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: three
photo by user splorp 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, ME!, 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.
(Did you know I’ve never judged the contest myself? Never, ever? My own contest? About damn time, I say.)
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.
Climbing that fucking ladder.
The corporate workplace seldom rewards true sweat and effort. More often than not, it’s that evil prick in the corner who’s taken your report, word-replaced your name with his and sent it in who gets all the kudos.
Or the jackass in the next cube who’s willing to give a better blowjob.
Real work is passed over by politics. Time and time again. You’ve seen it—I know you have.
But, see, I’ve figured out a way to beat the bastards at their own game.
Take Basman, for example. Smart guy from India, has a lot of degrees. You’d think he’d climb the fucking ladder the right way.
But no. See, he got cozy with the big boss at the Christmas party. The two of them disappeared into a bathroom stall for thirty minutes and just like that.
The Indian fucker’s my boss.
I took a week of his smug gloating, nonsensical orders and dictatorial management style. Then, I discovered the solution to all the fucking ladder climbers.
See, I know Basman loves fast cars. He’s got one of those Audi two-door jobs. Boat-load of speeding tickets in the trunk.
Too bad the breaks failed one morning on the way to work.
It was sad, of course. We were all broken up by his James Dean impersonation. But the big boss asked me to step in ‘for the good of the company.’
So my secret to success is to change the rules a bit. When the fucking ladder-climbers skip a rung or two, just even the odds.
I have just about everything I want now. And believe-you-me I worked for it. Just about everything.
Except Steve has that corner office with the nice view of the three rivers…
@rbwood
I watched him carefully as he paced. Once, twice, three times he made a complete circuit of the room in clipped, angry steps before he turned to me.
“So that’s it, then? You’re sorry?”
I spread my hands in front of me and shrugged weakly. “I don’t know what else I can say.”
He glared at me. His anger came so infrequently that every time was a shock and shook me to the core. And even the other times, no matter how bad they’d been, he’d never looked at me like this. I shivered.
“Look,” I said, hating the tremor in my voice, “I’ll do whatever I can to fix this. It was my fault. I know. I am sorry. Truly. Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”
His expression hardened, the lines of his face rigid and his eyes narrow.
“Don’t be here when I get back,” he said, his voice cold enough to shatter. And something did shatter. At least it felt like something did, right in my core.
“Pete…”
He turned his back on me. “I mean it, Jake,” he said, as he walked out. “Don’t let me see you again.”
“Okay, Let’s get this straight! How many of you are there again?” Jasmine’s head was pounding from all the mental exertion.
Phillip, all of them, gave a puzzled look. “Three.” they said in unison. “It’s not that hard to figure out.”
“I’m Phillip from the present time,” Philip said.
“I’m Phillip from a war-torn apocalyptic future of horror,” Phillip said.
“And I’m Phillip also from the present time, but from an alternate reality in which mutant asparagus monsters rule the earth,” Phillip said.
Jasmine’s eyes moved from one Phillip to the next. “You all look the same. You’re even wearing the exact same shirt!”
“There was a sale a Kohl’s,” the Phillips said.
@briefconceits
http://briefconceits.com
They had always been two. For almost twenty years, Eloise and Ezekiel. Two halves of a whole, partners in crime, soulmates. But always two. They had never had children–the way Zeke was, what was the point? It wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t help that he had been born with some kind of bizarre rage brewing inside of him that would bubble over at the slightest threat. He loved Eloise, had hurt her once, once and never again, and he couldn’t risk it with a baby. Eloise could duck. A baby couldn’t.
So they had never had children, never had nieces or nephews or let anyone else in, just the two of them, always two, and they were happy that way until the day that they met Amy.
It had been Eloise’s idea to volunteer at the group home for their Christmas dinner. Zeke didn’t know why at the time. Even after many, many years, he would never be able to figure out what it was that had made Eloise think that this was what they needed to do, but nevertheless, off they went.
She had come up to him, Amy, small and thin and three years old, had come up to Zeke, held out her arms, and declared “Up, daddy.” He didn’t know why, would never know why, but he didn’t hesitate. He picked her up, kissed her cheeks, tugged on her pigtails. By the time the five hours were up, they were in the office beginning the preliminary paperwork.
Maybe Eloise had known something Zeke didn’t when she decided that they needed to do what they had done. Maybe Eloise had known that Amy was there, waiting, three years old, three feet tall, and waiting to make Zeke and Eloise’s two into three, complete, a family.
@faithlesstreet on Twitter and I hope I did this right this time!
She’s talking. And talking. She’s going to have to take a breath in…
One, two, three. Ok, now!
“So, here’s the thing,” I spit out, speaking faster than I should, to purge the words from my consciousness before she can interrupt. “I know you’re in love with him and all, but he’s not good enough for you.”
“Yeah, right,” she responds with a twist of her mouth and starts to take a breath, but I launch back in before she can get going again.
“No, it’s true. He slept with your best friend.” There. I said it.
She looks at me blankly. “But you’re my best friend.”
“I know.”
Silence.
One, two, three. Please say something! I wait all damn day for you to stop talking and now when I want you to say something, you’re just staring at me.
Crack! My face stings with the imprint of her hand.
“Thanks,” I said.
@cynditefft
Lucifer clucked softly. Black eyes grazed over the three souls hovering in the air. Three really was a wonderful number, he mused. Screw that six-six-six number of the beast shit Christians rambled on about incessantly, three was his perfect number.
At least at the moment.
“Will they do, sire?” a frail demon asked from the back of the room. No one made it further than a foot or two inside his private rooms. For some reason they thought the intrusion would land their head on a pike. Could have something to do with the rotting carcasses chained up outside the doors.
Lucifer shrugged the thought away and refocused on the three perfect souls before him. They were untainted by the war between him and the Creator. Had they substance he would gather them close and hold them, simply to feel innocence again. It had been a very long time since he could claim to be innocent. The stars were nothing but newborns when he first began to realize that all was not right with the Creator’s plan.
“They will do, Trynt. Take these to the birthing center.” He watched the demon tip toe into the room. A silver net flung over the bright orbs, trapping them without harming their essence.
“What will ya do with ’em?” Trynt asked, hoisting the bag over his bony shoulder.
“I feel the need to have more children.” Lucifer said simply. For once he wanted to bring a being into the world that didn’t reek of evil. The universe was about balance, and he was setting to tip the scales heavily in his favor.
@RCMurphy
3:33 a.m.
Again she wakes up. Same time, every night without fail. She is fussy and colicky. Nothing soothes her. He wonder’s if this is the reason they left her in front of the church.
He picks her up gently. She smiles and coos at him, as if it were a game they were playing. But it only lasts a second. Soon she contorts and complains. And cries.
He is ill suited for the job of a mother. Joined the order when he was sixteen, never even contemplated the possibility of parenthood. And here he is, fifty years later, holding a child in his arms.
He sings to her, like his mother sang to him many years ago, and eventually she succumbs to sleep. Tomorrow morning, he’ll call the archdiocese first thing and have her transfered to the proper facility. But tonight, he’ll enjoy this inconvenience a little longer.
“You look wonderful.”
The genuine compliment buoyed Thomas’ confidence. He’d been so unsure of how to dress for this evening. It didn’t help that his boyfriend was being more close-mouthed than usual about their plans.
“Are you ready?”
Robert’s voice snapped him out of his reverie and before he knew it they were in the car and on their way.
“So, what, exactly, is this all about?” Thomas finally broke the silence to ask.
“Can’t I surprise you for our anniversary?”
“Anniversary? This isn’t our anniversary.”
“Our third, to be precise.” Robert’s eyes were fixed on the road, but his unease was apparent in the way his hands tightened on the wheel.
“We’ve been dating for 7 months, how is this our third anniversary?” Thomas knew he had to ask, he’d never decipher the oddball logic on his own.”
“Well, one is the anniversary of the first time we met. Two is the anniversary of our first kiss. This is number three, the most important of all, the anniversary of the first time you told me you loved me.”
“That isn’t how anniversaries work, silly.” Thomas struggled not to laugh. “There aren’t different ones for different events.”
“Well then, there should be,” Robert countered as he leaned in to kiss the lips that had been tempting him all evening. “I want to celebrate this everyday.”
“I think we can come up with something. At least for such an important anniversary as the third.” Thomas muttered when the kiss broke. “But for now, let’s just get back to celebrating.”
@SesshaBatto
Everyone said it was a miracle that the triplets had survived their childhoods, what with being born blind and all. John, the oldest by a couple of minutes, had always made it his job to watch after his brothers. It had been easy, when they were young, before Mom and Dad had died. There was a difference between making sure that nobody stepped out into the street and making sure that no one starved to death.
John sighed and listened at the entrance to the house. It seemed empty, to his ears, so in they had gone. It was a bit cold, but being out of the wind at this time of year was important.
And it seemed, if his nose was telling the truth, that someone had left some food out. Food? Was the place really empty? The thought resonated in John, but before he had a chance to act on it and get his brothers out, he heard footsteps coming up the front walk.
The door opened and then John heard a shriek.
“Aiiiiee! Mice! I told you to block up that hole! Now get me my carving knife.”
@olinj
Three souls interconnected, weaving together in the aether without full knowledge of each other. Two beings pivoting around another, knowing each other in cosmic awareness but without detail.
How does it fit? How does it work on the blackboard in my soul that tallies the pluses and minuses of my karma? I love him. She loves him. He loves her. He loves me. Surely love is good, right?
Three souls interconnected, weaving together in the aether without full knowledge of each other. Two beings pivoting around another, knowing each other in cosmic awareness but without detail.
How will it end? Will I continue to take my place in the pantheon of those who love, worship and adore him, satisfied that I am to remain there, forever? Perhaps I will continue to go within, to learn my own capacity for love and compassion with this relationship, this love, as teacher.
Three souls interconnected, weaving together in the aether without full knowledge of each other. Two beings pivoting around another, knowing each other in cosmic awareness but without detail.
As comets, as asteroids shooting blindingly brightly through each others; night skies, the dance of avoidance is daily. Remaining hot, bright and intense without injury requires sustained effort; I get tired, he gets tired, I’m sure she gets tired too but doesn’t know why.
Three souls interconnected, weaving together in the aether without full knowledge of each other. Two beings pivoting around another, knowing each other in cosmic awareness but without detail.
It’s inevitable. It’s inescapable. It’s infinite. It’s eternal. It’s Love.
@AlcyoneAlchemy
Brother Kevin huddled against the wall of the round tower, his knees pulled tightly to his chest. His jaw chattered uncontrollably his whole body shook, never had he known such fear.
He had heard about the raiders from the north, pirates spawned from the loins of demons, how they struck with lightning speed, leaving only devestation in their wake. He had heard… now he had seen. Three fellow monks lay dead in the grounds of the abbey, their heads caved in, their limbs hanging loose from savage cuts.
He could hear the harsh guttural barking of the sea raiders as they circled the tower, trying to find a way in, trying to get to the booty, trying to get to him.
“Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…” he began, but his voice shook and he could not continue. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think about the dead monks. He knew he shouldn’t have pulled up the ladder he knew he shouldn’t have shut the door. In his minds eye he could see them fall one after another, see the looks of horror and betrayl on their faces as he barred them from the tower
Lying beside him was a sack, golden goblets and crucifix’s spilled onto the floor. It was for this, these belongings of God the demons had come.
He heard a loud thud and then a crash, “Oh merciful Lord,” he whimpered. The sound of boots rushing up the wooden steps filled him with terror. He had already wet himself, long ago.
The door to his small refuge splintered open, and he screamed…
“What does this mean?”
I looked up from my book to meet my lover’s gaze, his eyes bright with curiosity. I wanted to sigh. It was just another straw in the pile of reasons we were poorly suited.
With infinite care I marked my page, 393, and closed the novel. A flicker darkened his face.
“Why won’t you use a bookmark?” A pet peeve he never failed to remark upon.
“If I can’t remember something so simple as a page number, Ryan, there’s a problem,” I murmured, rising to join him at his desk. A stack of files waited, ominous in their simplicity.
How is it that such things can be so complicated, and yet so easy, when all’s said and done?
He did sigh. We did that far to often, that passive expression of exasperation pushing vexed air and energy at each other. “Anyways. What’s this?” he asked again and I leaned over his desk, refusing to sit in the chair waiting, to let him treat me as supplicant; it would weaken my position far too much.
“Petition for Disolution,” I answered, sliding one deceptively thin for what it would end.
“Quit Deed,” I slid another over, my signatures already gracing the pages that would end my claim on this simple house.
“You’re leaving.” His voice went flat and cold as a steel blade.
“It’s time and then some,” I replied. He pressed his fingers down onto his blotter so hard his knuckles lost their color, showing stark white.
He looked up at me, blue eyes gone brittle, icy, blue. “I won’t forgive you.”
I nodded. All my belongings were gone, everything back and stowed in my car. “I know.”
“Get out.” I expected a louder, more extensive confrontation.
He grabbed my book before I could retrieve it and I slipped into my coat. His grip tightened on the spine when I reached my hand out for it.
“Read it then,” I said. “Perhaps you’ll find answers to the questions you’re refusing to ask.”
@AislingWeaver
Three times he told me he loved me.
Three times he told me to stay.
Three times he told me to kiss him.
Three times he made my day.
Three times he asked me to dance.
Three times he swept me across the floor.
Three times he said he’d never leave me.
Three times he rocked me to my core.
Three times he came home late.
Three times he told me he didn’t lie
Three times whiskey graced his breath
Three times I locked myself int he bathroom to cry
Three times he lost his temper
Three times he called me foul names
Three times he apologized
Three times I forgave his games.
Three times he brought his fist down
Three times I flinched and cowered
THree times he forced himself upon me
Three times I shook with fright as I showered.
Three bruises marred my skin
Three beads of blood dropped from my nose
Three times I told him to stop
Three times I suffered his blows.
Three times I begged for help
Three times God didn’t hear my prayers
Three times I called the cops
Three times I put up the nay-sayers
Three times I promised myself it would end
Three times I was scolded for what I lack
Three times I vowed I’d stop him.
And this time he won’t come back.
Sandy couldn’t wait to get back home. She’d had the time of her life on vacation and was walking briskly through the airport to the baggage claim. She stopped to fish her iPhone out of her purse when she heard it ringing.
“Hello?”
“Sandy? You’re back! That’s great, cause I need to talk to you,” she heard her sister say through the phone.
“Carla! Hey!” Sandy smiled, going down on the escalator. “You miss me?”
“Yes, but Sandy-”
“-Oh, my goodness. You won’t believe the fun I’ve had,” Sandy started gushing. “Everyone should go to Italy. It’s beautiful there this time of year. Cold, but gorgeous.”
“That’s great, Sandy. But-”
“-And the food?” Sandy’s eyes seemed to roll in her head, “Oh, my goodness. You’ve never really had pasta until you’ve been there.”
“I’m sure it was great, but Sandy-”
“-And the men!” Sandy started to laugh as she made her way to the baggage claim. The bags weren’t coming out yet, so she simply waited. “They were so sweet and hospitible. They showed me around, and a few even exchanged contact information. You know. The usual. Cell, home, IM-”
“Sandy!”
“Hotmail, Facebook, home address-”
“Oh, my god! Sandy!”
“Facebook, Myspace, Bebo-”
“Sandy, would you shut up for three seconds!”
Sandy finally frowned, listening to the anxiousness in her sister’s voice. “Goodness, Carla. What’s gotten into you?”
There was a pause. “Honey, are you sitting down?”
Sandy sighed with agitation. “No, of course not. I’m waiting for my luggage. Now, for heavens sakes, tell me what’s wrong so I can get back to my story.”
“Sandy!” Carla’s voice cracked when she said her sister’s name.
For the first time, Sandy noticed her sister sounded more…sad than anything else. “Carla…are you crying?”
Carla sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, we all are right about now. And I need you to sit down so I-”
“Just tell me, Carla,” Sandy interrupted her sister for the umpteenth time. “What’s wrong?”
“We tried calling you, Sandy. We really did,” Carla said apologetically. “You never answered your phone. And we couldn’t leave this in a voice message.”
Sandy sighed just as she saw her luggage coming towards her. But, as soon as she grabbed it, she dropped it as soon as she heard her sister’s words…
“Sandy, mom died. She had a really bad stroke, and didn’t make it.”
“What’s your favorite number?” Jes asked me.
“Twenty-seven”, I replied, almost before the last syllable was out.
Jes blinked. “Twenty-seven? That’s a odd favorite number.”
“Yes. Twenty-seven is odd. Very good.”
She smacked my shoulder.
“No, idiot. Odd as in _weird_.”
“No, it’s not. It’s perfect.”
“Perfect? Jeez. It’s just a number.”
“Hey, you asked, not me.”
“And you seemed pretty ready with it. All right. Why is more perfect than eleven, which, by the way is mine. Eleven is prime, by the way.”
“Yes. I know. Very good.” I could tell this wasn’t going the way Jes wanted it, but I can’t help teasing her on the rare occasion she shows me somewhere teasable. “Ok. Twenty-seven is perfect. It’s Three threes of threes. Self replicated, triangular, stable. Numerological perfection.”
She looked at me, incredulous. “That’s it? What bout two twoos, or four, fours of fours of fours?”
I looked at her scornfully. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No! What’s the _matter_ with you?”
It was getting harder to keep a straight face.
“You really have no idea, do you?”
“No idea what the matter is with you, certainly. Why is 27 so much better? than those other numbers.”
“I told you. Because it’s perfect.” I figured I had about 27 seconds left before Jes lost it. “Just like you.”
I kissed her. I think that bought me another 27 seconds. Maybe more.
@_Monocle_
Oh, yeah, forgot the @_Monocle_ there.
You like that prompt? Rather simplistic but you could just go anywhere with it.
Speaking of going places, go recover, but be back at 3:00 when I’ll have the finalists posted. Did you see I’m judging this week? Heeheehee.
“So, what do you do besides work in a bookstore that you don’t like very much?” she said quickly changing topics.
“Well, I’m a writer,” he said begrudgingly, followed by a long swig of beer.
“Oh, you write?”
“Not really.”
“So, you’re a writer who doesn’t write?”
“More or less.” He drank again.
“That doesn’t make any sense. Are you any good?”
“I used to think so.” A long, solemn look washed over his face as he realized where he was, who he was talking to, and how he was not at another drunken pity party with his best friend. He quickly forced a grin.
“Why don’t you write?” she dug further.
“Let’s just call it three year’s worth of writer’s block.”
“That’s sad, you know that? Having a gift like that and not using it. You could be the next Wordsworth or Keats or something?!”
“Well, maybe I’m just no good anymore?”
“I don’t know about that. Something tells me you’re good, just rusty.” Her words had a calming influence on him and he could hardly believe how or why she was affecting him so.
“Well, you don’t know me that well, yet.” He drank again. “I’d hate to disappoint so soon at the beginning of our relationship.”
“Oh, so this is a relationship now?” She stood back, arms crossed, obviously amused by the whole dialog developing.
“Wouldn’t you say so? Or am I moving too fast for you?”
“For me, no, but my boyfriend might think so.”
“A crushing blow,” he said quietly, smiling and trying to remain composed. He had often wondered why in situations like this, where your heart goes aflutter and you begin having thoughts of the future and all sorts of cordial nonsense, that the fairer sex waits so long, after so much obvious sexual banter to mention “him,” the elusive boyfriend. Did women, at times like this, get a kick out of knowing that they had single-handedly, with one decisive blow, rendered their victim useless? He could, for all intents and purposes, spot a fake. For instance, if a girl was a little too happy flashing around her new diamond engagement ring, it usually meant that it was imitation, nothing but a cubic zirconium, and she was just avoiding the inevitable sexual misconducts from her male patrons. This was understandable and most men could handle this. However, when situations like the present one came up, when she had to have known he was fond of her, why did she wait so long? Maybe it was just to spare his feelings before any further development of their liaison?
He shook himself out of this train of thought realized what he was doing, where his mind was headed. He had known the girl for minutes and was already convincing himself why their connection wasn’t working. He sank deep into his seat and took a drink of his beer, hastily polishing off the rest of it. He tried to act like it didn’t bother him, but even a toddler could have noted the changes in his demeanor.
@robhollywood
Oh! I forgot to include the @olinj in my entry. Oops.