Flash Friday Fiction: Here Come De Judge! (A Thank You to the Flash Friday Fiction Community)

The coveted Flash Friday winner's badgeOr rather, here go de judge. I have finished up my brief tenure as judge for the marvelous Flash Friday Fiction contest, and I just wanted to take a moment and thank Rebekah Postupak, the contest’s absolutely fabulous creator and runner (uh, that sounds wrong), for inviting me to serve in such a position.

As I noted in my final results write-up this past week, when Rebekah first asked me to serve as judge, I turned her down. Who was I, newbie unpublished romance and flash writer, to dare judge anyone else’s works? What if I picked “wrong”? What if everybody hated my choices (and thereby, me)? What if, what if, what if?

Luckily the second time she asked me, the pressure was on, because she was asking ALL three-time winners of the contest to serve. How could I turn THAT down?

I’m so glad I didn’t.

Yes, I still felt and feel as if my qualifications are minimal for judging such a contest. But the experience has been invaluable. Not only have I had to hone my own critical reading skills in terms of figuring out and justifying not only what I liked, but why I liked it, but serving as a judge made me aware of just how subjective judging writing can be. Yes, one can check for proper grammar and sentence structure, for following the rules, for the basics of good, strong writing. But when it comes right down to it, when I had to narrow my results from five or ten down to one single winner, it often was just a matter of instinct, of choosing the story that affected me the most.

How powerful has it been to realize that, to truly get the subjective nature of this business, while in the middle of querying agents to represent my novel? While of course authors hope their tale resonates with each and every person who gives it go, it won’t. Hey, there are people out there who don’t like Harry Potter, who can’t stand classics, who won’t touch the Bible. Talk to anyone and you’ll find people who love a certain tale and people who hate it. Even bestsellers.

I make no claims that my writing is anywhere of the caliber of J.K. Rowling or Jane Austen. I know it isn’t; I know I have more to learn in pursuing this craft, and always will. But I also know now that when an agent says they’re not the right agent for the book, it doesn’t automatically mean the book sucks. They might just mean exactly what they say; they’re not the right agent for this book.

In the meantime, I write on. In romance, and for Flash Friday. Because I can attest that the FF contest has done wonders for my writing confidence, with its friendly, encouraging bunch of participants who take time each week to comment on each other’s tales. Yes, it’s thrilling to win. Yes, it’s been a terrific honor serving as judge. But really, it’s the building up one receives, from commenting on stories or receiving comments, that makes Flash Friday such a wonderful community of writers. There’s a lot of tearing down that goes on in this writing world – how nice to have a place for encouragement.

So thank you, Flash Friday community, and thank you, Rebekah, for giving this still-fairly-newbie writer confidence and inspiration to pursue her dreams. Y’all rock! Write on!

Flash Friday Fiction: Your Order’s Up

Chef at the Trans-Siberian rail wall, between Moscow and Khabarovsk. CC 2.0 photo by Leidolv Magelssen.
Chef at the Trans-Siberian rail wall, between Moscow and Khabarovsk. CC 2.0 photo by Leidolv Magelssen.

Your Order’s Up – 147 words

He waffled between hanging on and jumping off.

He’d been angry, so angry, for so long, it was almost as if he didn’t know how to feel any other way.

Except numb. Numbness was a relief, actually, far preferable to the roiling emotions that left him unable to function, unable to live among others for any length of time.

He could end it, here. Step off into anonymity, into obscurity.

He’d never have to face another screaming protest, another demand for retribution, another order sent back for the third time.

It had been his secret, all these years: he couldn’t read. He made it up as he went, combining ingredients in whatever way he saw fit, train to train, job to job.

Only this time, it wasn’t just the people revolting. This time, the food was rising up. That last batch had threatened to kill him. Literally.

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Bwah ha ha. After a very silly NaNoWriMo Kick-Off party, a number of us who also write for Flash Friday decided we needed to incorporate “angry waffles” in our next flash story, regardless of what the photo prompt was. Luckily for us, it fed right into our goofy plans, and so I offer you my homage to disgruntled breakfast foods.

Flash Friday Fiction: Signs of Spring

Caution: Radiation Controlled Area. Creative Commons 2.0 photo by Oleg.
Caution: Radiation Controlled Area. Creative Commons 2.0 photo by Oleg.

Signs of Spring  – 160 words

We are trapped in a nuclear winter, she and I, our marriage long since rusted over at the edges.

I stand at her door, wondering how much longer I can endure this monkish existence. I’ve know others who’ve turned elsewhere for comfort, for solace, for a bit of human touch.

I don’t want to be one of them.

I raise my hand against this barrier, which, like her heart, might as well have a “CAUTION: KEEP OUT” sign emblazoned across it.

How do people come to erect such walls between them? Two halves of a whole becoming like magnets that repel each other where they used to attract.

There is no hope for an armistice here. Our tongues launch missiles on a daily basis. Our arsenals overfloweth.

The knob turns. A crack appears.

“Damian?”

I stare into her eyes, at once familiar and foreign.

“Can we talk?”

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Wahoo! I love Flash Friday! As I’m still serving periodically as a judge through November, I’m not eligible to win, but that doesn’t stop me from scribbling down a 150 (+/-10) word story every week anyway – it’s just that much fun! Come join us, won’t you?

Flash Friday Fiction: Power Play

Georgian writers Ilia Chavchavadze and Ivane Machabeli playing chess, 1873 St Petersburg.
Georgian writers Ilia Chavchavadze and Ivane Machabeli playing chess, 1873 St Petersburg.

Power Play – 160 words

It’s not easy facing down a King. You’re taught your whole life to believe they’ve ascended to power through innate talent, faultless character, Divine Right.

One day you realize: it’s all a stroke of luck. A matter of heredity. Sure, sometimes the Queen is captured by someone else. But mostly it’s the gene pool that determines your reality, your fate, your destiny.

There comes a time in every person’s life (most say around age thirteen) when you’ve got to decide for yourself: do you stand for what the King believes? Or do you strike out on your own, make your own choices, become your own Knight (shining armor optional, depending on the state of your room)?

The King will resist your efforts towards independence. The Queen will block you in. You will realize checkmate is inevitable when the keys to the Kingdom (in other words, the Royal Chariot) are revoked. You must acquiesce, at least a little longer.

Game over.

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This week’s challenge in a 150 (+/- 10) words? Write a story based on this prompt that includes something about a nemesis, but that does not include the word “chess”. What do you think of my take?

Please come on over to Flash Friday Fiction to read and comment on the other entries, as well; we writers need all the feedback we can get!

Flash Friday Fiction: Great Balls of Fire

Circus clowns visit sick boy. CC photo Boston Public Library.
Circus clowns visit sick boy. CC photo Boston Public Library.

Great Balls of Fire
160 words

Run, boy, while you still can.
I know they told you you’re here to get your tonsils removed.
I know they told you it will be a quick procedure, in and out;
No brain surgery required. All the ice cream you can eat.
I heard you laugh, your hiccup at the end betraying your nervousness.
You know they’re lying, too.
I’m telling you, run.

They did it to me just last week, boy.
They lured me in with false promises. They told me I’d get treats, told me they’d play fetch as much as I wanted, told me I wouldn’t have to dance on the elephant’s back for at least a month.
They didn’t tell me two small snips would take my doghood away.

Don’t believe their false smiles.
They can paint their faces anyway they want. It doesn’t hide the truth.
See the sad expression on that bozo’s face? He knows.

Those aren’t his clown noses he’s showing you.

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Bwah ha ha. I couldn’t resist. My apologies to anyone now squirming in their seats (particularly my husband). The clowns made me do it.

Let me know what you think of my story – and then please head on over to Flash Friday Fiction to read the other entries and support Flash authors!