Archive for the ‘FLASH FICTION Contest’ Category

Tiger in a Suit: The Black Hole

Thursday, November 29th, 2018

by Chantelle Tibbs

read it in the correct order

 

It was raining. As I licked the blood off my paws it occurred to me how much easier it would be to let the rain wash me clean. But rain has a taste, one I didn’t much care for. And the work of licking that taste off of my fur seemed daunting. Cold and bored, my eyes wandered about the room. My most recent victim at the time had put up a calendar on his wall. I’d been to his home several times but it was the first time I got the chance to really look at it. It was open to the month of December. And the photo for December was of a man and a woman laughing together on a cozy brown couch. I looked away to check the time, but there was something about that calendar girl’s smile that pulled me back. I stepped off of my lover and moved closer to the image. I must have stared at that photo for an hour before I came to the conclusion that the two in the photo loved one another madly. It wasn’t some staged pose. It was life, captured, reprinted, and sold in a store for a price nowhere near its value. The room suddenly felt colder. As my lover lay asleep, for the first time in decades I let myself feel my loneliness. It could have burned a hole in me. After a few empty moments, it came to me. I was ready! I was ready for love. I stepped over my lover’s body fleeing into the night, blood stained and full of hope.

 

I ran fast through the forest past tall skinny white trees I couldn’t remember the name of. My fur was drenched but I hardly noticed or cared for that matter. Not practicing much awareness, I slipped and fell into a black hole. Her name was Linda. She lay underneath a tree, soaked in the night wearing the most spectacular white gown I’d ever seen. Her eyes were magnets. It had to be love, like I had seen in the calendar.

“Linda, I think I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Love.”

“Oh me too.”

“Maybe we could start a family.”

“I’ve always wanted a family.”

“Or perhaps not.”

“I never cared for children much.”

“Maybe I do want children though.”

“We could have three!”

“Or just go traveling.”

“I know just the place.”

“Sometimes I like to stay in one place.”

“Staying put is best.”

We were so in sync. A few months passed and I felt like spun gold. There was a night looking back now I do remember though. I awoke to relieve myself to find Linda pacing in the kitchen on the phone.

“Anything you say mother. Master.”

I interrupted.

“Who are you talking to?”

Linda jumped and gave me a wry smile.

“No one. Let’s go back to bed, beloved.”

Her eyes were wide and her skin sheet white.

 

Two weeks later I woke up to find Linda gone. She had taken her things. There was no trace of her. Not even a scent to follow. Cut into the bone, I sat in a bathtub full of a mixture of tap water and my own tears for three days. Soaked and finished, I looked down at my paws remembering my hands. I felt fur where there used to be skin. I was suddenly aware of everything that was taken from me and everything I had taken all in one pregnant moment. My chest felt heavy as I gasped for air. I pondered what it could take to make it back to zero. I made my way to a towel and began to dry off.

 

 

 

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Tiger in a Suit: A Way Out

Wednesday, November 28th, 2018

by Chantelle Tibbs
read it in the correct order

 

It all started with what I assumed was an innocent question. Which began with a minor curiosity as they often do. One day when my love was licking the blood from a wound he had inflicted on my left rib, I simply asked,
“What does blood taste like?
“Do you really want to know? It’s not something I could explain.”
“Why do you need it so badly?”
“Everything good is outside of me. I must consume it all.”
I thought for a second.
“Would you teach me to hunt?”
He laughed.
“No.”
I continued to let him lick my wound. But thoughts are threads and they pull together great fabric, stitch by stitch. In the back of my head, or maybe more in the front than I would have liked to admit, I knew I wasn’t the only one he pounced upon. So one night when he was too hungry to take precaution, I followed him on a hunt. My curiosity out burned my jealousy as I watched him pounce on others like me over and over again. For more nights than I can remember, I practiced his lurk, his linger, his stealth in open fields.

 

Her name was Jessica. I’ll never forget her eyes. The pupils stay dilated, black dots slapped into green circles. My tiger ran off after this mauling leaving her particularly wounded, immobile and stranded. I gathered all my courage and made my way over to her. She was lying upon an old mattress on the first floor of the dilapidated house I had been peering inside. As I crept in close, I could hear her teeth hit one another as she shivered in the dark.
“Who is there?”
“A friend.”
I knelt down. We were now face to face.
“He’s gone isn’t he?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Would you do me a favor and please kill me?”
“What?”
“I think you heard correct.”
“Oh. Can I taste…can I taste it first?”
“What?”
“I think you heard correct.”
“Will you promise to kill me after?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
I licked her wounds clean. I bandaged her with love, put her clothes on and sang her sweet hymns. All the while her blood making its way down my throat, into my stomach, through my veins, into the backs of my eyes, turning me. Once you get the taste for it, you know you will never be the same. Pounced upon, ravaged or ripped apart. It’s a low hum of a lack of feeling, the emptiness of giving yourself over and over again. Even lower to pretend it’s not so bad. So when I got a choice, a way out, I can see why I took it. I held Jessica while she cried. In one swift blow she never saw coming, I made a new hole in her and left her to bleed out as promised.

 

Years later I saw the tiger I once loved crossing a busy street. When his eyes met mine, his shoulders slumped and he retreated at the sight of my dominance. As I turned to keep walking it became clear he didn’t recognize me.

 

 

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Tiger in a Suit

Tuesday, November 27th, 2018

by Chantelle Tibbs

 

Tiger in A Suit

Many nights ago when I was a young girl, my father and I went out for a walk. As I looked up at him I could smell the land. The neighborhood was lined with houses but there was still much wilderness about. Suddenly I spotted a tiger. I alerted my father of my sighting. He was annoyed by my active imagination and need for attention. Several tigers were circling now. I could no longer pretend I wasn’t seeing what I was seeing, even to appease my father.

“Dad! Let’s go home!”

“Sure. And on our way we can tell the little green aliens Hello.”

He didn’t believe me and yet they crept closer. By the time my father could see I was telling the truth, it was too late. He may have called for help, maybe even felt bad, but disappeared nonetheless. I could hear a few people gasp as one tiger pounced on top of me pinning me down. I lay on my back frozen, suffocated by his fur. I felt his heaviness on my chest as my breathing ceased. He licked me. I did not move for fear it would provoke him. His claws sunk their way into my skin with the inertia of his body weight. I could hear the voices of people in the background wanting to help, but they couldn’t get to me. I felt my own blood drip down my shoulders as I braced myself for the pain of sharp teeth.

 

Suddenly, to my surprise, after what seemed like too many moments to bear, the tiger simply lifted himself up off of me and slowly walked away. I lay there still for a bit, afraid any movement would entice his return. The crowd was gone and I was alone. It was a long, frigid walk home. Many steps into the creeping dawn, I quietly felt my fear melt into a sort of forced tenderness. That tenderness covered me like a blanket as I scrambled in the cold. I was attaching myself to the tiger now. I wanted to believe I wanted him. It felt better to believe I wanted this.

 

The next day as I stare maimed and motionless in my room, the doorbell rang. It was the tiger dressed in a pinstripe suit! He wanted to take me and my family out to a movie. My mother poured him lemonade as he pulled a chair out for me at the kitchen table. This tiger in a suit. When we arrived at the theatre, we found our seats in the upper balcony. Chandeliers decorated the ceilings, I squeezed my younger sister’s hand in excitement. The movie began and suddenly the front row of seats we were in collapsed. The balcony was high up so most people fell to their deaths. The tiger grabbed my family up in one swoop. I plunged below looking up at them as I fell helplessly. Before I could hit the ground he caught me in his mouth and carried me to safety. As I caught my breath I heard applause. My hero! Now I could finally embrace my beast fully. There was no trauma here, just a love story.

 

A Way Out

It all started with what I assumed was an innocent question. Which began with a minor curiosity as they often do. One day when my love was licking the blood from a wound he had inflicted on my left rib, I simply asked,
“What does blood taste like?
“Do you really want to know? It’s not something I could explain.”
“Why do you need it so badly?”
“Everything good is outside of me. I must consume it all.”
I thought for a second.
“Would you teach me to hunt?”
He laughed.
“No.”
I continued to let him lick my wound. But thoughts are threads and they pull together great fabric, stitch by stitch. In the back of my head, or maybe more in the front than I would have liked to admit, I knew I wasn’t the only one he pounced upon. So one night when he was too hungry to take precaution, I followed him on a hunt. My curiosity out burned my jealousy as I watched him pounce on others like me over and over again. For more nights than I can remember, I practiced his lurk, his linger, his stealth in open fields.

 

Her name was Jessica. I’ll never forget her eyes. The pupils stay dilated, black dots slapped into green circles. My tiger ran off after this mauling leaving her particularly wounded, immobile and stranded. I gathered all my courage and made my way over to her. She was lying upon an old mattress on the first floor of the dilapidated house I had been peering inside. As I crept in close, I could hear her teeth hit one another as she shivered in the dark.
“Who is there?”
“A friend.”
I knelt down. We were now face to face.
“He’s gone isn’t he?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Would you do me a favor and please kill me?”
“What?”
“I think you heard correct.”
“Oh. Can I taste…can I taste it first?”
“What?”
“I think you heard correct.”
“Will you promise to kill me after?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
I licked her wounds clean. I bandaged her with love, put her clothes on and sang her sweet hymns. All the while her blood making its way down my throat, into my stomach, through my veins, into the backs of my eyes, turning me. Once you get the taste for it, you know you will never be the same. Pounced upon, ravaged or ripped apart. It’s a low hum of a lack of feeling, the emptiness of giving yourself over and over again. Even lower to pretend it’s not so bad. So when I got a choice, a way out, I can see why I took it. I held Jessica while she cried. In one swift blow she never saw coming, I made a new hole in her and left her to bleed out as promised.

 

Years later I saw the tiger I once loved crossing a busy street. When his eyes met mine, his shoulders slumped and he retreated at the sight of my dominance. As I turned to keep walking it became clear he didn’t recognize me.

 

The Black Hole

It was raining. As I licked the blood off my paws it occurred to me how much easier it would be to let the rain wash me clean. But rain has a taste, one I didn’t much care for. And the work of licking that taste off of my fur seemed daunting. Cold and bored, my eyes wandered about the room. My most recent victim at the time had put up a calendar on his wall. I’d been to his home several times but it was the first time I got the chance to really look at it. It was open to the month of December. And the photo for December was of a man and a woman laughing together on a cozy brown couch. I looked away to check the time, but there was something about that calendar girl’s smile that pulled me back. I stepped off of my lover and moved closer to the image. I must have stared at that photo for an hour before I came to the conclusion that the two in the photo loved one another madly. It wasn’t some staged pose. It was life, captured, reprinted, and sold in a store for a price nowhere near its value. The room suddenly felt colder. As my lover lay asleep, for the first time in decades I let myself feel my loneliness. It could have burned a hole in me. After a few empty moments, it came to me. I was ready! I was ready for love. I stepped over my lover’s body fleeing into the night, blood stained and full of hope.

 

I ran fast through the forest past tall skinny white trees I couldn’t remember the name of. My fur was drenched but I hardly noticed or cared for that matter. Not practicing much awareness, I slipped and fell into a black hole. Her name was Linda. She lay underneath a tree, soaked in the night wearing the most spectacular white gown I’d ever seen. Her eyes were magnets. It had to be love, like I had seen in the calendar.

“Linda, I think I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Love.”

“Oh me too.”

“Maybe we could start a family.”

“I’ve always wanted a family.”

“Or perhaps not.”

“I never cared for children much.”

“Maybe I do want children though.”

“We could have three!”

“Or just go traveling.”

“I know just the place.”

“Sometimes I like to stay in one place.”

“Staying put is best.”

We were so in sync. A few months passed and I felt like spun gold. There was a night looking back now I do remember though. I awoke to relieve myself to find Linda pacing in the kitchen on the phone.

“Anything you say mother. Master.”

I interrupted.

“Who are you talking to?”

Linda jumped and gave me a wry smile.

“No one. Let’s go back to bed, beloved.”

Her eyes were wide and her skin sheet white.

 

Two weeks later I woke up to find Linda gone. She had taken her things. There was no trace of her. Not even a scent to follow. Cut into the bone, I sat in a bathtub full of a mixture of tap water and my own tears for three days. Soaked and finished, I looked down at my paws remembering my hands. I felt fur where there used to be skin. I was suddenly aware of everything that was taken from me and everything I had taken all in one pregnant moment. My chest felt heavy as I gasped for air. I pondered what it could take to make it back to zero. I made my way to a towel and began to dry off.

 

 

 

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How to Forget About Evil: #2: The victims: Father Joe Tanner

Sunday, November 25th, 2018

by M.T. Ingoldby

read it in the right order

 

Jane unlocked the stable door and stared through the hay-dust at four or five horses variously at rest. The one who stared back she pointed at and said, “how much for the palomino?”

Hours later, fire-lit on the hillside looking down on the narrow valley, she stroked its chin till it was half-asleep and pressed her mouth against its flank in what might be called a kiss, if she had ever seen one, till the beast whinnied and shook itself free.

In sight above them was the grey ridge that separated one valley from the next. Long smoke from the fire streamed towards it, scattered at the summit by an upward wind from the valley beyond. All night the smoke flew and was obliterated at the peak. When dawn came it had given out, the camp was gone and clouds engulfed the summit so that no one could have seen which way she went.

“I loved Billy Morgan,” said her older sister. There had been a long silence in the room. Her mother eyed the fire through lenses thick as hooves and with a grey rug bunched over her knees. “Billy was sweet.”

“You never loved him,” her mother sighed.

“I did love him. You scared him off, and father. Billy wanted me to marry him.”

Her mother shook her head like flies were near it. “Where’s your sister, Est?”

“He had a car like Mr Bosun’s, only cleaner. He told me he loved me in it. Did you know that?”

“Where’s Jane, I asked.”

“How should I know?” Esther cried. “She’s gone again. Can’t stand this place. Can’t stand you.” Not easily diverted, she finished, “First Billy, now Jane.”

“Oh, be quiet about that boy.” snapped Mrs Tanner. “Why not go off and find him? Why take it out on me?”

“You begged me to stay, mother.”

“I never.”

“Begged me. Yes you did. The second father got sick.”

“Well. He’s not sick anymore, is he.”

Both women looked at the tall chair at the head of the table, now vacant for over a month. Mrs Tanner went on, “Talking all the time about things that didn’t happen. Why don’t you run off and tell him the good news, the two of you can marry and leave your poor mother in peace.”

Esther shifted from her mother’s eyeline into the kitchen. “If you can’t get a man to marry you, you might as well kill yourself. That’s what I say.”

“You say a lot of nonsense.’ said Mrs Tanner. ‘Put the kettle on.”

Esther’s voice came out of the kitchen: “Do you think father’s looking down at us, mother?”

“What was that?”

But the rest was lost to the steam.

As Esther watched the stew, Mrs Tanner slipped outside to watch the dusk soften the land behind the rectory. Her daughter’s singing died away, and she was left the night’s full privacy: Insects buzzing; cattle lowing sleepily; the wind itself conferring whispers that she followed down the slope towards the old haybarn, through which they howled.

When they moved here the barn had been full of hay, and so shrouded in trees a whole week went by before they’d found it. Over time the hay had rotted; it’s stench had carried to the porch. Now you needed prior knowledge of the smell to even notice it.

She passed the door and entered the barn by its broken gape. Inside were shards of moonlight on a bed of hardened mud, the air made palpable by lengthy spider webs, and, (her fading sight deferring to her nose) the mulch of age: damp wood, old paint, sodden leather from the tack room where her sins were purged by lashes from a horsewhip, the high rafters’ slow-falling dust, and mouldy rope – the mixture thickened in her throat.

In a patch of silver light, surreally alone, the little stool stood waiting. From the rafters dropped a knotted rope that ended in a loop. Mrs Tanner saw it now, still as a painting. So rough and taut not even the wind could sway it. She regarded it as nothing; she could scarcely make it out, and walked towards it to dispel the confusion.

It was hard in her hands as she grasped it, tugged it once and slipped it round her neck. The smell, the old rot, came back to her. She knew why she was here.

But a sudden light disturbed her; high up on the slope. Esther had thrown open the back door and now cried out “She’s back, mother! Jane’s back!”

Maryann paused, one toe on the stool’s seat. Then she turned, left the barn and hobbled back up the slope, breathing ghosts.

 

 

 

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How to Forget About Evil

Saturday, November 24th, 2018

by M.T. Ingoldby

 

#1: The culprit: Hello Evil

Let’s be clear: The only reason that craven fool got so slack-jawed enamoured with yours truly is because he wasn’t all that upstairs. But I liked him: Heck Minyeti had potential.

He was eight when I met him. Out in the copse behind the barn, his feet were bare. He had the neighbour’s terrier in a cloth bag and was throwing stones and conkers at the bag but the yowling might have roused the babysitter waiting in the house, so he loosed the dog. Wandering away, he stumbled on it:

The mask was faded plastic with two pink ears and a snout. It lay discarded far from any house, caked with dirt. He picked it up.

When he took it off, he was at home. The babysitter was not. She was found in the maple by the barn, hanging from a branch some twenty feet from where a pool of blood collected.

There were patrols, forensic teams, all the big noses; but in a couple days it was all chalked up to Ty Steven, the subject of a manhunt in a neighboring state. Heck stowed the pig mask in the barn.

A few gashed tyres and a dead class pet and Heck left school for good. He sold hubcaps to a local rag-and-bone man who later went missing, and in three months he had scrounged enough to buy a car.

We had times in that car, let me tell you. There wasn’t a town that could hold us. Just a kid and a mask and the open road—hell, I’m misting up just thinking of it. One time that springs to mind, we were staying at a B&B near Hiko, splashing out on a proper night’s sleep. Only we could hear through the ceiling the old mad grandfather of the owner stomping and snorting and dropping things until the early hours, when Heck put on the mask and crept upstairs and after that we heard no more. Or outside Mina, Heck was siphoning gas from a parked 4×4 when the driver showed up. He wasn’t happy. His scowl never left him, even when his head was in the trunk.

We didn’t go hungry, but a man needs more—it snowballs. That’s how I work, I snowball. And so we picked up two girls in Reno who liked to talk. Heck didn’t like that, he couldn’t perform. So he cut the one’s head off and caved in the other’s. Then you should have seen it – like a goddamn caber.

The main thrill came after, gleeful, giggling, running to escape the blastwave of our reputation. We saw the news in glimpses, bar TVs, wind-blown print – they had Heck down as a victim, then. Him in the mask they called Pig Man. “Residents are advised to stay indoors after dark…”

Lately the mask never left Minyeti’s face. A father and son at a crosswalk near Femley caught his darkened eye; he tilted the wheel and plowed them to a paste; the radio didn’t even falter.

Heck’s mistake: Driving straight got him further, faster—but the cops had a map. Each killing earned a pin, and the pins formed a line. And at the end of that line the cops congregated.

It was past midnight when we hit the cordon: ten or so police cars on a wet street, white and crimson. Flanked by hedges, Heck was forced to halt, his engine whining. From the owner of the 4×4 he’d gained a Ruger, a .44 magnum revolver with a scope he didn’t need.

On that moonless night he rose up through the sunroof, the Pig Man of near-legend, strafed the windshields of the cars before us. A bullet returned struck the Pig Man’s shoulder. Heck collapsed, spraying bullets upwards as the flashing lights closed in.

I drew even closer, and whispered goodbye.

It was Heck they cuffed and led away, a dazed and bare-faced boy too rattled to resist. The fallen mask was weighed, swabbed, studied, x-rayed and archived; it held no secrets. Five days later, Heck entered an institute for the criminally unwell.

In the life of Heck Minyeti there is one more incident of note. A week into his sentence, Heck stole a roll of toilet paper and mashed it in the sink to make a face. Dry, he put it on, stripped himself of all else and forced his starving body through the cell bars.

His flesh tore, his ribs cracked, then Heck stuck fast. He stayed there, mask disintegrating into wet chunks, until his screaming roused the guards.

If there’s a lesson, I don’t see it. I was long gone anyhow, hunting down the next poor fool in need of a helpful nudge.

Howdy.

 

#2: The victims: Father Joe Tanner

Jane unlocked the stable door and stared through the hay-dust at four or five horses variously at rest. The one who stared back she pointed at and said, “how much for the palomino?”

Hours later, fire-lit on the hillside looking down on the narrow valley, she stroked its chin till it was half-asleep and pressed her mouth against its flank in what might be called a kiss, if she had ever seen one, till the beast whinnied and shook itself free.

In sight above them was the grey ridge that separated one valley from the next. Long smoke from the fire streamed towards it, scattered at the summit by an upward wind from the valley beyond. All night the smoke flew and was obliterated at the peak. When dawn came it had given out, the camp was gone and clouds engulfed the summit so that no one could have seen which way she went.

“I loved Billy Morgan,” said her older sister. There had been a long silence in the room. Her mother eyed the fire through lenses thick as hooves and with a grey rug bunched over her knees. “Billy was sweet.”

“You never loved him,” her mother sighed.

“I did love him. You scared him off, and father. Billy wanted me to marry him.”

Her mother shook her head like flies were near it. “Where’s your sister, Est?”

“He had a car like Mr Bosun’s, only cleaner. He told me he loved me in it. Did you know that?”

“Where’s Jane, I asked.”

“How should I know?” Esther cried. “She’s gone again. Can’t stand this place. Can’t stand you.” Not easily diverted, she finished, “First Billy, now Jane.”

“Oh, be quiet about that boy.” snapped Mrs Tanner. “Why not go off and find him? Why take it out on me?”

“You begged me to stay, mother.”

“I never.”

“Begged me. Yes you did. The second father got sick.”

“Well. He’s not sick anymore, is he.”

Both women looked at the tall chair at the head of the table, now vacant for over a month. Mrs Tanner went on, “Talking all the time about things that didn’t happen. Why don’t you run off and tell him the good news, the two of you can marry and leave your poor mother in peace.”

Esther shifted from her mother’s eyeline into the kitchen. “If you can’t get a man to marry you, you might as well kill yourself. That’s what I say.”

“You say a lot of nonsense.’ said Mrs Tanner. ‘Put the kettle on.”

Esther’s voice came out of the kitchen: “Do you think father’s looking down at us, mother?”

“What was that?”

But the rest was lost to the steam.

As Esther watched the stew, Mrs Tanner slipped outside to watch the dusk soften the land behind the rectory. Her daughter’s singing died away, and she was left the night’s full privacy: Insects buzzing; cattle lowing sleepily; the wind itself conferring whispers that she followed down the slope towards the old haybarn, through which they howled.

When they moved here the barn had been full of hay, and so shrouded in trees a whole week went by before they’d found it. Over time the hay had rotted; it’s stench had carried to the porch. Now you needed prior knowledge of the smell to even notice it.

She passed the door and entered the barn by its broken gape. Inside were shards of moonlight on a bed of hardened mud, the air made palpable by lengthy spider webs, and, (her fading sight deferring to her nose) the mulch of age: damp wood, old paint, sodden leather from the tack room where her sins were purged by lashes from a horsewhip, the high rafters’ slow-falling dust, and mouldy rope – the mixture thickened in her throat.

In a patch of silver light, surreally alone, the little stool stood waiting. From the rafters dropped a knotted rope that ended in a loop. Mrs Tanner saw it now, still as a painting. So rough and taut not even the wind could sway it. She regarded it as nothing; she could scarcely make it out, and walked towards it to dispel the confusion.

It was hard in her hands as she grasped it, tugged it once and slipped it round her neck. The smell, the old rot, came back to her. She knew why she was here.

But a sudden light disturbed her; high up on the slope. Esther had thrown open the back door and now cried out “She’s back, mother! Jane’s back!”

Maryann paused, one toe on the stool’s seat. Then she turned, left the barn and hobbled back up the slope, breathing ghosts.

 

#3: The penalty: The Two Rivers

 

There is a myth… not quite a myth anymore, just an old story… about a river that grants instant death to the drinker. Its waters are sought by ruined businessmen, rejected lovers, and the incurably guilty.

But waiting on its banks is a kind of trickster or sprite named Timon, who, in the guise of a concerned stranger, implores the miserable soul to change their mind, to live. If this fails, he offers an alternative: There is another river, not far from here, that rids the drinker merely of their memories. Those seduced by this notion set off, only to meet the trickster at the next riverbank; who tells them, this is still a stretch of my river. You must go further on.

On the seeker wanders, weary now, and at the next riverbank, there again is Timon. This time Timon chides them for not heeding his instructions. Many at this point will give up and return, discovering new strength in the hardship of pursuit. For the rest, the pattern is repeated endlessly, until the search overcomes the mind, and the body dies at last from dehydration.

 

 

 

 

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Finalists now announced for 2019 FLASH SUITE Contest

Sunday, November 11th, 2018

 

Go Straight to the Contest

 

The sixth annual FLASH SUITE Contest will be truly jaw-dropping.  We have works of resilience and survival; of murder and death; tricksters and witches; from hard-nosed realism to wonderous abstraction; and poetry does not fail.  And so much evil, so much delightful e-vile.

 

Go Straight to the Contest

 

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Last few days for submissions to 2019 FLASH SUITE Contest

Sunday, October 28th, 2018

 

Submission for our 2019 FLASH SUITE Contest

closes this Thursday.

 

We are, however, lenient as to time-zone differences,

so make it in by, oh, let’s say

7:49a.m. Eastern Standard Time on Friday the 2nd.

 

Get off your butts and submit, before I kick your butt and make you submit.

 

— eatstuf,

co-editor, moderator, Wild-Wild-West gunslinger,

defenestrationism.net

 

 

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Judges Confirmed for 2019 FLASH SUITE Contest

Sunday, June 10th, 2018

These are not the judges for the Summer !Short Story Contest!

view judges for 2018 !Short Story Contest!

 

We are honored to announce the Judges for the 2019 FLASH SUITE Contest,

only on defenestrationism.net

including new Judge, Cedar Danger Block.

 

 

Cedar Danger Block (they/them)

is currently a grad student of English literature, usually focusing on trans theory, comic book studies, and medieval lit. They love finding creative ways to mix the three topics and are more excited than they should be about going back to academia.

 

 

2013 !Short Story Contest! Winner,

Christian McKay Heidicker

Christian McKay Heidicker has two books you can check out. His first, CURE FOR THE COMMON UNIVERSE, is about a kid trying to escape video game rehab. His second, ATTACK OF THE 50 FOOT WALLFLOWER, is the story of a girl trapped in a 1950s monster movie marathon. It hits shelves September 11th, 2018 but is available for pre-order now.

He’s been dreaming of foxes lately.

Learn more here: http://www.cmheidicker.com/books/

 

 

Lady Moet Beast

the Beast From Southeast

What can’t be said about this interesting lady? Godmother of D.C. Rap, multi-genre lyricist, producer, poet, musician, writer, singer, actress, and the list goes on. Performing live since the age of 5, determined to be heard, adored and admired, Lady Moet Beast has performed all over the U.S. for the past 25 years. Not your average HipHop Femcee she has grown along with her husband obtaining her own band The Cruddy Crankerz, Beast & Monster Ink,  Drama City Records/Draztick Measurez., Cruddy Rite Publishing, Cruddy Rite Radio, Monster Graphix, and Lioness Filmz. Lady Moet Beast has set a lot of trends from green dreadlocks to hardcore femcees in Washington, D.C. and abroad.

 

 

Glenn A. Bruce, MFA, was associate fiction editor for The Lindenwood Review. He has published eight novels and two collections of short stories. He wrote Kickboxer, episodes of Walker: Texas Ranger and Baywatch— for an anecdote on pre-Pamala Baywatch, and what happens to homeless people on the show, click here—  and was a sketch-writer for Cinemax’sAssaulted Nuts. His stories, poems, and essays have been published internationally. He won About That’s “Down and Dirty” short story contest and is a two-time finalist in the defenstrationism.net annual short story contest. He has been a guest speaker and panel participant at many writing and film events over the years. He has judged shorts film contests, art shows, and was the final judge for Brilliant Flash Fiction’s 2015 annual short-fiction contest. Glenn has been teaching Screenwriting and Acting for the Camera at Appalachian State University for the past 11 years.

Website: www.glennabruce.com

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6445392.Glenn_A_Bruce

 

 

back to the FLASH SUITE Contest

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Contest Submission Now Open

Wednesday, April 4th, 2018

Greetings;

Welcome, or welcome back,

to defenestrationism.net

 

We are pleased to announce our

6th annual fiction contests

only on defenestrationism.net

 

Submission is now open for both our

!Short Story Contest!

and our

FLASH SUITE Contest

 

The !Short Story Contest! is not a subtle contest.

Submission is open until the end of June, 2018.

Finalists will post in August, and

winners announced Labor Day, which is September 3rd.

 

The FLASH SUITE Contest combines 3 or more flash works into a suite.

Submission is open until November 1st, 2018.

Finalists will post in late December, and

winners announced MLK day, which is January 21st.

 

Read our guidelines, !Submit Now!

and keep surfing through

defenestrationism.net

 

 

 

!What’s New!

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Winners of the 2018 FLASH SUITE Contest

Monday, January 15th, 2018

Drum roll, please…

 

and the Runner-Up for the 2018 FLASH SUITE Contest is

Bang Bang by Brook Reynolds

 

and the Grand Prize Winner for the 2018 FLASH SUITE Contest is

the Minotaur by Salvatore Difalco.

 

What a splendid contest.  Since we announced the finalists in November, we have received almost 1,500 hits from over 250 unique IP addresses.  The two weeks of fan voting alone garnered 452 visits.

Fan Voting was very close, with the Minotaur barely edging-out Bang Bang at the end.  Snow Globe Romance hung tough till the end, but, it was not meant to be.

Finalists’ bio and photo in favorite chair are now added to The Defenestrationists Are… page

 

 

 

view How the Judges Voted

Read the Suites

Up-Coming Contests on defenestrationism.net

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