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Announcing the WINNERS of the Sue Vincent Rodeo Classic
When the Rodeo came to town, Rough Writers from around the world answered the call. You came, you sat in the saddle, you rode the bull, and you joined the parade.
Most important, you were inspired by our wonderful friend, Sue Vincent. Sue has been battling terminal cancer, and we’re thrilled that she is around to see the winners (though I admit I cheated and let her know the top winner a little early). Participants were allowed and encouraged to donate to help Sue and her family, but we believe the photo she provided as the prompt was worthy of any prize. Her photo prompted 63 wonderful 99 word stories and 99 syllable poems; if the average picture is worth 1,000 words, then we can be certain her prompt is way above average!
When speaking with Sue following the contest, we learned that everything YOU have done has been an immense help. You’ve helped Sue get essential equipment – such as a wheelchair – that has helped her in these days. As she continues to blog, like an absolute hero, the donations and help you’ve given through the Rodeo has given her the comfort and items she needs to keep going. Her family has also seen how important she is in the online community, which is something that can often seem mysterious and vague to people not directly involved. Ultimately, everyone who participated gets the big prize: you did something amazing, and you stepped up to the plate. The quality of your love, kindness, and creativity has made way for great things.
Even at the very first step, all the judges recognized the quality of the entries. We wish everyone could win the prizes ($100 grand prize, books for the runners up), but TUFF calls were made and we at last have our decision. Common themes judges picked out was “home” and “family”, which I think is fitting of the image.
These entries were checked by H.R.R. Gorman for word or syllable count, anonymized, and sent out to the first set of judges: D. Avery, Sue Spitulnik, and Sherri Matthews. The top fifteen entries were then passed to our second set of judges, and they had the job of choosing the top entries. From there, we determined…
WINNING ENTRIES
Judges Anne Goodwin, Geoff Le Pard, and Charli Mills met to discuss the peer-reviewed finalists on Zoom. Each winning story had a beginning, middle, and end. Each poem had a theme, movement, and rhythm. The judges discussed how 99-word stories and 99-syllable poems have the capacity to go beyond setting and imagery about a photo prompt. What stood out were stories and poems that not only felt complete or thematic but also held elements of surprise, whether irony, humor, or use of language. Ultimately, judges agreed on the ranking for the top three placing stories and each selected a personal favorite.
THIRD PLACE: Mornful Song
by Chel Owens
Warm, the scent of yesteryears; A smile escapes her scowl As hushing rushing heatherings Dance ‘gainst the moorish howl. Warming scent Hush rush Dance moor howl A curlew calls his neighbors near They answer, happily A song of sunshined solitude Surrounds her, willingly Curlew’s call Sun shine Will ing ly Aloft, then, flies the feathered throng, No longer bound by fears. Aloft, she soars; leaves life behind - Behind, with yesteryears.
Judges’ Comments: Of all the finalist poems, judges appreciated this one best for going beyond descriptive imagery of the photo. The language is lush and rhythmic, and the poet used the syllables, “sun shine” and “will ing ly” as a bird’s call. Judges hesitated over the title – either it was a play on words for morning or a typo. Given the play with words and sounds within judges decided the title was clever.
SECOND PLACE: A Home, Someday
by Chel Owens
My grandma told of wondrous things: tall poles with whispering green papers; rock mounds a person could never climb; and cold, white flakes that sparkled in moonlight. I used to sit, mouth and eyes full wide, trying to see what her silent eyes remembered. I saved her words; soaked them up. Now, while my own grandchildren lean against the thick portholes of our transport ship and gaze at distant nothing, I tell Grandma’s memories. I tell of evergreens and mountains. Of snow. I tell them of the home we left in search of another. For their own grandchildren. Someday.
Judges’ Comments: Judges noticed the unusual descriptions of evergreens, mountains, and snow as if the narrator and audience do not know these objects. This concept thrust the piece into the realm of story beyond a setting. The story structure narrows until the reader is left with a single word, “Someday.” It blends hope with despair for the plight of this uprooted family. The last sentence in the first paragraph caused some confusion regarding the narrative view. The judges agreed it could be a stronger story without that sentence. Overall, it remained memorable.
FIRST PLACE: Seeking Peace
by Norah Colvin
They stopped on a verge overlooking the valley. “It’s beautiful, Dad. And so big. You said it was small.” “Not small in size, son. Small in mind.” “What’s that mean?” “Folks round here didn’t want your mum and me getting married. They threatened to keep us apart. Cruel words were spoken. We left and never returned.” “Why’re we coming back?” “Your mother asked us — to make peace. Before it’s too late.” “Like it is for her?” His voice trembled. “Yeah.” He rubbed the boy’s head. “Will we?” “We’ll know soon enough.” He inched the car towards the village.
Judges’ Comments: This author nailed a response to a photo challenge with the opening line, taking the reader from photo to story with an economy of words. This is a smart strategy when you only have 99 words or 99 syllables. We step out of the image into the lives of a father and son. The dialog is clear, sharp, and tells the story of loss and hopeful redemption. The judges appreciated a place not small in size but small in mind. That single concept conveys much. A well-crafted story with emotion and purpose takes ownership of the photo.
JUDGES’ PICKS
ANNE’S PICK: A New Day Dawns
by Colleen Chesebro
snowy crags pay homage to the land spirits, Landvættir—guardians of the terra firma earth, air, fire, and water jointly bound as one where the ley lines converge strength and energy exist in a parallel space, winter-worn bronzed leaves on barren trees watchers of the truth birth, life, death, and rebirth, earth magic abounds reflected in the adumbrate clouds of spring for keepers of the land another day dawns
The elemental imagery pulled Anne into this peaceful poem about the circle of life. Although not normally drawn to the spiritual, she liked the prioritisation of landscape over people. She hadn’t heard of Landvættir, although guessed it was Icelandic, but that didn’t spoil her pleasure. She liked the simple language and thus queried the use of ‘adumbrate’ in this context.
GEOFF’S PICK: No Place Like Home
by Willow Willers
They had spent the last five years searching for the perfect place to settle. Travelling to several planets and even one other galaxy but nothing suited. So their hearts lifted at the sight of the valley. The elders raised their hands pronoucing "This is the perfect place, protected by mountains with it’s own water supply. Even a few remaining buildings." A voice from the back chirped up.. "That’s where we started from, I can see my house" There was hush, a sharp intake of breath. "As we have always said" their elders smiled. "There is no place like home"
Geoff appreciated the author’s humour, a challenge in a 99 piece where a story has to be crafted, too. The sweep of the story, travelling galaxies before finding their new resting place was nicely done as was the punchline. Geoff felt the ending could perhaps have been tighter had the piece finished at ‘I can see my house’. And the unfortunate typo of ‘it’s’ rather than ‘its’ in the second paragraph lost the piece points in the eyes of the others, leading to it missing being placed. It emphasised the importance of checking your work, especially in small pieces. But overall, well done.
CHARLI’S PICK: Wind and the Wilderness
by Chengir
“I’m hungry and hate this kind of weather,” Radess complained bitterly. “Are you kidding?” Boydann protested, “This is the best. The leaves have begun to fall and now there is less to hide behind. You just have to be patient.” Radess wasn’t convinced. “Like that hunter who shot at us last year?” “Okay, there was that.” Sighing, Radess twisted his head. “Still, the only way to eat is to hunt.” “True enough,” Boydann answered. The two vultures spread their enormous wings and slowly lifted themselves into the wind. They floated on the buoyant currents of air. . . and they waited.
The vultures got to Charli. Despite the technicality that vultures are scavengers, Charli delighted in the element of surprise. She also appreciated that this story stepped into the photo rather than describe it. She could see them spreading their wings within the image. She forgave the author the use of an adverb in the opening sentence. Humor, pacing of dialog, and story made this one worth noting.
Sue Vincent
Sue has been an inspiration in this little corner of the internet and in the Silent Eye school of myth and mysticism. She’s a kind, wonderful person who has opened many people’s hearts and minds to mystery, fun, and beauty. For years she has contributed a haiku almost every day at midnight, and many people love and enjoy them.
Sue is a poet, photographer, and wordsmith who you can find on her blogs The Daily Echo and/or France & Vincent. Take a look at her blog, if you will – you’ll be sure to find something to entertain you. She (and her compatriot, Stuart France) has published several books, which you can examine here.
If you want to know more about Sue’s battle with cancer, the team here at the rodeo encourages you to see a couple of her posts, especially this one and this one.
We hope you had a good time with the Rodeo, Sue, and we wish you luck on your adventure. We’ll miss you for sure, and we thank you for your work, your legacy, and your heart.
The Judges
ANNE GOODWIN is the author of two novels and a short story collection. Her next novel, Matilda Windsor Is Coming Home, is scheduled for publication in May 2021. A former clinical psychologist, Anne is also a book blogger with a particular interest in fictional therapists.
Website: annegoodwin.weebly.com
GEOFF LE PARD started writing to entertain in 2006. He hasn’t left his keyboard since. When he’s not churning out novels, he writes some maudlin self-indulgent poetry, short fiction and blogs at geofflepard.com. He walks the dog for mutual inspiration and most of his best ideas come out of these strolls. He also cooks with passion if not precision.
CHARLI MILLS, lead buckaroo at Carrot Ranch Literary Community, completes her MFA in May 2021. She writes 99-word stories weekly and uses the format to teach storytelling to combat veterans, researchers, and rural entrepreneurs.
D. AVERY plays with words, sculpting stories and poems, at Shiftnshake.
SHERRI MATTHEWS is a non-fiction writer with published articles in magazines and anthologies. She blogs at A View From My Summerhouse and at her memoir column at Carrot Ranch, an international online literary community. A keen walker and photographer from the UK, Sherri raised her family in California for twenty years. Her work in the legal and medical fields came in handy for her caring and advocacy role as Mum to an adult child with Asperger’s Syndrome. Today, Sherri lives not too far from the sea in England’s West Country, hard at work on edits of her debut memoir. Writing stories from yesterday, making sense of today, giving hope for tomorrow.
Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/aviewfrommysummerhouse
Twitter: https://twitter.com/WriterSherri
LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/pub/sherri-matthews/60/798/aa3
SUE SPITULNIK writes about veterans’ and spouses’ issues on her blog.
H.R.R. GORMAN is a PhD chemical engineer with expertise in biotechnology and making drugs. If you want to know more about this white-trash-turned-excessively-bourgeois maniac, you can go to https://hrrgorman.wordpress.com/.
Read the entire Collection here.
November 28: Flash Fiction Challenge
For those who rode in last month’s 2019 Flash Fiction Rodeo, this is the date you’ve anxiously awaited. I use the adverb with understanding. This past month, I’ve entered my writing in two contests and submitted it to two literary journals. Waiting for notification can induce anxiety, angst, and doubt. Know that every writer experiences the rollercoaster ride of doubt. Artists combat resistance. Maybe you didn’t participate in the Rodeo because the word contest unnerved you. This is Carrot Ranch, a safe place to write, a fun literary community where you can find kindred spirits, a weekly challenge that displays 99-word stories. A contest invites danger; it sparks resistance.
If you haven’t yet read Stephen Pressfield’s War of Art, it’s worth the read. Some of it will make you cringe. Some of it will make you determined. He’s an author who understands the artistic battlefield. He writes:
“Most of us have two lives. The life we live, and the unlived life within us. Between the two stands Resistance…Resistance by definition is self-sabatoge.”
(Pressfield, Steven. The War of Art. Black Irish Entertainment LLC. Kindle Edition.)
It is not easy to overcome resistance. Each and every one of you who finds your way to the Ranch to read, write, or join a discussion is participating in the three pillars of literary art. It matters not that you are here every week, but as the host, I can attest to the growth of those who are regular participants. When writers are new to the weekly challenges, I hope they stick around long enough to experience the magic of writing to a constraint within the bounds of a safe space. The Rodeo is a series of contests meant to challenge you to overcome your resistance.
My hat is off to each contestant. Take a moment to congratulate yourself for overcoming, for resisting, for showing up, and for delaying gratification. The challenges are fun — we get to see our work in concert with others. However, contests select and eliminate. We may not be gratified this time. Even if we win, doubt will still try to whisper in our ear. Winning or losing never offers comfort. So why seek out contests and selective submissions? To overcome the impulses of resistance and to learn. Growth requires an awareness of how our writing compares to others.
Comparison can be the ultimate discomfort for any artist. It produces a host of nagging emotions that range from inferiority to full-blown jealousy. A winner can feel like an imposter. In fact, in the first term of my MFA, we discussed the imposter syndrome as a common affliction of graduate students. Understand that this mindset shows up for contests, too. However, comparison can be productive. Let’s discuss how because it’s important to growth as a writer.
First, acknowledge any negative emotions. Practice kindness. Elizabeth Gilbert, in her book Big Magic, tells us that fear will come along for the ride of everything creative we attempt. Consider her mega-success (she wrote Eat, Pray Love), and yet she still feels fear. Resistance. Her advice is to invite fear along for the ride but never allow fear to take the driver’s seat. You can practice this every time you enter a contest, submit to a journal, or seek an agent or publisher. Invite fear along, recognize its emotional presence, but do the driving yourself.
From this frame of mind, accept any bludgeoning thoughts that tell you, “Hers is much better than mine,” or “His sucked; how could the judges be so blind?” Accept them as signals for comparison. Pause. Compare in a productive (and kind) way. Take a deep breath and ask, “How does her story differ from mine?” This exercise will teach you to learn how to compare and contrast in such a way that you begin to notice how craft skills are used. There is no right or wrong between your writing and someone else’s. The better you can get at identifying craft skills in other writing, the better you can adapt those skills to your own toolkit as a writer. Try to go a step farther and see what the judges selected. Instead of feeling hurt, set that real emotion aside and go deeper to identify one new writing attribute to try.
Originality will always be your ace card. No one has experienced the life you have. How can you express your sensations, experiences, concepts, and observations in your writing? That’s your voice. Cultivate your voice and you will cultivate originality. I see this truth played out week after week at Carrot Ranch. You go where the prompt leads because it will lead you to your voice. That intuition is what you learn to follow. You can always revise, but let originality lead the way.
The most original stories are not always the most sensational. I think mainstream media tricks us into believing that hooks have to be startling. What surprised me most about the entries to the 2019 Flash Fiction Rodeo was how prompts lead to greater originality. One of our contests was unprompted (Three-Act Stories) and instead of broadening originality, many writers resorted to sensational ideas for stories. Funny thing is, this diminished the impact because what was meant to be shocking risked becoming cliche. Let that sink in a moment. Writing about a hard social issue or injustice is not necessarily brave; writing about it from your own point of vulnerability is.
Your voice matters. Dare to follow that sensational (or common) lead into your own swath of experiences, blow past the tropes with something only you could write. If you take on a shocking topic, use it in an original way or say something new about humanity.
The most fun we all seemed to have with the Rodeo (judges and contestants combined) was with the Pro-Bull Mashup. Using three words from the source of pro-rodeo bull names and two niche genres (pirates and game shows) created a tight constraint and yet yielded much playfulness. In opposition to no prompt, multiple prompts pushed creativity. That’s an interesting consideration. Currently, I’m working with a 94-year-old WWII veteran in a writing group and he told me that as a child he read the entire dictionary. If he gets stuck writing, he turns to a page in his dictionary and uses a word to prompt an idea.
A standing ovation to ALL of you who entered TUFF Beans.
TUFF does its job and that is to force a writer to revise. I’ve known that my greatest weakness as a writer is revision. One of my best professors from undergrad days used to say, “Your manuscript doesn’t begin to sing until the thirteenth time.” Reality as a career writer was that I wrote to deadlines. I had to learn to write and edit simultaneously, gather momentum from interview transcripts, find original ways to include research with relatable analogies and write to my audiences for specific publications. As a marketing communicator and a freelance profilist, I got good at my work.
However, as a literary artist, I have had a tough time breaking those habits of simultaneously editing and drafting. I can write fast, and come up with original angles. But the more I pushed into my literary art and the more I grappled with manuscript revision, I felt like I had gaps in knowledge. Part of going back to get my MFA is to identify what it is I don’t know. What am I supposed to do each subsequent revision? Thirteen — how do I get to a singing manuscript when I can’t get past five revisions? I’ve developed tools like my storyboard. And I came up with TUFF to help me identify my blind spots in revision. I admit that I fear to make changes — what if I screw up the original thrust of creativity? How do I plot when my stories are character-driven and landscape-oriented?
TUFF and 99-word stories are tools as much as they are works of art. Many in my community use TUFF to craft business statements, explore narrative therapy, or generate manuscript revisions. Other organizations use it in ways I hadn’t considered. Offering it as a Rodeo contest is bringing it home to where it all began. When I see writers use the constraints to shift their stories and revise their original drafts, I feel giddy with excitement. TUFF provides its own lessons through the process. Our TUFF judge is a local life coach who loves using the tool with clients and business teams.
This year, I worked locally with our team of judges as I build up our Carrot Ranch literary presence in the Keweenaw. Here’s a bit about me and my home crew.
Charli Mills came to the Keweenaw from everywhere out West. As lead buckaroo at Carrot Ranch, she makes literary art accessible 99 words at a time and writes stories about the veteran experience and those marginalized by history. The Rodeo is a chance for her to encourage writers to push through creativity with courage.
Cynthia May Drake lives at the Ripley Falls Home of Healing, having lived in the UP for 30 years. She creates retreats and coaches clients to reach their spectacular potential. She regularly practices the 99-word and TUFF formats to resolve life conundrums, which has her fired up to be a literary judge for the Rodeo’s TUFF contest.
Marie Bertineau, born amidst the copper mining ruins of northern Michigan, is the daughter of an Ojibwe mother and a French Canadian and Cornish father. Her memoir, The Mason House, is set for release in September 2020 by Lanternfish Press of Philadelphia. She enjoyed the opportunity to work with Carrot Ranch on the Rodeo contest.
Tammy Toj Gajewski is an educated artist who recently retired from 24 years in prison where her nickname was Sgt. Carebear. She has written poetry and stories her whole life and is working on her book. She moved to the UP over 25 years ago and loves rock hunting, foster parenting, and dogs.
Bonnie Brandt came to the UP for MTU education and never left. As the daughter of a math teacher, she reads voraciously and belongs to a book club. She lives for the pun. She loves kayaking and cooking. She often will be reading even in summer!
Paula Sahin visited Carrot Ranch Headquarters during judging and joined in a session at the Continental Fire Company. She is a leadership development consultant trained by Brené Brown and manages Inner Wisdom Coaching and Consulting. She has a serious passion for learning and development.
Donna Armistead is a native of Florida and has taught dance and theatre in the Copper Country for over 30 years. Finally emerging from research mode to write a novel inspired by the lives of her Georgia ancestors, she is honored to have been invited to assist as a judge for the Rodeo.
Word Press allowed me to capture each entry and save according to IP address so that I could initially judge blind. I screened entries according to the rules and selected ten finalists in each category. I was looking for entries that met the criteria according to my perspective. I then shared criteria with my judges and let them use their own perspectives. None of the contests were purely technical. A few were more technical than others, but there remains an area of subjectivity. Judges do not all initially agree but everyone is allowed to voice their reasoning. Consensus was reached and three top places were awarded in each contest.
Each of the ten finalists will receive a submission critique. When I used to work with Paula Sahin, she coached me in ways to build strong teams. Together, we worked in senior management and helped our organization develop feedback loops that contributed to the productive growth of employees. As Carrot Ranch has grown, I’ve applied much of my previous career to our literary community, focusing on writers’ strengths and appreciating their use of originality and craft skills. With entry to my MFA program, I wondered if I could meld my positive feedback preferences with that of writing workshop critique.
One of my professors told me after a workshop exercise that I was one of the best line editors he had encountered. Editing is not my natural inclination (remember, I said my weakness is revision). What I realized is that by mindfully practicing positive feedback every week at Carrot Ranch, I had grown my skills. And yes, I’m working toward a brand of productive critique techniques to teach and use with others. I’m in my baby-steps phase, but by offering critique on contest entries where criteria are stated, I get to practice. Those receiving feedback get useful insights.
Be patient with me, though! Today is Thanksgiving in the US and it’s my second dinner, meaning I went to Wisconsin last weekend to fix Thanksgiving for my son at his request (Mama Bear can’t refuse an offer to feed people), then returned to the Keweenaw to fix dinner for my daughter, SIL, Hub, and friends. When on terms with an MFA, there is no such thing as a break. And somehow I thought it was a good idea (back in September) to announce winners today! I will not be immediately responsive, but I’ll be back at it on Friday when I’ll send email winner announcements.
Over the next four weeks, I will email a batch of critiques according to the order of contests. By the end of December, all 40 critiques will be delivered, just in time for my term finals.
I’d like to thank the Patrons of Carrot Ranch — your contributions maintain a dynamic community making literary art accessible. I have no staff. I have a small team of Ranchers who contribute as patrons. The work behind the scenes is my privilege. I’m grateful for all of you at Carrot Ranch Literary Community. It’s my life’s work to encourage others to write, read, and heartily discuss creative writing. It helps us all overcome resistance to our art and pursuit of it. I love what I do.
Thank you for your support of the Flash Fiction Rodeo. I hope you found it scary, fun, enlightening, and anything else you need to keep you on your writing path. Please take the time to read the 2019 Winners Page where all contest finalists, their entries and awarded top three places are displayed. Last year’s Rodeo Pages are all compiled into one 2018 Flash Fiction Rodeo. To celebrate or commiserate winning, our prompt challenge follows.
November 28, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about winners. Who are they, what’s the mood, and what did they win? Express emotion or subdue it. Go where the prompt leads!
Respond by December 3, 2019. Use the comment section below to share, read, and be social. You may leave a link, pingback, or story in the comments. If you want to be published in the weekly collection, please use the form. Rules & Guidelines.
NOTE: Contest winners from all the flash fiction contests are located at 2019 Flash Fiction Rodeo.
Challenge submissions closed. Find our latest Flash Fiction Challenge.
Keep Trying Until You Win by Charli Mills
Martha posed her best winning grin to the reporter, spitting dirt as she smiled. The bulb flashed so brightly it turned everything to white blotches. Blinking, and wiping at the mouthful of arena dirt she received after the goat clocked her a second time, she looked for Auntie Bess. The old woman was leaning against the railing beyond the chatter of family and fans. Ducking the swipe of a hankie, Martha joined her Aunt.
“Why’d ya win kiddo?”
“Cause no one else would go after that stinkin’ goat three times. Figured, I keep trying ‘til I got him tied!”
Rodeo #5: Sound and Fury Winners
By D. Avery
Sometimes fear, respect, and awe are the braids of one rope. Sometimes that one rope is all a buckaroo has to hang onto. Your flash should never let go of that rope.
That was my lead-in to the prompt for the final rodeo contest, the Sound and Fury. I wanted contestants to write about a dangerous situation that people willingly engage in.
I have learned so much here at the Ranch even since penning such tough talk over a month ago. The prompt was to write of danger and risk, but for many just sharing one’s writing is a risk, and to compete is an even greater risk. To be willing to face a fear, to do what is not easy to do, engenders learning and growth; it is an act of creative courage.
Creative courage is what Carrot Ranch is about. The rope here is a lifeline, a support, a way to find your way through a blizzard of self-doubt and fear. It is braided from caring, safety, and trust. I am grateful and in awe of all who participated in the rodeo events and applaud the contestants’ courage and willingness to take a risk.
I naively posited to my co-judges that this year’s contest would be easier to judge, as there were fewer entries. I also assumed (spell check) that as the writer in our group I had the advantage and insights necessary to our task. Then my co-judges, both voracious readers, schooled me in judging, exposing the flaws in my assumptions as they showed me how to read a 99-word story. Because there were fewer entries, 19 after two had to be dropped for consideration because of word count, we were able to read more closely and collaboratively, but that did not make the task easier. Around the table, it was felt that there was a lot of talent and many great ideas and takes on danger presented in response to the prompt. We found that the quality of all entries was very high and that the entries were closer in range. This forced us to focus on word choice, on beginnings and endings; while we felt a story did not have to be totally resolved, we agreed there should not be uncertainties that distract from the reading and that there should be a sense of completeness in a story. And then we re-read again. Our deliberations finally brought us agreement on our three winners.
Taking first place and $25 is Jules Paige’s Contested Contingent.
They are silent soldiers. A rare unified army. Commanded by a queen to seek the supplies to survive. Instinctual training leads them through dense foliage to the structures of giants. With all the unseasonable torrential rains their homes have become flooded. Yet they expect no outside relief. They are a self-sufficient bunch.
Mother has not seen the arrival of the invaders. In her nightgown, robe and slippers she ventures into the morning light of the kitchen and… draws a blood curdling scream. Father rushes to her aide. His bravery unsurpassed, he calms Mother and calls the local ant exterminator.
The Amazing Educator felt that this entry had “something extra” with the twist of ants being in danger, and the tongue in cheek humor regarding the brave father protecting the assaulted mother, and appreciated that it was well paced with strong vocabulary and sensory details. We all agreed that though the six-legged characters were unexpected, Jules provided a fun take and answered our criteria for showing the “dance between the danger and the endangered.” The motivations of the ants and the humans were clear, and the irony of the ants escaping one danger only to become endangered again because of the supposed danger they posed to the domicile of the giants was quite a dance indeed.
Anne Goodwin comes in second with To the Rescue. In addition to collecting another ranger badge, Anne wins a copy of D. Avery’s After Ever.
Cold cruel enough to cut the breath from me. Waves roar loud enough to drown out other sounds. It took a fool to dive in after her. It’ll take a hero to ferry her to shore.
Hair and beard turn to icicles. Arms to cartwheels, legs to flippers, brain to military command. Kick harder! Plough faster! Fight off lakebed vegetation, fear and fatigue!
I’ve almost reached her when a tether takes my ankle. I yank it back. It reins me in. I’m swallowing water when I grab her wrist. How will history judge me: a hero or a fool?
The desperate dance in the water was very vivid and tense with Anne’s terse sentences and succinct descriptions. Though the ultimate outcome was unresolved, it was clear what the motivation was, and we felt this story was complete and only enhanced by the suspense of not knowing whether the foolish hero succeeds or even survives.
Third place and a copy of Chicken Shift go to Ritu Bhathal for Goodbye Fall.
Below me flowed water, fast and furious.
I tightened my grip on the pot.
“All ready?” The instructor checked my harnesses.
I gulped.
But I nodded. I needed to do this.
Launching myself, as instructed, I fell, headfirst, feeling the air zoom past me.
The elastic went taut and I bounced up and down several times.
My heart was in my mouth.
As I came to a stop, I looked at the pot, still in my hands.
Loosening its lid and allowing the contents to fall into the water, I whispered “Goodbye Jake,” before slowly being pulled back up.
What is apparent from the beginning is both the narrator’s fear and resolve to make this jump, though Ritu reveals this through discreet details, such as a tightened grip, a gulp, a silent nod. The motivation isn’t revealed until the end, with the detail of whispering and being pulled back up slowly adding to the poignancy.
For her Honorable Mention, Bonnie chose Chasing the Past, by Sascha Darlington.
Blake’s ultimatum: “Stop storm chasing or I’ll leave.”
The first fat drop of rain hits the windshield as I pull onto Rafferty Road. Forget Blake. Focus.
The hail throttles me awake. The tornado falls out of the sky, barrels toward me. Momentarily, I’m awed by the intensity, the blackness, the harsh windy sound of the twisting, family-killing creature.
“Stupid!” I jerk the Suburban’s wheel, bounce over the median, then turn right onto a dirt road. I’m nearly standing on the gas pedal. The rearview shows only blackness. Debris shatters the back window.
If I survive, I’ll never storm-chase again.
This was one we had all looked at more than once. There was compelling language and tension, though the final sentence felt flat.
For her Honorable Mention, the Amazing Educator chose Addressing the Animated Alarm, by Jules Paige.
They sit around quite a bit. But their hands aren’t idle. In their spare time they keep their credentials current and their equipment clean. Each man and woman forming a bond, a second family that they can depend on. Some are volunteers, others get compensation. Some paid members volunteer at other locations. Not a one would consider themselves a hero.
Whenever that klaxon rings, fear gets pushed aside. Danger gets treated with respect and all follow the leader who barks the orders of where the equipment and bodies need to be. There is no hesitation for the brave firefighters.
The Amazing Educator liked the language of this piece, the word choice and the rhythm of it. She only wishes that it could somehow be more inclusive regarding the EMTs and others who also put themselves into dangerous situations to serve and protect others.
My Honorable Mention choice is a story that made me feel like I was watching the kind of movie I don’t watch. It was scary, with the character in an ill-advised and dangerous situation. Oh yeah, that was the prompt.
Susan Sleggs’ He Had Kind Eyes was disturbing to me, and well written, and I appreciate that Susan ended it with unexpected chivalry. Susan accomplished a lot with her 99 words.
The bartender told the tarted up woman, “There’s a rule; the boss gets first dibs on any strange and then they share?”
She stayed, sipping whiskey a little too fast. The Harleys roared in.
The group entered. The noise level tripled. They eyed her until she ordered another. A man smelling of leather, and aftershave paid; took proprietorship. Soon walked her out.
In the quiet night, he said, “Your perfume smells like fear. What do you want?”
Tears formed. “To prove I’m not a mouse.”
He kissed her like no other had. “Go home. You proved it to me.”
Phew! I’ll say it again; this was no easy task. We found merit with each and every one of the entries; each demanded careful consideration. I learned a lot about writing flash from each entry and from reading with my fellow judges. Thank you to my friends and fellow judges, the multi-talented Bonnie Sheila, and a really smart woman who truly is an Amazing Educator. Thank you Carrot Ranch Literary Community, the writers, leaders, and readers and other supporters, for riding along with the second Flash Fiction Rodeo. Congratulations to Charli on another successful Rodeo.
Congratulations to all who placed and all who played.
You can read the qualifying entries under the Rodeo tab at Rodeo #5: Sound and Fury.
The TUFFest Ride Finals
From 118 entries, five writers were selected to take the TUFFest Ride. A few brave challengers have also followed the paces, taking the ride each week. The point of TUFF is to experience the shifts that occur in our writing when we revise. The process forces us to change our first drafts to meet the diminishing word constraints. In making those changes, we further explore our story and make discoveries and decisions. Lastly, we infuse the heart of our stories with emotion.
Here’s a quick look at the shortest stories from last week — each one is nine words and expresses a different emotion [set in brackets].
9-WORD SUMMATIONS WITH EMOTION by Kay Kingsley
Sapling nurtured, love grows an Oak death can’t fell [strength]
Unanswered dreams denied by fate suspended our love eternally [sadness]
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9-WORD SUMMATIONS WITH EMOTION by Ritu Bhathal
Mudslide. This could not be happening again – could it? [Fear]
Fear aside. They need me. I’ve got to help. [Courage]
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9-WORD SUMMATIONS WITH EMOTION by Pete Fanning
Whether fire or rain, they danced through the pain. [Happy]
Two souls, one dance. Muddy shoes, singing the blues. [Love]
9-WORD SUMMATIONS WITH EMOTION by Bill Engleson
Her spectre blazes in my brain, dangling in time. [wonder]
Mudslide! Low Tide!! Suicide! I have done your will. [resignation]
9-WORD SUMMATIONS WITH EMOTION by Liz Husebye Hartman
Everybody had opinions, but the mudslide called it in. [acceptance]
Dahlia embraces freedom as New Stuttgart is washed away. [disapproval]
###
This Rodeo contest challenged the judges, too. How does one judge the process of drafting and revision? We looked for tenacity, the ability of a writer to push into his or her piece. All five writers exhibited this trait that the masters consider more important than talent.
“Often it is tenacity, not talent, that rules the day.”
~ Julia Cameron“Fish,” he said softly, aloud, “I’ll stay with you until I am dead.”
~ Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the SeaIt’s not that I’m so smart, it’s just that I stay with problems longer.
~ Albert Einstein
And that’s what TUFF called these five writers to do. Pete Fanning, Kay Kingsley, Ritu Bhathal Bill Engleson, and Liz Husebye Hartmann wrote tenaciously. Each week they met a challenge and overcame the doubt that dogs all writers. They wrote. And from the perspective of the one who got to read their writing weekly, I marveled at how each writer pushed through. TUFF creates a process for revision so that exploration and discovery still happen between first draft and second.
Too often, writers go from first draft into editing. By using the ultimate flash fiction constraints, writers can workshop their revisions before getting to the mechanics of editing, thus creating deeper and richer stories. It’s easy to learn to edit because it has specific rules. Creative writing, on the other hand, requires experience and the willingness of a writer to be vulnerable and uncertain.
In the words of one of our judges, reading the Fab Five’s stories and TUFF processes was “delicious!” Indeed, it’s been a month at a story smorgasbord, getting the privilege of watching the chef’s serve up flavorful dishes. But now as we go back for seconds, we only have room to pick three. Please congratulate our two Honorable Mentions in the TUFFest Ride:
- Honorable Mention: Liz Husebye Hartmann
- Honorable Mention: Ritu Bhathal
That means Pete Fanning, Kay Kingsley, and Bill Engleson have 24 hours to craft a second revision of their original mudslide story in 495 words (that’s five flash fictions as we define the 99-word form at Carrot Ranch). Email entries, following the same process with earlier challenges by noon EST Tuesday, October 30. On Friday, November 2, we will rank remaining TUFF writers as first, second and third place.
Also on Friday, TUFF Judge Cynthia Drake will be dancing her first solo with her troupe 47 North Belly Dance at the Continental Fire Company. The show is a fundraiser to help her with ongoing cost to rebuild her home following the devastating landslide on June 17. I’ll be reading some of my flash fiction based on her story and that of community healing.
The Continental has generously sponsored the Rodeo and all our prize categories, and they continue to be local support of literary art. We are hosting a unique Old-Time Radio Rodeo that employs tough (99-59-9 words) with radio script. It’s a portfolio opportunity to get a story professionally developed into a real-live, on-the-air, radio spot. I hope you’ll give it a go, especially those of you who have experienced TUFF.
The ride is almost over. Stay in the saddle! And congratulate all our Fab Five Flash Writers for a job well done this Rodeo.
All-Around Best of Show
From Lead Buckaroo, Charli Mills
The dust has settled, and the bulls are back out to pasture after the first Flash Fiction Rodeo at Carrot Ranch. From idea to event, this was no solo endeavor. It took a community to dream, organize, support, promote and engage.
To all of you who wrangle words at the Ranch, to those of you who quietly read from the other side of your screen to all who dared to make this contest their “first rodeo,” thank you!
Our Flash Fiction Rodeo consisted of eight unique events that differed in length, prompt and form. Each leader devised their own contest and rules for participation. We worked together as a team to shape the Rodeo, and each leader worked with a partnership of judges. We allowed leaders and judges to enter any contest they were not judging. We also allowed writers to participate as challengers if they did not want to enter as contestants.
A toss of hats in the air to the Rodeo Leaders who showed leadership on and behind the page. Not only did they work diligently to make each event fun and fair, they also rode hard to keep pace with an event that spanned three months. Their counsel, creativity, and camaraderie have kept it all rolling at Carrot Ranch. Thank you, Geoff Le Pard, Norah Colvin, JulesPaige, Sherri Matthews, D. Avery, Irene Waters and C. Jai Ferry. You all earned your spurs!
And a huge Rodeo Thank You to all our judges: Robbie Cheadle, Anne Goodwin, Barb Taub, Lucy Brazier, Susan Zutautas, Susan Budig, Angie Oakley, Sharon Bonin-Pratt, Mardra Sikora, Lisa Kovanda, Hugh Roberts, Mike from the UK, two anonymous judges in the US, and Sarah Brentyn. Your tasks were not easy, and I appreciate the regard you gave to all who entered.
Thank you to all who rodeoed!
Garth Brooks sings an edgy song in tribute to rodeos. He croons, “It’s the ropes and the reins, the joy and the pain, and they call the thing rodeo.” To me, it’s like the calling to write and be read.
A literary artist has something in common with rodeo’s biggest hero: tenacity. You write, revise, polish, submit, wait for — all in hopes to win that gold in the buckle. The gold might differ from writer to writer. Maybe you want to publish, maybe you want validation, maybe you just want to give your words wings and let them fly. The Flash Fiction Rodeo honors all the sweat, tears, mud and blood writers put into their craft. All who rode the Rodeo in 2017, you got grit!
We hope you’ll stop by the Ranch for some good reading and writing. Keep working your skills, wrangling words and roping stories. Keep on the path you’ve set for yourself. Write on!
See ya’ll next Rodeo in October 2018.
***
From All-Around Judge, Sarah Brentyn
This was a whopper of a job.
Initially, there was a panel of judges. And then there was one. It was supposed to be three and wound up being little ol’ me. But I took up the challenge, happy at heart!
Choosing a winner for this final contest was extraordinarily difficult because let’s face it, they were all winners. Literally. They had all won their respective contests. Also, they are different in genre, form, and length. I was comparing apples to oranges to turnips.
Alas, this is an ‘overall winner’ contest, and an overall winner there must be.
During the past few months, I distanced myself from the contests. I popped in to say ‘Congrats’ then snuck away. Names were removed when I received the final entries.
It was delightful to read these. They are well-written, fantastic pieces. Thank you to everyone who entered the Carrot Ranch Rodeo contests and to the winners who gave me wonderful stories to read. I am honored and humbled to help announce the winner of this collection of contests.
2017 Flash Fiction Winners include:
- Rodeo #1: When I Grow Up (“Father Christmas” by Hugh Roberts)
- Rodeo #2: Little & Laugh (“The Bus Stop” by Colleen Chesebro)
- Rodeo #3: Septolet in Motion (“Practical Magic, Or Even Best Efforts Need a Push Sometimes” by Deborah Lee)
- Rodeo #4: Scars (“Galatea” by D. Wallace Peach)
- Rodeo #5: TwitterFlash (Winning Tweets by D. Avery)
- Rodeo #6: Bucking Bull Go-Round (“Like Retribution” by Kerry E.B. Black)
- Rodeo #7: Murderous Musings (“Mr Blamey” by Marjorie Mallon)
- Rodeo #8: TUFF (“The Sun Shines on the Half-Moon Café” by Liz Huseby Hartmann)
The All-Around Best of Show goes to:
Rodeo #4: Scars (“Galatea” by D. Wallace Peach)
Congratulations, Diana!
***
That concludes the Flash Fiction Rodeo for 2017. However, that is not the last word. Carrot Ranch is completing an e-book collection that includes the winning entries, honorable mentions, entries, challenges and a few new pieces from our judges and leaders. Stay tuned later this month!
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Please give our Rough Writer’s a debut anthology Vol. 1 a look-see. If you’d like to support our efforts as a literary community you can purchase our book online at Amazon. Soon to be available through other locations (officially launches January 19, 2018).
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Author Bio For All-Around Judge Sarah Brentyn
Sarah Brentyn is an introvert who believes anything can be made better with soy sauce and wasabi.
She loves words and has been writing stories since she was nine years old. She talks to trees and apologizes to inanimate objects when she bumps into them.
When she’s not writing, you can find her strolling through cemeteries or searching for fairies.
She hopes to build a vacation home in Narnia someday. In the meantime, she lives with her family and a rainbow-colored, wooden cat who is secretly a Guardian.
Books by Sarah Brentyn
Follow Sarah at:
Winner of Flash Fiction Contest #8
To many writers, 99 words may hardly seem enough to tell a story. And yet, week after week I witness writers achieve compelling, emotive and imaginitive stories in 99 words. Some are complete story arcs, some are snapshots of a moment, and some are character-driven. Much can be accomplished in flash fiction.
Contest #8 in the Flash Fiction Rodeo asked writers to show the bones of their story development, cut it to the strongest point, and build it back up into a complete story using TUFF: The Ultimate Flash Fiction. TUFF mimics what it takes to write a novel. It’s a process that begins with a 5-minute free write, reduces the draft to 99 words, 59 words, 9 words and then concludes with a 599-word flash fiction.
As a contest, TUFF asks entrants to be vulnerable. First drafts (free writes) are not often what any writer wants to share, especially in a situation that involves judging. As the judge for this contest, I was not looking for raw brilliance in the free write but rather at how the writer developed his or her story from the initial idea. This contest is a bit like looking over the shoulder of a writer to watch the process unfold.
Nonetheless 21 writers answered the call and entered the contest (several others entered as challenges). The Rodeo was the hearo’s journey for writers, and TUFF was to be their elixir. Many were skeptical, and yet of those who completed the final task discovered that they could discern a shift in their writing by following the process.
Once I realized I had over 24,000 words to judge, I decided not to ask anyone to assist with the daunting task. TUFF is an idea I’ve been developing ever since I created Wrangling Words two years ago, and the contest was a test drive. It offered my first experience to see how others would use the process. I was delighted with the results, and proud of every writer who entered or challenged.
Writers allowed their process to become visible. Some used the free write to think out loud. Some went immediately to a story and part way through began to grasp at “what next?” until a lead appeared and they followed. Some used the sequence of constraints to cut away the ideas, while some added new ideas to the story. The creative process in its diverse expressions showed up.
TUFF felt like a chance to sit down at the desk with a writer.
In the end, I judged blind, copying entries without submission information. I scored each entry according to the originality of the initiating idea, whether it read like a journal entry, a philosophical questioning, an early telling about the story in mind, or a rough draft. Next, I examined how each writer used the reduction in word count to draw out, pare down or add to the initial idea. Then I looked for transformation through the process to reveal a story that moved, surprised or compelled me. Each final story was to complete all three acts and highlight a hero’s journey.
There’s many reasons this contest was tough! Yet all the entries stood up to the test and emerged, giving their writers the elixir of accomplishment.
The winning entry stood out from beginning to end. At first, it reminded me of an artist’s sketch. This writer drafted an impression, and then drilled down, focusing on one character’s fear and the curiousity of why the regulars did not know one another. The final 599 word draft came to life with the vibrancy of a finished painting. Congratulations to Liz Husebye Hartman for her crafting of “The Sun Shines on the Half-Moon Café.”
The three honorable mentions each had a different transformation of the hero: one who concludes his solution needs re-setting (“A Life of Their Own” by Irene Waters); another who finds a unique and fitting revenge (“Revenge is Dee-Lightful” by Ritu Bhathal); and an incredible journey of a violent death turned zephyr (“Transcendence” by Christina Steiner). The first two also achieve humor, though Irene relays a fantastical tale of teeth and Ritu gets back at office bullies with a terrific-horrific prank. Christina began with a writer’s pondering and the story she finds as an answer moves both hearts and minds.
WINNER: The Sun Shines on the Half-Moon Café by Liz Husebye Hartmann
They walk into this unassuming café on the edges of the college town, filled with regulars in zip-back uniforms, hard hats, worn fashion jeans, polyester suits from the 60’s with a wig that matches the poodle on her skinny-assed lap, leather and studs and shiny, pimply forehead, ponytail and hairnet and wiry, farmer tanned arms, and hopeful tweener trembling smile, and walk out with the same smile, the same relaxed drop of shoulders, laughing and bending to hear murmured ends of conversations. All are welcome here.
99-Word Flash Fiction Based on Free-Write
The usual crowd had gathered at the Half Moon café. Shelly tosses her head to glimpse the pale farmer’s tan peeking below Josh’s white t-shirt as he bused the tub of dishes to the kitchen. He notices and smiles. Helen tugs the waist of her zip-back uniform, refilling Emil’s coffee cup, also noticing. The door jingles as a youth in leather and studded wristbands sidles in. Emil snaps his newspaper once, tightening his jaw. The usual crowd, but none can remember having been there before. The man with bulging eyes enters, locking the front door. Only Helen registers alarm.
59-Word Flash Fiction Based on 99 Words
Shelly ogles the busboy lugging the dishtub to the kitchen. His t-shirt lifts, revealing his muscled farmer’s tan. She parts her lips. He blushes. Helen smiles, refilling Emil’s coffee. A pimply male enters. Emil snaps his newspaper once. None can remember having been here before. The man with no neck enters and locks the door. Helen registers faint alarm.
9-Word Flash Based on 59 Words
Waitress Helen saves the day, vanquishing slimy memory monster.
599 Word Story in 3 Acts
The usual crowd was gathered at the Half Moon café. Faded awnings snapped in the cool October night and condensation slide down the tiny restaurant’s wide front windows.
Shelly, in her booth, flips her hair back to catch a glimpse of kitchen staff, Josh. His honestly-earned farmer’s tan flashes below his white t-shirt as he lugs a tub of dishes to the kitchen. She parts her lips. He blushes and smiles.
Helen, behind the counter, tugs the hem of her zip-backed uniform, smiling at the two. She refills Emil’s coffee cup. He grunts thanks.
The door jingles as a youth in leather and studded wristbands sidles in. Emil snaps his newspaper once, tightening his jaw.
“Welcome to the Half-Moon café,” Helen lifts her coffee pot in greeting.
He slides onto a cracked red stool, three spaces away from Emil.
“Cherry pie?”
He bobs his head, “Hot, à la mode, please.”
The café settles into a homey silence, broken only by the clank of washing dishes and rustling of newspaper. Leather Boy flips his spoon on his tongue, to get every morsel of pie. Helen gathers her tray with two open bags of Morton’s iodized and starts refilling in the booth at the far end of the café.
It was the usual crowd, but none could remember being there before.
***
The door jingles and a gust of cold air pushes its way in. A squat man follows in a floor-length brown raincoat. He turns and pulls the door closed behind him, snapping the lock shut.
Only Helen registers nascent alarm. She sinks down into the far booth, clutching her tray.
The man is hairless, eyes bulging behind thick glasses, with no discernible neck. He turns and glides toward the counter, his coat scraping across the black and white tiles. Shelly wrinkles her nose, disgusted, then leans back, dazed, against the back of the booth as he passes. Leather Boy twists on his stool, dropping his spoon with a clatter. Emil crumples his newspaper, opens his mouth to scold the boy, then takes in the newcomer. He freezes, as well.
Josh peers through the kitchen’s serving hatch, wiping his hands on his apron. His mouth gapes open and he grabs a chopping knife from the counter. He steps back and around to the swinging door to the dining room.
The newcomer gurgles happily. His glasses drop to the floor as his eyes stretch on two independently-moving stalks. He lifts a stubby hand in the air and flicks a finger down. Leather Boy and Emil slide off their stools and fall, heads cracking together.
The newcomer pauses, his eye stalks searching the far corners of the café. Something is different this time. Where is Helen? He enjoys Helen’s memories so much.
Josh bursts through the swinging door, sliding over the top of the counter, landing just behind the newcomer, eyes averted. Perhaps he’s retained some memory, too? He slashes downward with the knife, splitting the stiff raincoat.
Helen is ready. She dumps the first bag of salt on the creature’s quivering shoulders. It spins, hissing. A dark red mouth gapes where its neck should be. She screams and throws the second bag inside the gap.
***Sun sparkles through the windows of the Half-Moon Café. Josh slides next to Shelly to share a piece of cherry pie à la mode, while Helen pours him a cup of coffee. Emil pounds his cup on the counter for a refill.
“Keep your shirt on, old man,” says Leather Boy as he strides in the front door.
Helen looks up at him and smiles, “’Morning, Lawrence!”
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HONORABLE MENTION: A Life of Their Own by Irene Waters
John blamed Killmousky. Jane blamed Robodog. I blamed life and those little quirks of fate that occur on a daily basis. Whoever was to blame was irrelevant. The facts stood – Killmousky had run out from under the car crossing Robodog’s path. It was no-one’s fault that Robodog hated cats. He was hardwired that way. On seeing Killmousky Robodog gave chase. John, who was holding his lead, was dragged after him, losing his footing and falling flat on his face. John’s teeth were the final victims in the drama, whether it was nerve damage or jaw damage John could no longer eat Jane’s delicious meals. This was disastrous for their relationship as she got her self esteem from John’s compliments. “They’ll have to come out.” John thought he could see the dentist counting the dollars. “We’ll put in a mechanical set of false teeth.” “Is that really necessary?” “Absolutely. That will cover nerve and jaw damage if they can work by themselves.” “But
99-Word Flash Fiction Based on Free-Write
John lay sprawled on the ground, his mouth bleeding. Egor stood smiling at him. Killmousky was nowhere to be seen. A week after the dog had chased the cat John found he still couldn’t eat.
“What’s the point of me cooking?” Jane asked.
“Is it nerve or gum damage?” John asked the dentist.
“Impossible to tell. What we’ll do is give you a set of mechanical choppers. That way no matter what the cause you’ll be able to eat.”
John agreed with reservations.
“Great food Jane.”
“Good, but can you turn those things off? Chewing constantly is not pretty.”
59-Word Flash Fiction Based on 99 Words
“That damned dog chasing the cat did my teeth in. I can’t chew.” John explained again.
“What’s the point of me cooking then?” Jane was close to tears.
“You need mechanical dentures, then you can eat.”
That night John ate. Jane was happy at the compliments she received for her cooking. Afterwards, John fruitlessly searched for the off switch.
9-Word Flash Based on 59 Words
A fall led to mechanical dentures. Where’s the off?
599 Word Story in 3 Acts
John only saw a flash of fur. Egor gave chase, yanking the lead and landing John face first on the concrete pavement. Gingerly John moved his jaw. “Bugger you” he swore at the dog. Egor stood smiling at him, oblivious of the damage caused. Killmousky, the cause of the disaster, was nowhere to be seen.
“It’s been a week now and you still can’t eat.” Jane’s voice had a plaintive ring. “What’s the point of me cooking?” The desperate begging in her eyes along with the deep frown lining her forehead confirmed for John that Jane desperately needed his praise of her cooking. She needed it for her self-esteem, for making her feel that she was a worthwhile person, a good mate.
“I’m missing your food and I’m losing a lot of weight. I’ll have to go to the dentist.” Jane smiled happily, rubbing up against him for a kiss. Despite the pain, he complied.
“Is it nerve or gum damage?” John asked the dentist a week later after his mouth had been stretched in all directions, poked and prodded and finally x-rayed.
“Impossible to tell. We can do further investigations that might give us a definite diagnosis but my guess is you have a choice of two treatments. One treatment actually, as the other isn’t covered by your medical fund. It’d cost you 50,000 buckaroos minimum. The best and cheapest treatment is to have all your teeth removed and we’ll give you a set of mechanical choppers. That way no matter what the cause, you’ll be able to eat.”
“What if I don’t do anything?” John thought of all the fluoride he’d consumed and tooth and gum scrubbing he’d undertaken so he’d never have to have teeth removed. The thought put him into a panic.
“Hope you like puree then mate.” Why did the dentist have to be so jolly. Bugger the dentist, bugger Egor and Killmouski, and bugger Jane’s need. He’d happily try puree for a few months. Reluctantly, John agreed to having all his teeth removed.
The extractions weren’t as bad as he’d anticipated. The dentist numbed him so he barely noticed them coming out. The three D printer had photographed his teeth before their removal and by the time the last tooth was out, and his gums a pulpy blood clot, the denture had been made. It was a clever device. To turn it on he just had to look at food and it started to chew. Avoid looking and it sat still. Thinking about food and seeing it in his mind’s eye could also start it. John was now looking forward to going home and trying it out on Jane’s food.
Jane had prepared a feast. Everywhere John looked there was food. His new choppers were chattering they were chewing so fast. He shoved food in so they weren’t clacking on themselves. “This is delicious Jane,” he got out between bites. John felt more than a little sick. His stomach had not had any solids for two weeks and here he was chomping his way through a salad, gnawing on the spareribs and nibbling the apple crumble. Finally, Jane put the leftovers out of sight but still he chewed. He tried thinking of the beach but saw instead the fish he’d last caught on his trip to the seaside. He tried thinking of Jane but could only see the love bite he’d last given her when he bit down on her neck.
“Find the fucking off switch John. Constant masticating is not pretty.”
“Jane I’m taking Egor for a walk. Hopefully Killmousky is about.”
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HONORABLE MENTION: Transcendence by Christina Steiner
What happens if you meet a violent death. Will you leave, go to heaven or hell or is there something in between. Your life wasn’t really finished on earth, someone else finished it for you. Do you get to stick around and do the things you always wanted to do but didn’t have the guts. How would it happen, what would happen. Where would you go, be. What format would your new body less conscience take?
99-Word Flash Fiction Based on Free-Write
There was this moment of instant clarity. The bullet hit Candice and killed her. In seconds her life flashed before her. She collapsed. A feeling of lightness came over her. The body was gone. She metamorphosed into a zephyr of tiny particles with coherent thoughts. Her navigational skills were out of control. She hid in a crevice to gather her thoughts. “I can learn,” she whispered to no one. Her lightness was pleasant. Slowly she mixed with the other particles around her, gaining skills by doing so. The world opened to new possibilities. Candice could go anywhere, do anything.
59-Word Flash Fiction Based on 99 Words
The bullet killed Candice. What happened was unexpected. Lightness came over her. She became air particles, but it took time to learn the navigational skill. Practice made perfect. After some hesitations, she figured out how to function as a zephyr. Finally, Candice had the courage do the things she always wanted to do but couldn’t in her physical life.
9-Word Flash Based on 59 Words
Sudden death transported Candice to a whole new existence.
599 Word Story in 3 Acts
He had held his gun pointed at my middle. I knew he’d kill me. I’d always known it would end up this way. I’d stayed around anyway with tainted hopes of reconciliation.
When the shot echoed on the porch, I’d already had my life’s revue. For just a moment I sat on the bench in front of our house, and then my body slacked and hit the floorboards with a hollow thud.
All that doesn’t matter. That day wasn’t the end, just a new beginning.
An exhilarating lightness came over me. Having shed my body, I floated unrestricted by gravity or weight. But I didn’t know that right away. Instinctively I gathered my particles and slipped into a crack under the porch roof. As I huddled there, my husband threw the gun to the floor. I recognized a flicker of regret on his face before he fled.
Silence crept around the porch. Lowering myself back onto the bench, I realized, I’d morphed into a zephyr. My tiny particles mixed and moved with other particles on the porch. Are these particles zephyrs like me, lost souls whose lives ended and floated in the troposphere of this earth? I had no inkling.
It didn’t take long to figure out my navigational capabilities. I could explain it this way: my entity separated and merged like a magnet with its own DNA.
I learned to move about the earth slowly or rapidly, riding the winds or the liquid waves. My particles, obeying my will, aligned themselves like a string of beads or a cluster of grapes.
Heat or cold had no influence, there wasn’t physical pain or discomfort anymore, just a perpetual contentedness. In time I’d figured out the intricacies of my being.
I visited many places I’d missed in my former life. I perched on top of a snow-covered pine tree in Alaska next to an eagle … snuggled up to a homeless man in New York City but couldn’t warm him … invaded the ear of a giraffe in Kenya and made him wiggle his ear.
One day, I cumulated on top of a road bomb in Iraq. That was rather tricky. I didn’t know the outcome. It took a while for my particles to assemble again, but I discovered that only a violent demise meets this fate of mine. My scattered particles bumped into the soldier’s and danced a confused tango, trying to connect but couldn’t. For a moment my complacency vanished. When the dust settled so did the particles. After that incident, I developed this theory that the DNA needed to match 99.9 percent to merge with another floating soul whose magnetic field was within mine. I dreamed about it. Maybe then there could be pleasures. And sorrows could be shared. An enticing thought.
Then it hit me. Even in my present state, I could do things, prevent things. There’s always a moment before incidents or accidents happen. With a colorful fall leave entrapped in my zephyr, I stopped a little girl from running into oncoming traffic. I slithered into a killer’s nose, the itch prevented him from pulling the trigger and gave his victims time to flee. I’d found my new calling.
I hardened to accept the emotional turmoil of living humans. Not a powerless observer anymore I interfered in zephyred ways.
One day I returned to the porch and contemplated about my killer. The experience he brought upon me is infinitely more interesting than the life I led before. My husband is awaiting his execution in the electric chair, I expect, he too will become a zephyr.
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Revenge Is Dee-Lightful byRitu Bhathal
Having finally made that decision, and acted upon it, Dee sat back and thought about what had just happened. For years she had suffered at the hands of Nicola and her cronies. Not only her but so many of her colleagues. They spent so long finding ways to bring people down, she decided to take matters into her own hands and give them a piece of their own medicine. And boy, had it worked! There was no chance of them messing with her anytime soon! It was just a shame that no one knew it had been her who engineered that change in them…
99-Word Flash Fiction Based on Free-Write
Dee was sick of being the butt of office jokes. Just because she wasn’t one of the chosen ones, she suffered the immature pranks played on her throughout the day. Her, and a few others too. But this time, she’d had enough! No more hiding coffee cups or sniggering behind people’s backs. As she removed the toilet rolls from all the stalls in the ladies, she giggled to herself. That chocolate flavoured laxative, crumbled into Nicola’s special Hot Chocolate tin would do just the job. Oh, they wouldn’t come up smelling of roses this time… Quite the opposite, actually!
59-Word Flash Fiction Based on 99 Words
Dee had had enough. She took matters into her own hands and decided to exact her revenge on the Mean Girls in the office. Amazing what a packet of laxatives and no available loo roll could do to the confidence of a bunch of bullies! No one knew of her part in the commotion, but she felt liberated!
9-Word Flash Based on 59 Words
A quiet, but smelly victory for the bullied one.
599 Word Story in 3 Acts
Ever since she had joined the office, Dee’s life had been a total misery by a group of women who ruled the floor she worked on.
Nicola was a beautiful but nasty specimen who homed in on anyone who looked less than perfect. Along with her cronies, she took great pleasure in mocking those blessed with a heavier figure than hers, or ladies who weren’t interested in spending most of their salary on designer wear, preferring the convenience of high street stores instead.
Dee was a quiet, bookish sort. She wasn’t interested in sticking her nose into other people’s business, but when she noticed that it wasn’t just her that was getting the ‘Nicola-treatment’, she felt compelled to do something.
But what to do?
She wasn’t the confrontational sort. Dee was the kind of girl who preferred to talk things through, get to the root of a problem, but Nicola was most certainly not a woman of that ilk. After a particularly heinous comment directed at poor Sarah, the slightly chubby girl sat next to her, who was already paranoid about her weight considering she was getting married soon, Dee had stood up for her.
And all she got was a look of disgust from the coven and the head bitch, sorry witch. It resulted in them deciding that a new target was in order – Dee.
They’d hidden her coffee mug several times, played childish pranks on her, and once they even took her glasses from her desk, leaving her squinting at her screen, trying desperately to complete a quote that her boss needed by the end of the day.
Nicola thought it was hilarious to stop by at the end of the day and casually drop her specs onto her workspace. “Oh, I found these in the ladies! Wasn’t sure whose they were, then I realised only one person here has the bad taste to buy their frames from the Pound Shop!”
Suffering the beginnings of a severe migraine due to the added pressure on her eyes, Dee was unable to come back with any retort, but a sympathetic glance from Sarah eased her discomfort.
Watching them giggling over their fancy travel mugs, filled with some special high-end hot chocolate, made from cocoa that Nicola had ordered specially from Peru, an idea seeped into Dee’s mind.
The next day, she entered the kitchen area, on the pretext of getting her morning coffee. It was just past 8 am. There was no chance of Nicola or any of her groupies being in this early. Dee took a container out of her handbag. It was filled with a brown powder.
She decanted it quickly into the pretentious pot labelled ‘Nicoa’s Hot Choc – Don’t Touch!’
Later in the day, just before the cocoa break was due to commence, Dee slipped to the ladies’ toilets, and surreptitiously emptied the three stalls of any toilet paper.
It didn’t take long.
The groans, the sprinting to the loos, the moans, and oh, the smell!
Four women, having ingested one of the strongest laxatives available – chocolate flavour of course – fought for the stalls, and then lamented the lack of tissue.
It was a sheepish bunch who exited the toilets, thankful to Dee, who went in, and ‘rescued’ them with rolls of toilet paper, a liberal squirt of air freshener, and the offer of some of her Primark brand perfume.
She sat at her desk, looking over at the sheepish faces of the coven.
Now they were the ones being laughed at.
And though no one else knew, Dee felt a new confidence grow within her.
###
NOTE FROM CARROT RANCH:
Congratulations to all the writers who entered! You dared to stretch your writing and braved the first Rodeo at Carrot Ranch. Each participant has earned the following badge, which you may copy and post on your blog, social media or print out and frame. It’s a badge of honor. And now you can say, you have had your first rodeo! You wrote well.
Those of you who braved TUFF, now have a writing elixir — you can overcome any challenge you meet on the path to literary art.
We want to share all the contest entries in a collection. We’ll be contacting each of our contestants and challengers to seek interest and permission to publish a digital collection in January. Writers retain all copyrights to their work. STAY TUNED NEXT WEEK FOR A COVER REVEAL!
Please take a few minutes for a brief 5 question survey if you haven’t had the chance. We appreciate your feedback which we will use for next Rodeo.
JANUARY 2, 2018: We announce the All-Around Winning Flash Fiction of the 2017 Rodeo. A recap of our contest winners:
- Rodeo #1: When I Grow Up (“Father Christmas” by Hugh Roberts)
- Rodeo #2: Little & Laugh (“The Bus Stop” by Colleen Chesebro)
- Rodeo #3: Septolet in Motion (“Practical Magic, Or Even Best Efforts Need a Push Sometimes” by Deborah Lee)
- Rodeo #4: Scars (“Galatea” by D. Wallace Peach)
- Rodeo #5: TwitterFlash (Winning Tweets by D. Avery)
- Rodeo #6: Bucking Bull Go-Round (“Like Retribution” by Kerry E.B. Black)
- Rodeo #7: Murderous Musings (“Mr Blamey” by Marjorie Mallon)
- Rodeo #8: TUFF (“The Sun Shines on the Half-Moon Café” by Liz Huseby Hartmann)
Winner of Flash Fiction Contest #7
Murderous Musings
By Sherri Matthews
When I set my Murderous Musing’s prompt for Charli’s Flash Fiction Rodeo, I expected a few good folk to turn bad, but not thirty-two of them. And what a deliciously devious lot they are! Thank you so much to all who entered; my esteemed judges and I read wide-eyed and suitably horrified through a disturbingly chilling collection exploring the dark side of the Rodeo.
Some had us baying for the same sweet revenge, such was the pain of the story. With others, we pondered the tragic price of a seething jealousy, bitter resentment and an all-consuming rage. One or two gave a chuckle, clever in the twist at the end. We enjoyed every flash and it was a close call, but we agreed our overall winner is Mr Blamey by Marjorie Mallon.
Mr Blamey by Marjorie Mallon
Mr Blamey had no first name. He had a forgettable face, an indeterminate dress sense and no habits to recognise him by. Yet he got the blame for everything. Getting the blame for his innocent endeavours had taken its toll on Mr Blamey. On his calendar he marked the fateful day his wife’s cat died in bold red ink. He had fed him last. His wife blamed him but bought a new kitten. It died too. A succession of cat deaths followed, his wife grew angry, she hissed and scratched. To placate his dearest, he made her a special anniversary cat stew. She ate it up and died too.
###
We judged all entries blind, so imagine our delight when our friend Marjorie, met in person at the Annual Blogger’s Bash in London three years running, was unveiled as our winner. Many congratulations Marje!
We loved this flash for the way the apparently innocuous Mr Blamey, while living up to his name, was secretly capable of the most evil revenge. Who would have thought it? The slow-burn of his hatred for his wife and her cats weaves a perfectly murderous vibe throughout. Pushed to the limits by his wife’s ‘hissing and scratching’ – a wildcat! – Marje’s flash created the perfect storm for this murderous musing.
Emphasising the close call for the winning entry, we then had the difficult task of deciding our favourites out of our high scoring selection for honourable mention. Each judge shares their top choice here:
Hugh chose:
Jeff and Jenny by Kati MacArthur
Jeff had thought all day about the things he’d do to Jenny when he got home. If only that bitch Sara wasn’t there. She’d gone into the kitchen to cook dinner, leaving him alone in the living room with Jenny. He watched the girl playing with her dolls in front of the television. “Come on up here, girl,” he said, patting his lap. She stared up at him, frozen. “Now, girl!” Jeff snapped his fingers. Jenny stood slowly. Jeff hauled her onto his lap, fingers digging under her skirt. Jenny cried out. The rush he got from her cries masked the pain he felt as Sara’s knife slid in.
###
Hugh says: ‘I loved the way it was told because, while I read it, it had me telling Jenny not to go to Jeff knowing that my fears of what he was going to do were about to come true. It’s a subject many of us prefer to leave behind closed doors when it comes to talking and writing about, but the author went ahead and wrote a fantastic piece of work which had an ending I was begging for because of the hate and revenge that built up inside of me while I read the story. And, what I also really loved, was that murder was on the mind of somebody in the background of the story which then went on to take all the glory and which had a standing ovation from me.’
Mike chose:
The Celebration by Colleen Chesebro
“Where am I?” I groaned and awakened slowly. I shivered as the cold sunk deep into my bones. My head pounded and a bright light glared into my eyes. A sharp metallic smell overpowered me. All I remembered was that I had left the bar late last night. It had been one hell of a birthday party. Panicked, I swung my legs over the side and realized my body hadn’t moved. I hovered above, a ghostly wraith of energy gazing at the twisted and bloody body below, where a knife had pierced my heart. My eyes gaped wide at the realization of my location. The sign read: City Morgue.
###
Mike says: ‘I chose ‘The Celebration’ for the cold horror of our mortal fear reaslised when the narrator finds out the truth of what really happened that night at the birthday party. Great writing, I was glued throughout, not guessing at the murderous outcome for a fantastic twist.
Sherri chose:
Tele-Visions: Six Decades of Death Dealing by Bill Engleson
I’d sit close to the screen. Cross-legged. “You’ll ruin your eyes,” she‘d say. I’d shimmy back a bit. “Better to see, right?” It was. You could see the whole picture. It was a good lesson. I saw so many deaths there. The same people dying repeatedly. Death became…imaginary. Death was an act. I guess it wore me down. Odd, eh! One day, I was maybe …fifteen. Summertime. We were swimming at Cotter’s Bend. The Sweetwater River twisted there, dug out a deep pool in the sandstone. New kid. Smaller. Crappy swimmer. But he had guts. Kept on trying. And I suddenly had this urge. It was so easy.’
###
This excellent flash knocked me for six, a truly horrifying story all about the desensitising of a generation exposed to the constant streaming of ‘play’ violence on the screen. Truly troubling is the very end when the now older man, recounting his decades of ‘death dealing’, says: ‘It was so easy’. I gave this top marks for its shocking twist and an all too tragic warning for our modern age.
*******
Thank you so much to Charli for letting me loose at the Rodeo and again, to all who entered and huge congratulations to Marje, Katie, Colleen and Bill. I’ve never judged a competition of any kind before, never mind a writing one, and it was my absolute honour and pleasure to read every single flash. I also now have a much better understanding of what an incredibly challenging job that is! And thank you again so much to my two judges, Mike and Hugh, for giving up their time to help me. Both a delight.
Hugh W. Roberts
Hugh W. Roberts published his book of short stories, Glimpses, in December 2016 and is working on his next volume. He lives in Swansea, South Wales, in the United Kingdom, and gets his inspiration for writing from various avenues including writing prompts, photos, eavesdropping and while out walking his dogs, Toby and Austin.
Hugh’s blog link: Hughs Views & News
Hugh’s book: Glimpses
Sherri Matthews
Sherri, a Brit, raised her children in California for almost twenty years before returning to her home in England’s West Country in 2003. Along the path to publication of her memoir, she shares her ups and downs with her blogging community at A View From My Summerhouse.
Sherri’s Blog: A View From My Summerhouse
Memoir Book Blurb: Stranger in a White Dress
NOTE FROM CARROT RANCH:
Congratulations to all the writers who entered! You dared to stretch your writing and braved the first Rodeo at Carrot Ranch. Each participant has earned the following badge, which you may copy and post on your blog, social media or print out and frame. It’s a badge of honor. And now you can say, you have had your first rodeo! You wrote well. Darkly, with murderous intention behind the scenes.
We want to share all the contest entries in a collection. We’ll be contacting each of our contestants and challengers to seek interest and permission to publish a digital collection in January. Writers retain all copyrights to their work.
We’d appreciate your feedback! We want to make this an annual event that is fun, engaging and supportive of literary art. Please take a few minutes for a brief 5 question survey. Thank you!
Winner of Flash Fiction Contest #5
9×11 Twitterflash
By C. Jai. Ferry
In Challenge 5 of the Carrot Ranch Rodeo, writers were tasked with writing a complete 99-word story using Twitter. Of course, we couldn’t make it that simple. Every #Twitterflash story also had to be 11 sentences with exactly 9 words each. We included a ridiculously long set of rules, but everyone #rosetothechallenge and the results were amazing. In fact, the judges’ scoring sheets all had multiple sets of high-scoring ties. So without further ado…
Winner: D. Avery @daveryshiftn
On his fourth birthday his dad went to prison.
Shortly before his eighth birthday his dad was paroled.
His mom and dad partied together until she od’d.
The man called dad left her, left him, again.
He searched the house in vain for hidden presents.
He found needles, empty bottles and some uneaten oreos.
He ate in silence, imagining that she only slept.
Twisting each oreo apart, licking the filling, he knew.
This wasn’t birthday cake and his mom wasn’t asleep.
On TV, 911 calls bring action, help, and noise.
He would call but after the oreos were gone.
Our #Twitterguru judge Mardra Sikora (@MardraSikora) summed up this Twitterflash quite succinctly:
“This story rang innocent, true, and cynical all at once. Like many good flash stories, the emotions twisted and revealed in a quick, short space.”
Judges’ Picks
Wallace Peach @Dwallacepeach
A mermaid’s sequined tail lures me to the sea
Gulls shrill a warning, I’m headed to a drowning
Lulled by a sirens song, footprints forsake the sand
Wash away my castles when love sings me home
She is my nixie, nymph of an airless death
Bare toes sink, swallowed by the sea’s lapping tongue
Fingers caress my ankles, beckoning me farther from shore
Entangled am I in floating whorls of unbound hair
Her silver arms are the surge embracing my surrender
A life forlorn abandoned for her wild blue beauty
Yielding to the tides, breathless in my seamaid’s kiss
Judge Lisa Kovanda (@lisa_kovanda) explained:
“This story made use of lyrical sentences and commas to create poetic lines that have rhythm. This use of poetic pacing made each line tweetworthy. If I read one tweet out of the middle, I would be intrigued to read more. Overall, it has a wild beauty, even though the overall tone is dark, which made for a nice juxtaposition.”
Murder, My Tweet by Bill Engleson @billmelaterplea
As the night choked me, my bowels cut loose.
Taking the case, trusting the blonde, was a mistake.
I made a baker’s dozen of mistakes back then.
My cheating husband owns Dolly’s Delicious Do-Nuts, she said.
Every little hole-in-the-wall tramp has been licking his icing.
So, I said, you want a photograph incriminating him?
She says, screw incriminating, I want to incinerate him.
I followed him 24/7 though a thousand do-nut joints.
Every franchise told a story of cholesterol and infidelity.
My pathetic yearning for sweet, greasy fat overwhelmed me.
I lost my soul going down the donut hole.
According to Mardra Sikora (@MardraSikora):
“I loved the title and it captured a balance of twisted humor, which is particularly difficult in flash. As tweetable lines go, this one particularly amused me: ‘Every little hole-in-the-wall tramp has been licking his icing.’ #Clever”
Michael @AfterwardsBlog
Is anyone else seeing what I’m seeing out there?
If this is how things end I’m getting drunk!
Apparently they come in peace, but my mate Jed’s disappeared!
How drunk am I because I think Im #insideaspaceship
I’ve managed to evade them, is anyone reading this?
Ive found Jed, watching him from an air vent.
Sweet Jesus, they seem to be probing him now!
How the dickens did they fit that in there!?!?.
I think the bloody things are laughing you know.
Oh bloody hell they’ve spotted me, PLEASE SEND HELP!
The visitors are our friends and come in peace.
C. Jai Ferry (@CJaiFerry) commented:
“#PickALineAnyLine! If I had seen any of these lines on Twitter, I would have immediately clicked to read more. Each line is a story in itself, and I had to read faster and faster to see how it all worked out.”
Thanks for coming out to play with us and congratulations to everyone for embracing the challenge and writing superb #Twitterflash stories (seriously, the scores were #superclose).
NOTE FROM CARROT RANCH:
Congratulations to all the writers who entered! You dared to stretch your writing and braved the first Rodeo at Carrot Ranch. Each participant has earned the following badge, which you may copy and post on your blog, social media or print out and frame. It’s a badge of honor. And now you can say, you have had your first rodeo! You wrote well. And you braved twitter!
We want to share all the contest entries in a collection. We’ll be contacting each of our contestants and challengers to seek interest and permission to publish a digital collection in January. Writers retain all copyrights to their work.
We’d appreciate your feedback! We want to make this an annual event that is fun, engaging and supportive of literary art. Please take a few minutes for a brief 5 question survey. Thank you!
Winner of Flash Fiction Contest #4
Scars
By Irene Waters
During October, the Rodeo, which was the brain child of Charli Mills from Carrot Ranch, gave us a wonderful opportunity to put ourselves outside our comfort zones by writing different forms and genres. Personally, I found it difficult, challenging but always fun and judging by the number of repeat entries, so did many others.
It was a pleasure to lead the fourth contest and come up with a topic and judging criteria. The topic – Scars – was inspired by a quote by Stephen King – whose book on writing should be read, I believe, by all aspiring writers. He wrote “Writers remember everything … especially the hurts. Strip a writer to the buff, point to the scars, and he’ll tell you the story of each small one. From the big ones you get novels. A little talent is a nice thing to have if you want to be a writer, but the only real requirement is the ability to remember the story of every scar.” Entries were to show a remembered scar using any genre the writer chose in 198 words.
I felt honoured to be reading the entries submitted for the Scars competition. I had not anticipated the difficulty I would find in judging different genres in the one competition. It is a little like judging apples against oranges for, as a reader, memoir is read in a different way to fiction and both differ from poetry. All the work submitted had merit and all entrants should be proud of their stories.
For blind judging I devised a scoring sheet, giving us a mark out of 100. The top scorer was our winner — D. Wallace Peach with the entry Galatea.
Judge Angie Oakley said of this piece:
“I really liked the reworking of the mythic tale into a contemporary setting. It was authentic and powerful. I think the language was a cut above… poetic, dense and yet it told the story with clarity. It was a very assured piece of writing that wove a wider message into an intensely personal story. And the mythic underpinning serves to enhance the universality of the piece.”
Galatea by D. Wallace Peach
My father was Pygmalion and I his child chiseled by his scowls and smiles into the woman of his daydreams, a huntress, a poet, a woman who walked barefoot over mountains. In the light of his approving eye, I flourished in the myth of Galatea, a living statue until age cracked my smooth skin. What he thought was carved of marble I revealed as plaster, the child beneath growing beyond the sculptor’s control. I was a betrayal of his art, his vision, a flesh and bone girl with her own daydreams, and he said, “I don’t love you anymore.”
–
And so, the sculptor became a butcher, his chisel traded for a cleaver, Galatea gone, my myth smashed into rubble on the floor. In pieces, I sought new masters to glue together my shattered heart, unable to accept I was clay, not stone, and the only artist was me. For decades, I fashioned a new myth, molded her with tender fingers and scraped away layers of pain, all the while longing for my maker to undo the original wound. But time cannot be undone or cuts unmade. I forgave and finally became a woman wholly of flesh and bone.
###
Each judge then gave their personal three favourites:
Angie Oakley: 1. Galatea
Tying at second for her was Tsunami because:
“I liked the tone and voice and certainty of this. And the way the story arced round to the end. Nothing was in that wasn’t needed, and it managed to tell a convincing and relatively complex story in a few deft strokes. Good control, As for the scar, it was implied, and that was OK.”
Tsunami by Bill Engleson
Jilly has this soft laugh. Athletic (or maybe I mean healthy.)
I find it soothing.
And sexy.
“Why the army?” she asks.
Aside from her and her husband, Steve, all my parent’s friends are fifty. Or older.
Ancient.
Why indeed!
I am stupid. That’s the truth of it. Failing Grade twelve and in need of a kick in the ass.
But I bullshit.
“To see the world,” I lie.
It is a warm spring day by the Millstream River.
Steve’s gone fishing with my mom and the old man up to the Qualicum.
“You’ll love the world,” she teases.
Good Friday, March 27th, 1964.
Nothing’s shaking.
Not in Nanaimo, anyways.
Elsewhere, the Alaskan earth cracks open.
The seas swell.
Up Island, a tsunami sweeps down the Alberni Inlet.
“Let’s go have a looksee,” my dad says.
We do just that.
We miss Steve’s call.
Later, my folks get the news, sit me and my sister down, say, “Jill was having a small operation. Something went wrong.”
“So?” we ask.
But we know.
In July, I leave for the army.
I still hear her laugh.
I prove to be a terrible soldier.
Eventually, her laugh fades.
Then, it disappears.
###
Equal second Angie Oakley chose Linea Nigra by Juliet Nubel because:
“This was a strong story, complete in itself with a very neat way of integrating the scar in without it feeling forced. The language worked well…change of tone managed well, and the story economically told. Once again this person worked all the elements of the story with skill and clarity. And it had an important wider message to communicate.”
Linea Nigra by Juliet Nubel
She slipped out of her school uniform and into the scorching bath. The heat turned her pale skin a bright shade of pink which would have been unbearable a few months earlier. Now she needed that hot water running over her body. It helped the ache in her breasts. But it did nothing to relieve the throbbing pain in her empty heart and abdomen. And even less to remove the dark brown line running from her navel to her pubis – the mark of her mistake, which she scrubbed daily, hard and fast, without success. She was branded for life.
His tongue made its way down that fine brown line to reach more interesting parts of her naked body. Had he never noticed it or perhaps just never mentioned it? As his face came back to hers, he whispered the words he’d been saying for the last five years.
“Let’s keep trying.”
He wanted this more than anything. She did too. But how could she tell him that maybe she had only had the one chance? That any hope of a second chance had been thrown away the day she had given away her baby, all those years ago.
###
Ellen Stromqvist, our second judge chose as her favourite Not Forgot by Eric Daniel Clarke because:
“A good descriptive narrative that sets the scene well. Portrays on of the possible critical moments in a life when it could have taken an entirely different course. A poignant reflection on a moment in time and perhaps a lost opportunity for happiness. What might have been.”
Not Forgot by Eric Daniel Clarke
He stands a foot from the wall, illuminated by strobe lit blobs and spheres, hand in pocket the other holding a cold beer. 10 pm he’d guess, summer darkness outside lures moths to flight, rhythm finds his feet yet too soon for moves. She takes to the floor perfection slight yet curved, green eyed blonde focal point of his desire. No smile yet kindly declines the handsome or just confident, dancing with her sister or maybe a friend. He buys a second beer, a small one, returns, his space still there a few metres from her presence. 11.30 pm checks his time, no chance better men have tried, he moves. She turns to face his walk towards her, the beat slows, trace of a smile, no words, her fingers behind his neck stroke him closer, his hands on short skirted hips that sway in and not away. Sibling, friend, whispers, “we have to go”, he asks to see her, she puts her finger to her lips then his, says “I fly home to Germany tomorrow” let’s go his hand and disappears. Forty five years on he’s not forgot her touch, likes to believe she’s had a good life.
###
Her second choice Scars by Deborah Lee because it was a
“good story that clearly articulates the fickle nature of life, who for some is a never-ending struggle against the odds and despite all their best efforts fate ensues to defeat them.”
Scars by Deborah Lee
She hadn’t ended up homeless on purpose. Who does? A simple layoff, when the bubble burst in the two-thousand-oughts. She hadn’t been worried–at first. But it stretched, stuck. Unemployed or underemployed or temporarily employed for the next seven years. Her fault? Really? She’d tallied it one year: half a million applications and resume submissions. Thousands of call-backs, hundreds of referrals, dozens of interviews. But nothing permanent, nothing at her earning level, or simply nothing. A temporary job won’t get you an apartment. She’d felt cursed, marked, by the time she finally landed her present position three years ago.
And after three years, she’s still trying to unpack it. If her login fails on her company’s time card website, her heart pounds. A downward trend in the business for a month leads to sleepless nights about the company going under. FedEx loses her package with $24,000 worth of billable documents, and she’s convinced she’ll be blamed and fired. The slightest hiccup looms in nightmares as a security guard standing over her while she clears out her desk, then showing her the door to the street. Once you’ve landed on the street, you never forget how easy it was.
###
Her third choice was Teeter Totter by Frank Hubeny because it is
“A story everyone can relate to. Good descriptive language makes it easy to believe, nice reflection of writer’s feelings in cause and guilt of their actions. I liked the moral of the story ‘never get off when you’re at the bottom.’”
Teeter-totter by Frank Hubeny
It was my mistake to get off while I was on the bottom and my brother’s feet dangled above me. My father set up that sawhorse and extra piece of two-by-six board. He nailed small pieces of wood to keep the board from sliding around. He had enough to do building the garage. We wanted to watch or rather find something unusual to play with.
I don’t think my mother thought it was unsafe until afterwards either. Of course afterwards everyone reconstructed the details. My brother caught his fall. The board raced up to my chin and blood flowed.
We lived on a farm. The hospital was twenty miles away. I remember the guilt on my brother’s face, but he wasn’t guilty. My parents probably tried to determine who was guilty or stupid. Even at six years, I knew I was both. At my current age I wish I could give my parents a hug to take away their sense of guilt. Perhaps by surviving I did just that.
My father dismantled the teeter-totter and mom kept us busy away from the construction site. Today I remember the lesson: “Never get off when you are on the bottom.”
###
There were so many good stories. A couple took me to my passion of dancing, and I commend both writers as I feel they may have researched the judges (a competition tip I have been given but never done myself) – I thoroughly enjoyed your stories. Some of the stories I was uncertain whether they were fiction or memoir as they were first person narratives and I was uncertain how to read them. I have learnt that should I run another competition I would ask for the genre to be specified. My judging was based on a favourite in fiction, memoir and poetry.
Fiction: Hot Shot Holly by Liz H. because it
was a tale of resilience. It hooked the reader from the first line with the vivid visual images drawn of the fire. The narrative flowed smoothly with a good use of dialogue. I liked the manipulation of time starting in the present then looking back. It demonstrated healing and happiness despite an upbringing that caused scars.
Hot Shot Holly (and how she got there) by Liz Huseby Hartmann
Twin-bladed helicopters dumped the bright red slurry (water and fertilizer) on the manically dancing flames, then swooped through the smoky haze to the reservoir, to refill for another drop. Even with no wind, the wildfire gobbled the grassy plain, unsated by the acres of forest and homes already consumed.
On the ground, crews dug trenches, controlled burns, and kept chainsaws roaring, hoping that the scar of a firebreak would choke out the raging fire.
“Someday I’ll be skyborne, fighting fire by helitack,” Justin scanned the sky.
“Not me!” grinned Holly. “I’ve been training for this all of my life.”
**
“You think you’re such a hotshot, don’t you?” Her father sneered.
“It’s the booze talking,” Holly reminded herself. Unwilling to add fuel to his rage, she swallowed her hurt in silence.
“Don’t you?” he lurched towards her. Pushing the coffee table between them, she grabbed her bag and slipped out the open door.
“You’re nothing, slut. Just like your mother!” He snarled from the floor. “You leave now, don’t ever come back.”
“He won’t remember, when he’s sober. But I’ll never forget.”
Time to cut and run; she patted her pocket with the letter from the Wildland Firefighter Academy.
###
For memoir my favourite was: The Healing Tree by Karen Newburn because
it told of an ordinary life doing ordinary things that I could relate to. The writer placed me in the scene which was a scene we all know well. It was a tale of a mother’s loss and a son’s bravery but again it was a tale of resilience and healing.
The Healing Tree by Karen Newburn
The music in the garden section of K Mart screeched over-head with the sound of Whitney Houston’s hit I love you belting out its famous melody. I wiped my eyes, knowing that song reopened an old wound. I wanted to buy a Hibiscus Tree for my new garden, but couldn’t see one. I was about to give up as Houston’s song screamed out above me, so I stopped to have another look. The song was important, because we’d played it at our son’s funeral. Then I spotted a medium sized red Hibiscus buried amongst some larger plants. Thank you Luke, I whispered. I dabbed my eyes again as I strode past some inquisitive onlookers. ‘I will talk to you from heaven through those flowers’, I remembered Luke saying. He also asked me to plant it in the black garden at the front of our old house: He didn’t know about the newly formed rain soaked garden that appeared black in the dazzling sunlight. Luke’s sight had been taken from him due to the cancer that raged within him. He died two weeks later. The red Hibiscus representing to all of us Luke’s great enthusiasm and zest for life.
###
For poetry I chose Cicatrice by Susan Budig because it painted a vivid picture and aroused strong emotions in me as a reader. I could feel the pain, the hate, the love, and the healing.
Cicatrice by Susan Budig
He went to New Orleans on a road trip,
While I sat in a home, not mine, distilling
Our baby. But I named her mine.
And she was. I gave her a heart and eyes.
I gave her teeth and synapses—all that she needed.
I gave her away; he didn’t want her.
I didn’t want him.
I hated him with all my strength.
His abandonment. His cavalier attitude.
This hate eats at me.
Grows inside of me like
A malignant stone.
Now you, my new man,
My Studebaker,
You turn the stone over and look.
You see blood on the blade
Bright red anger.
You search my heart for a cicatrice.
Your finger traces a line straight
From my heart to my belly button
To discover the rawness of motherhood
Which has not healed.
You lean forward, cupping
The pain, the scarred flesh
Whisper psalms to close
The jagged edges
Stitching with your fingers laced in prayer.
Then with a chamois cloth
You rub on the stone
Until it shines like a diamond,
Which you give me,
Full of promise
That you will never leave me
That when I am ripe again
And blooming,
She will remain.
###
Well done all those mentioned and those not mentioned as well.
NOTE FROM CARROT RANCH:
Congratulations to all the writers who entered! You dared to stretch your writing and braved the first Rodeo at Carrot Ranch. Each participant has earned the following badge, which you may copy and post on you blog, social media or print out and frame. It’s a badge of honor. And now you can say, you have had your first rodeo! You wrote well.
We want to share all the contest entries in a collection. We’ll be contacting each of our contestants and challengers to seek interest and permission to publish a digital collection in January. Writers retain all copyrights to their work.
We’d appreciate your feedback! We want to make this an annual event that is fun, engaging and supportive of literary art. Please take a a few minutes for a brief 5 question survey. Thank you!
Winner of Flash Fiction Rodeo Contest #1
When I Grow Up
by Norah Colvin
Congratulations and a special thank you goes to all writers who participated in the first of the Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Contests: When I grow up. The judging is now complete, and we are about to announce the winner. Could it be you?
In this contest, writers were asked to write a 99-word story in response to the following prompt:
When I grow up. Cast yourself back to six years of age, knowing what you do of life in the present; what would you want to be when you grow up and how would you go about achieving that goal? Tell us in 100 words, no more no less. It can be real or imaginary, serious or light-hearted. Extra points for comparing it to your childhood choice, if you remember it.
Stories were judged on ten criteria including relevance, capturing a child’s voice and originality. Extra points were awarded if the story included a comparison with the “real” childhood choice. (For a full list of criteria, please refer to the original post here.)
First of all I give a huge vote of thanks to my fellow judges Anne Goodwin, Rough Writer and author of novels Sugar and Snails and Underneath, and Robbie Cheadle, Rough Writer and author and illustrator of the Sir Chocolate Books series of picture books.
With thirty-eight entries to read, it was no mean feat for we judges to select a winner. Most entries met the requirements of surface features; such as, word count, story structure, grammar, spelling and punctuation. Most stories were relevant to the prompt, and many captured the voice of a child in an interesting and original way. It was difficult to differentiate, so congratulations must go to everyone who joined in by writing in response to this prompt.
Although we didn’t expect it to be so, it was the extra points awarded for a comparison to the childhood choice that enabled us to choose the winner.
And the winner is (drum roll)!
#34 Father Christmas by Hugh Roberts
“Father Christmas.”
“Father Christmas?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to give toys to all the good boys and girls he can’t get to because there’s no snow.”
“But Father Christmas’s sleigh can travel anywhere. Harry.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It doesn’t have to be snowing. Can you remember last Christmas when it rained? He still got here.”
“Yes, you’re right. Maybe I’ll be a doctor then?”
***
27 years later, dressed as Father Christmas, Doctor Harry Gibson gave out the presents at the Desert Trail Orphanage Christmas party, before saving the life of three-year-old Afua Zambo, who was suffering from malnutrition and measles.
We felt that what set this entry apart from others is its combination of the past and present to tell a complete story: the child grows up to fulfil the childhood ambition. If he couldn’t be Father Christmas, he wanted to be a doctor. He managed to combine both in a rather surprising way. While perhaps seeming to lack some sophistication of language, the first part of the story, told completely in dialogue, captures the voice of the child in a way that is both credible and cheerful.
Congratulations, Hugh, on being selected as the winner in the inaugural Flash Fiction Rodeo Contest #1. Charli will be in touch about your prize.
Highly commended
Since our task was so difficult, Charli suggested that each judge be allowed to pick one other entry that appealed for whatever reason. We jumped at the chance, though were again hard-pressed to choose just one.
Anne’s Pick:
#36 Morning Ritual by C. Jai Ferry
My mama was a princess. In the pictures, she wore a long white gown and flowers in her hair. Now she uses her leftover princess magic when she puts makeup on, her fingers gliding over her skin, barely touching her face at all. But they do. Her breath jerks and her eyes water, but her fingers still spread the paint over her cheek until the dark rainbow marks disappear. Daddy calls them his special love bites. Mama adds a rosy pink color to her cheeks. I shake my head. I don’t ever want to wear makeup when I grow up.
Anne says, “Here is a child trying to make sense of her family, not able to name what’s happening (domestic abuse), nor criticise either parent, she knows what she doesn’t want and has an authentically magical sense of how to avoid it. It’s very subtly handled and has left a deep impression on me.”
Robbie’s Pick:
#37 When I grow up by Jack Schuyler
“Being a doctor is a privilege,” Dad’s been talking for a while now. Sitting in the back seat, I watch him drive and listen. “Helping people: that’s something you can be proud of.”
In the passenger seat, Mom’s listening too, and smiling.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Dad’s eyes find mine in the rearview mirror.
I hesitate, “What do you do Mom?”
“I used to be a writer,” she smiles at me. “I even wrote a book once.”
“That’s what I want to do,” I say looking through the window. Outside, the world flies past.
Robbie says, “Very clever. A piece that speaks volumes through the few well-chosen words. The child identifies with his mother, who is obviously the carer and the one that the child regards. This is despite the father’s position as a doctor and his pride in his work.”
Norah’s Pick:
#16 Time Traveler (Too Many Questions, Child!) by Liz Husebye Hartmann
Unseen, I observe.
Red shorts, shirtless, she digs tiny toes into the sand. A mutt stretches nearby, ears pricking as the girl narrates the world under her dirty hands.
“There’s a hole there…gonna dig it up. How far does it go?”
“I’ll flatten this mountain, make a road. Why so many ants?”
“Buster, don’t sit on the highway!”
Buster shakes his ears and rolls, belly up.
“Why didn’t Buster growl at you?” she looks fiercely up at me.
“We’ve met before,” I smile, plop down in the sand.
I forget what I came to tell myself.
“Can I play, too?”
Norah says, “I like the way this started from the point of view of the adult-self observing the child-self. We then went into the child’s voice as the child narrates her play, with disconnected thoughts, as occurs. The narrator then indicates that she came back to give advice to the child but realises that play and being in the moment is more important. As an appreciation of childhood, it appealed to me.”
We hope you enjoyed reading our picks and see in them the positives that we saw. Remember though, reading is a very personal experience.
NOTE FROM CARROT RANCH:
Congratulations to all the writers who entered! You dared to stretch your writing and braved the first Rodeo at Carrot Ranch. Each participant has earned the following badge, which you may copy and post on you blog, social media or print out and frame. It’s a badge of honor. And now you can say, you have had your first rodeo! You wrote well.
We want to share all the contest entries in a collection. We’ll be contacting each of our contestants and challengers to seek interest and permission to publish a digital collection in January. Writers retain all copyrights to their work.
We’d appreciate your feedback! We want to make this an annual event that is fun, engaging and supportive of literary art. Please take a a few minutes for a brief 5 question survey. Thank you!