiped his hands on his grubby, grey kameez. She glanced at the heavily creased shopping list in her hand. Her mother would be cross if she bought poor quality, or paid too much.

Neither of them noticed the dust cloud from the approaching truck.

Two soldiers leaned on the wall next to the fruit stall, smoking and laughing loudly, rifles slung nonchalantly across their shoulders.

"Are you buying, or just looking?"

She bowed her head with embarrassment at the stallholder's brusque interrogation.

There was a loud squeal of tyres, a burst of gunfire and the cry of "Allahu akbar" as the truck slammed the soldiers into the wall before the world around her exploded with sound and light.

Farrukh's eyes flickered open momentarily as she lay on the ground, a spreading pool of blood surrounding her head. She saw in the distance, lying amongst the smoking debris and other scattered body parts, a severed arm, still clutching a shopping list.

She felt no pain as her world went irreversibly black.

Slainte!

Kitty's Bad Hair Day

Welcome to week 2 of my Flash Fiction 2013 challenge entries. This week’s story is by Tracey Howard, an aspiring author from Indiana, as well as an accomplished photographer and all-around great mom. Although it's the shortest of the entries, at a mere 190 words, it conveys a charming portrait of family life that I think everyone who has children can relate to. Enjoy.

Slainte!

Kitty’s Bad Hair Day

©2013 by Tracey Howard 

The scampering of little feet back and forth between the office and bedroom catch my attention.

 

“What are you doing, young lady?”

Freezing in midstep, she sticks both hands behind her back as quickly as she can.

 

“Nothing, Mama!”

I catch a flash of silver in her little hand as she jumps back into high gear, slamming the door to her bedroom as she runs through.

“Don’t come in!”

Walking to the door, I rattle the handle.

“Sissy? What are you doing?  I’m coming in.”

 There’s a solid thump against the door as a little body attempts to block my entry.

“No, Mama!”

Pushing the door open,I step in to find that all appeared normal except for a very guilty-looking child.

“Okay, Kidlet.  What are you doing?”

Silently she goes to her bed and picks a pair of pinking shears out of a small pile of fur and hands them over.

 As I open my mouth to scold her, I notice the family cat walking out of the room in a high dudgeon.  It seems a reverse Mohawk haircut was NOT on her list of things to do that day!

Flash Fiction challenge early results

When I issued my flash fiction challenge a few weeks ago, I’d hoped a few readers would take up the gauntlet. I am pleased that some of you did, with some most interesting viewpoints and stories. So, to honor those who expended so much thought and effort in rising to my challenge, I plan to publish the stories that have met the challenge’s criteria here, beginning with this post. I’ll post them in the order I received the original manuscripts for the sake of fairness.
I plan to post them every Friday while they last. As I said, the deadline for this challenge isn’t until 15 December, so there’s still plenty of time to show us what you can do with flash fiction.

So, here’s the first. I hope you enjoy it and you are welcome to ooh and ahh profusely.

 

Birthday Gift

©2013 by Elizabeth Rowan Keith

Chatting over a cup of tea with my next door neighbor is a pleasant part of most Saturdays.  We both looked forward to it.  This visit, with the holiday season approaching, the conversation turned to gifts.

“What’s the strangest gift you ever received?” asked my neighbor as I sipped my tea.

I thought a moment, and then said,  “That might be a camouflage machete scabbard.”

“Oh, you’re kidding,” she replied.

“No, it was a birthday gift.  My boyfriend at the time came to the door with this unwrapped, folded piece of camouflage nylon in his hand.  I said, ‘What’s this?’  He said, ‘It’s your birthday present.’  I said, ‘What is it?’  He said, ‘It’s a scabbard for a machete.’  I said, ‘I don’t own a machete.’  He said, ‘I do.’  And then he waited.  So I handed him the scabbard and said, ‘Here, then.’  He said, ‘Thank you.’  And then he left.  That was my birthday.”

My neighbor sat speechless.

“The story gets better,” I said.  “Not long after that, when he and I had broken up, the neighbors across the street told me they had seen him pick the scabbard out of their trash.”

“What’s the best gift he ever gave you?” asked my neighbor.

I smiled.  “This story.” 

Slainte,

Challenge accepted and a forewarning

Wow. I must say that your response to my flash fiction challenge has been most heartening. I received a number of entries within three days of issuing my flash fiction challenge, so I'm going to make a slight change. Oh, the deadline I announced is still valid, but I think it's only fair to publish those of you who have already sent me your stories. After all, your hard work deserves reward.

So beginning next week, I'm going to publish one story every week, my duty schedule permitting. I shall publish them in the order received so it will be fair to all.

I'm also planning to issue more challenges as time goes on, including making this flash fiction section an annual affair. I'm not sure just yet what areas other challenges will cover, but rest assured they'll be fun and will hopefully help you grow as writers. That being said, I'm considering such areas as poetry (yup, you'll have to write a poem), observations, opinions, and even different genres such as science fiction, fantasy, or children's/young adults. It's going to be fun, I promise you.

One more thing: this and all challenges are open to anyone who dares to accept them, whether professional or amateur or, and especially, rank beginner. Don't think that you're not welcome here just because you're not part of some group or other or have never had anything published before. Part of the reasoning for making these challenges, after all, is to help you perfect your writing. Look at it as practice...and accept the challenges.

So check in next week for the first to rise to the Flash Fiction Challenge 2013. Oh, and if you've not sent me anything yet, don't fret. As I said, the deadline for entries isn't until mid-December. You have plenty of time.

Slainte!

Story as sound bite: A Challenge

Working the night shift can give one time to think—not always, but those rare moments of quietude amidst all the alarms, phone calls, and co-workers or patients wanting things do occasionally happen. And when they do, a writer can explore a bit of the alleys and closes of hiser mind. Those are good moments.

A while ago, a co-worker and I were talking about writing and we got to talking about flash fiction. She said it should be pretty easy to write, being only 200 words or so. Well, anyone who has tried writing flash pieces know otherwise - it’s not as easy as it seems, not by far.

I told her that and said that’s because, like poetry, every single word has to count, to add something substantial to the story.

“It’s not like a novel,” I said. “In a novel of 50,000 or 100,000 words, there are lots and lots of words that really don’t move the story forward. They’re used to fill out the characters or fully set the scene or to add flavor or color to the overall picture the writer’s trying to paint, but, in the end, they really don’t mean all that much. In flash stories, the writer must make every word count. This, of course, leaves a great deal to the reader’s imagination, and that’s part of the appeal of flash stories.”

One of the hardest writing assignments I had in university was to write a complete story in exactly 100 words, not a word more nor less. Try it sometime—it ain’t easy. But, oh, was it fun! And so very educational. I did it, too. That story, “An Accidental Shooting,” now resides in my book Reaper Files, which is available on Amazon for the Kindle or at Smashwords.com. You’ll find handy links to both on www.novemberfirstpublications.weebly.com.

Being the ornery sort, I am going to issue a challenge to you: write your own flash fiction piece. It must have all the elements of any story: beginning, middle, and conclusion and must be a complete story in its own right—no cheating by merely writing the first few lines of a larger work. Include everything a good story needs: plot, theme, characters, conflict, resolution. I’ll be kinder than my college professor, however; I’ll set the limit at 200 words and will even allow you up to 10 words above or below that.

They must be prose fiction stories—no poems, essays, or diatribes, please. Genre, theme, and all the rest are up to you—as my 7th Grade teacher used to say, “Write on whatever subject you wish.”

Once you’ve accepted this challenge and written your story, send it to me for grading. Yup, it’ll be graded, just like any assignment. Email it in Microsoft Word format to hs.seeker@gmail.com. Because we writers live by deadlines (even though they are often self-imposed), submit your piece not later than 15 December 2013. Make sure you put your name and email address atop the manuscript and, by all means, don’t forget to give the story a name. “Untitled” may work for paintings and sculpture, but we writers are much better than that, right?

I’ll judge it for completeness, quality, publishability (it might need some editing, but that’s part of the fun), and, of course, spelling, punctuation, and grammar. I don’t care if you use American, British, Kiwi, or Ozzie English (or even Texan), but I would prefer you use some sort of English. Dialect is fine, and can even make the story that much better, although it’s not required. Dialogue, of course, is a vital part, but don’t confuse that with dialect (they do look a lot alike, those words, and I find myself slowing down to make sure I’ve read them right myself).

Once I’ve read them, I’ll get them back to you, along with your grade. Oh, the grade won’t go on your “Permanent Record” or anything nasty like that, but it should give you an idea of how you can improve your skills with these sound bites of stories. And, to perhaps entice you further, I’ll publish each story on my blog. Naturally, I’ll give you a chance to make any final corrections first.

Let me know via a comment to the blog or a separate email if you plan to participate. I’d appreciate the advanced notice.

So, there it is. There’s my challenge to you. Are you up to it?

Slainte!