This, in case you somehow missed the title of the post, is 5MinuteFiction. You have been assimilated.
And welcome to 5MinuteFiction. That means we write fiction. In five minutes. Shocker, I know.
The Rules
* You get five minutes to write a piece of prose in any style or genre
* You must directly reference today’s prompt: concentration
(Note: The prompt is the word. The picture is for decoration/inspiration.)
photo by user cloth.paper.string on Flickr
* Post your entry as a comment to this post.
I’ll close the contest at 1:45. That gives you 5 minutes to write and ten to accommodate the vagaries of relative time, technology, and the fickle internets. If you are confused or just want to whine, feel free to email me.
At the close of the contest, this week’s guest judge, Robert James Russell @robhollywood will nominate five finalists. I’ll put the nominees in the poll on the side of the page, and at 9:30 PM EDT I’ll close the poll and declare the winner.
For updates, you can subscribe to my RSS Feed, or follow me on twitter.
What’s the prize? Well, nothing, obviously. But we’ll all agree to tweet and/or blog about the winner of today’s contest so their fame and fortune will be assured.
A Few Notes:
* In the interest of time and formatting, it’s best to type straight into the comment box. It’s also smart to do a quick highlight and copy before you hit “post” just in case the internets decide to eat your entry. If your entry doesn’t appear right away, email me sometimes comments go into the suspected spam folder and I have to dig them out.
* I reserve the right to remove hate speech or similar but I’m not too picky about the other stuff.
* This is all for fun and self-promotion. So be sure to put your twitter handle at the end of your post and a link to your blog if you have one.
She sat in the chair, staring at nothing, a look of intense concentration on her face. Her legs were curled against her and she hugged her knees. The letter hung limply in her hand.
A bird called in the tree above, sounding subdued in the dull gray morning and the woman’s dull gray spirits. Snow dusted the ground.
There was somewhere she needed to be but she didn’t remember where. Something she was supposed to be doing but she didn’t remember what. She was trying very hard not to remember.
She kept her gaze fixed on anything but the letter, yet somehow she couldn’t put it down, couldn’t walk away from it. To acknowledge it would make it real. To think of it would make it real. To cry would be to admit the truth.
So she sat, in the gray morning, in the gray everything of a life shattered, and thought very hard of nothing at all.
It was hard to.
I wanted to.
You should have.
I know.
There were people there.
They are everywhere.
Some were striking. There was this girl–
There’s always a girl.
I actually..needed you..to get this done.
I have trouble..I have trouble sometimes..I forgot my Adderall.
You know that shit’s legal speed.
It helps me concentrate. When I took it I was up at work all night cleaning. Cleaning. Rearranging the cabinets. There were perishables co-mingling with non-perishables, cleaning products with paper towels. I’d take my dog with me. Use my key. When no one’s there I get things done. I’ve slept there before. It’s better, at night, while everyone’s sleeping. I can get things done.
Not Enough
I knew if I tried hard enough I could get past this moment. You know, that one where your brain is blank of everything but the person across the table from you, the one meeting your gaze with earnest concentration, trying to make you see their way to logic.
But I couldn’t. Even as I watched those lips shape the words, “It’s me, not you,” my mind slithered away from the meaning behind it, refusing to acknowledge the truth of it. I shook my head, much like a horse trying to shoo away one of those nasty biting flies. And again when those familiar fingers twined with mine, patted the back of my hand, withdrew.
Because, again, I found I wasn’t enough. Never enough. Not hard enough, not soft enough, not nice enough, not enough of that elusive mix of ingredients that would make someone stay.
I found enough focus to concentrate on the knot in the floor between my feet, blocked out the steps retreating, the thud of the door, the rumble of the car on the other side of the windows. Round and round I followed the grain, drifting, refusing to recognize the pain that was my heart breaking. Again.
@AislingWeaver
Tom asked me to come in and shut the door behind me, his face drawn in concentration.
“Sure, what’s up?” I asked, pulling up a seat. He swallowed hard and fixed his gaze somewhere over my left shoulder.
“Ed, because of the downturn in the market, the company is having to undergo a significant reduction in force. I’m sorry to say your job has been impacted. You will be offered six weeks of severance and provided access to an outplacement firm to assist you in this life transition.”
“Wait- what?” I said, feeling as if I’d been punched in the gut.
He hesitated. “Uh, like I said, because of the downturn in the market, the company–”
“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re laying me off? After I just moved my whole family across the country for this job? You’re firing me?”
Indecision warred across his face and I envisioned the Director of Human Resources under the desk, squeezing his balls.
“I’m sorry, Ed,” he said, his eyes finally meeting mine. “I tried. I told them you’re the best one on the team, but well, you’re white and Xiang is not. There was nothing I could do.”
“This is bullshit. I’m twice the engineer that Xiang is and you know it.”
He didn’t disagree, but went back to staring over my shoulder, his face pinched with pain.
“Right. I’ll get my stuff. And you’ll be hearing from my attorney. Thanks for nothing, Tom,” I said and slammed the door behind me.
@cynditefft
Come on, concentrate, Tam. You can do this.
The red light came on the screen and started flashing at him. Again.
Damnit! Tam thought. Focus!
The red light went away, and was replaced by a flashing yellow light on the top left of the screen. Slowly, it stopped blinking and a steady green light came on. Tam watched carefully, keeping his mind focused. It had to be timed right, or it would all be for naught. Fifteen seconds.
Keep your concentration, Tam. We can do it this time.
Thirty seconds.
Almost there. Everyone will see, you can do it!
The green light started flashing, and Tam quickly readjusted his concentration, and it went back to a steady glow. Forty five seconds.
I got it this time!
Fifty seconds. Fifty five. Fifty six. Fifty seven. Fifty eight. Fifty nine. SIXTY!
Tam slammed his hand down on the buttons in front of him, hitting them in a specific order. The screen light up in a verity of colors and sounds. When it was all over, and the screen went to it’s basic black again, he looked at the numbers. Sure enough, he had done it. No one would make fun of him, tell him he had wasted his time. Now, he had accomplished something!
“WOO!” he shouted, getting the attention of the other people in the Arcade. “HIGH SCORE!”
-@blanchardauthor
Screams and wails sparked and echoed all around her. A tear slowly beaded at the corner of her eye, but she rubbed it away. The smoke was getting heavy, dizzy, but she could still hear a handful of people, and she had to get them. She had to concentrate. Christie dove under a desk as a piece of the rafters seared a gash along her leg. The flames flickered, for a moment, but she focused again. She would get them all.
[@kaolinfire, @gudmagazine]
@noellepierce
She stared at the piece of paper, her bottom lip wedged between her teeth, her eyes narrowed.
“I can’t figure it out!”
He calmly folded the newspaper and slid the sheet from beneath her fingertips.
“Yes, you can. Concentrate.”
Growling at him, she snatched the paper back. After a few more minutes, she pushed back from the table causing her chair to screech against the hardwood floor.
“It’s no use. I’m not smart enough to do it.”
He slammed his cup down with more force than he intended and glared. “Do not ever say that. Ever.”
“Why not? It’s the truth,” she argued, folding her hands before her.
“Because you are smart enough. And if you give up, you’ll never be able to prove it to yourself.”
Her face was etched with indecision, but she sat back down.
Eight years later, she stood at the podium, finishing her speech as valedictorian. She paused, scanning the crowd until she found his face beyond the sea of black caps and gowns.
“Thanks, Dad, for always pushing me to do my best.”
(@_Monocle_)
“What?! What are you doing? I’m trying to work here!” I was on a deadline.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m sitting in your lap.” Jamie is a literalist.
“Off! Shoo! Begone! I’m on a deadline.”
“So? I can’t help? What are you working on.”
“Nothing you’d care about. Some quick writing. I only have five minutes for Chrissakes and… Where are your _pants_?”
“I didn’t think I needed any to be on your lap. At least that’s what you said yester-”
“_Fine_ fine. Just sit still. Let me think. Let me write.”
“But.. your lap is all lumpy. it makes me squirm.”
“You are fucking ruining my concentration, Jamie.”
“Oh, Boo-hoo. Here. I can help. I think you’ve done enough. I’ll just hit the submit button for you and you can concentrate on _me_.”
“No! DON’T Not Ye
“Concentrate any harder and you’re goin’ to burn a hole in that paper,” Page teased.
“What if that’s the purpose?” Mick didn’t bother to look up. His entire being was focused on the paper laid out on the table below.
Lately the dreams had been getting worse. In every only of them he had these awesome powers. A nagging thought that lingered as beams of sun broke through the window in the morning and sent the dreams scrambling back to the land of darkness.
He knew he had the potential. Just fucking knew it.
“Stop being weird, Mick. It ain’t funny any more.” Page rubbed her arms, fighting off a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Mick knew she was psychically sensitive. It was what had drawn them together. His beautiful lover sensed his potential long before he realized he had any.
Was that a bit of smoke rising off the page? Mick squinted, concentrating harder on the small dot of ink he’d drawn. “Come on…”
“Oh just give it up, already!” She snatched the paper away and threw it at the stove.
The ball of paper lit up like a dried out Christmas tree. Both of them stared at it, then at each other. Suddenly the source of his power was clear.
“Come here and give me a kiss, sugar,” Mick whispered, the weight of his influence nearly choking him.
And the devil be damned, she did.
@RCMurphy
I was determind that I would contribute this week. I’ve set a weekly alarm on my outlook account and had my daughter cosied up on the sofa infront of the kids tv show.
I hit reload over and over until I got the prompt and knew I could do something with it, but then disaster!
My daughter wriggled off the sofa, toddled over and pronounced her need;
“Toilet!”
Ah the joys of potty training. We have a carefully choreographed system. She sits on the loo, refuses any help to balance and I hover over her trying to ensure she doesn’t fall in.
She concentrates on the task in hand, some attempts are more productive than others.
Then she clambers down and proceeds to the potty, back to front of course. Like some tiny potty training cowgirl.
Then paper, flush and wave “bye bye” and wash our hands.
Every day’s a day to learn for both of us and it is the best education I’ve ever had.
@summerlandc
Oops rushing and forgot to say @summerlandc now I’d better go and round up my naked child.
I smiled as I watched her, so deep in concentration as she played. Tears welled in my eyes as I thought over the past few months and our concerns that she’d never make it this far. My pregnancy was normal, all tests indicated she was developing properly… Labor and delivery were textbook. Everything about motherhood was perfect.
Until it wasn’t.
Until one day she was listless, not eating, obviously ill. Tests proved she was horribly ill, but curable. We cried, we prayed, we loved. And thanks to wonder doctors, she was healed.
And today, watching her play, I smile through my tears.
@_Robin_Michelle
She’d always used the age-old trick of telling her boyfriends to think about baseball when they were getting too close and she wanted to focus their concentration. It usually worked like a charm.
Then she met Hank.
She was straddling him the first time she whispered “think about baseball”, and he damn near bucked her right off the bed. Unknownst to either them, talking about America’s favorite past time during its second-favorite had just the opposite effect on Hank. Turned him on so much, they began using it as a sex toy all its own.
Then they began exploring and discovered talking about any major American sport had the same effect. She would whisper MLB, NFL, NBA, and even WNBA statistics in his ear and drive him wild. Yeah, she thought it was a little odd, okay, way odd, but she couldn’t argue that the sex was incredible as a result.
And there was something incredibly sexy about the way he would climax, throw his arms up in the air and scream, “It’s GOOOOOOOOOOD!!!”
@Dennis_Frymire
You wouldn’t believe how much concentration it takes to get the needle in the vein now. You wouldn’t understand the dedication it takes to find a vein that will take the needle. They’re like rubber. They are like a clogged sink. My skin is scabby and unusable. Can I buy new skin? New arms? New veins?
How did it come to this? Aren’t I an artist? Where are my paints? Where are my accomplishments? When did I become so shaky? So sweaty? Where along the way did my dreams break and my determination to live take a backseat?
Who is riding beside me in this rusted out vehicle? Where’s my soul? The devil’s pullin’ my hair, it hurts, and feels so good.
They say you chase that first high? But these days, I’m chasing the second and third. It’s never as good as those first couple times. Probably because the shit isn’t as pure, or because I’m so edgy and wired that when it finally filters through my system, I just crash. I close my eyes and curl up in this junk and bile and piss.
It stopped being fun when Suzy died.
It stopped making sense when the smell of blood, urine, and vomit followed me around, like a gut-wrenching cologne.
And as I wanted the dark and desolate streets of my life, I can’t help but wonder when I signed up for this.
‘Fucking junkie,” they say. They whisper it as I pass. And I scream back, I ain’t no fucking junkie. Then I realize I’m not wearing shoes. Why can’t I feel my feet? Whose that staring at me in the shop window? He’s got weird eyes that bore into mine and dark circles like he’s been punched. He’s all jittery.
Now, he’s the fucking junkie.
Yesterday, I saw my mother outside the big new fancy grocery store of Hastings. She had paper bags in her hands. She had this weird poncho draped over her shoulders. When I walked up to her, she said, “I don’t have any change.”
She didn’t recognize me.
She didn’t realize what I’d become.
“Please, mom, I’m a starving artist.”
And the mom, hit home with her.
Her mouth formed a terrified circle of truth. She ran. I wish I could run.
I crouch in the ally, trying to find a vein, trying to erase my mother’s realization, trying to run away. Fucking veins don’t work anymore. Not the ones in my toes, or my arms. The shaking is too much. I can’t undo the buttons on my jeans to even search for a blue thread on my thighs to stab.
Why is my face wet? What the fuck are these? Tears.
My name used to be Thomas.
You can call me Junkie.
Lips pursed as he studied the pieces scattered across the table. Like it or not, he had to try and fix this . . . mess. God how he hated being the responsible one.
Peter spared a moment to send a withering glare in his lover’s direction. This was all Michael’s fault after all. He’d only told him a thousand times to just leave it the hell alone. But no, that would be too much to ask.
“I’m really sorry.” The soft voice barely registered, all his attention was concentrated on the disaster in front of him.
“What were you thinking? Were you thinking?” The venom in his response was unmistakable. “You do know they’re going to charge us for this?”
“I couldn’t help it.” Michael insisted. “I just . . . I got angry and I didn’t think.”
“Well that was obvious. Any ideas on how to fix this?” Peter’s gesture encompassed not only the twinkling fragments but the room as a whole.
“Not a clue. Is it really so bad?”
“I’d say it’s hopeless.”
Michael twisted his head to hide his smirk. “Well then, I guess I’ll have to find something better for us to do.”
“What could possibly be better than watching the play-offs? But YOU had to go and destroy the remote.” Peter paused in his rant, eyes suddenly riveted to his lover as he slowly pulled off the last of his clothes and turned to face him.
“I have a few ideas.” Peter watched the lanky form disappear into their room, his concentration shifting to the heat now coiling in his midsection.
Why not, he decided. It’s still a contact sport.
“Hey, can I buy you a beer?”
The man looked up at the woman who asked, scoffed and held up his beer mug. “I’m good. Thanks.”
She huffed, and took a seat beside him. “Now, Charlie…I know you’re mad at me, but I really wish you would talk to me.”
“Talk to you?” he Charlie looked over the beer he was nursing. “Well, you’ve picked a fine place to talk, huh?”
“But, we do need to-”
“-There’s nothing to talk about, Julia. Nothing at all…unless you thought about what I’ve said?”
Julia sighed, was about to speak when the bartender walked up and took her drink order. Finally, she looked up to Charlie, with pleading emerald green eyes. “Charlie, it’s so hard to think. It’s so hard to think about us being together when…when your own mother doesn’t like me!”
Charlie rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Julia, what does that matter? Is it my mother who sleeps with you? Did my mother get on her knee and ask you to marry her?”
“You haven’t even gotten on your knee to ask me anything!” Julia tossed her hands up in the air, and turned to face him fully.
She was shocked to find Charlie on his knee, his eyes boring through her soul. He looked as though he’d given up on her…with a touch of hope.
“Marry me,” he grabbed her hand, sliding a solitare onto her ring finger. “You think you’re ready to do that?”
Julia placed her hand over her heart, looking around the room for help. But, with the loud music blaring from the jukebox, the people laughing loudly from the three pool tables, and the others drowning themselves in alcohol, who was really paying attention? Who could give her sound advice?
But before Julia could open her mouth to take another breath, Charlie stood up. He shook his head, the chuckle coming out of him not one of humor. “That’s what I thought. You’re not ready yet, Julia.”
“Charlie, you know that I love you.”
“But is it enough?” he glared at her.
She wanted to touch him. Wanted to reassure him that everything would be alright.
Or, at the very least would be…
But, this was when Charlie dropped a fifty on the bar to cover his drinks, grabbed his jacket and said over his shoulder, “You still need to think about us. And the ring? That should be your inspiration of concentration.”
@shells2003
Mike sits slumped over his desk, face in his hands. “This is crazy Mike,” he says aloud to himself. “Just concentrate on your work.” He does not sound very convincing to himself, but he tries.
The words on his computer screen are indistinct. The more Mike tries to focus on the words the more they escape comprehension. He shakes his head, and the words are gone. In their place is her face.
She smiles. Mike shakes his head. “No. No. NO!” he screams. “Get out of my head.” Like a toothed hook, the more Mike pulls at his thoughts of her, the more they become embedded, the more painful they become as well.
Mike slumps over on his desk, face in his hands. He repeats the cycle.
@briefconceits
From outside the bubble he heard muted sirens and the distorted screams and honks of the midday traffic. They all moved at a crawl out there. Within it, all he could discern was his own breathing and heartbeat. His own…and hers. She was just in front of him, behind a fused chunk of asphalt and the rear half of an suv. She didn’t move. He concentrated on swimming towards her.
Somewhere above him floated Radovitch, unconscious, bumping against the torn up bits of pavement and asphalt, crushed cars and one huge chunk of a skyscraper that had gotten caught in the opening volley of psychic blasts that had been his announcement of his presence.
Stupid. He, Jordan, had simply wanted to take Evelyn out of the tower for a days peace. Away from the mystics and sycophants and the fawning courtiers.
Now they were trapped in the psychic blowback from Radovitch’s vicious attack, suspended in a bubble of compressed spacetime some three feet above a New York street.
It was she who had pushed him out of the way and thrown up a reactive barrier at Radovitch’s assault, absorbing the energy then exploding, resulting in this current mess. Perhaps she had not had the time to fine tune it. Whatever the reason, his concentration was all that kept him from being caught and trapped in its time cancelling effects.
He shook his head, cleared his mind, and concentrated on swimming towards her still form.
Forgot to add my Twitter ID:
_Robin_Michelle
Wow! As I’m typing this out we have close to 20 posts already. Wonder how many we’ll have in the end. I love the creative rush of 5MinuteFiction. You guys rock my world.
Now I get to read in leisure as Rob sweats over the nominations. 😉
Thanks everyone. Finalists and poll should be up by 3:00.
Ok, so I remembered the prompt word this time (yay!) and forgot the twitter handle. Sigh… @cynditefft
woops…..@shells2003
Concentration. Etched on her face.
Not what people wanted to see. Not the right fit with the room she waited to enter. It was the wrong move, this pause. The wrong move. A hesitation, a drawing into herself and a striving to concentrate her essence at precisely the moment when seamlessness was wanted. She tried to pull her thoughts together, to stay them and still them within the bright ring of her attention. She wanted to know and name herself, one last single time, before she walked in and married him.
This is late, but I hope you don’t mind me having a quick go, outside the competition … Next week, I’l try to be on time. (@wordhoarding)