And we call it 5MinuteFiction because you write a nice little piece of fiction in five minutes. Crazy people that we are. Are you new? Get in there and start scrapping!
The Rules
* You get five minutes to write a piece of prose in any style or genre
* You must directly reference today’s prompt: grant
(Note: The prompt is the word. The picture is for decoration/inspiration.)* 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, Kendra C. Highley, @KendraHighley will nominate five finalists. I’ll put the nominees in the poll on the side of the page, and at 9:00 EST tomorrow 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.
Your time is up.
They’re hard, endings. This is yours. I’m sorry.
You had a good run. God granted you many good things.
You were young, and strong, and beautiful. Pain, and grief, and loss were things you knew little of. Be grateful, little one.
If, perhaps, there were things you missed, like the wedding, the children, true love and true friendship, know that you also missed their endings.
Your life was brief. But you lived it with vigor and enthusiasm, and you left it quietly and with grace.
Goodbye.
Grant always turned her on, she couldn’t help herself. His muscles were like iron, his posture so straight, his will just as strong. She spent many a day trapped in her pathetic cubicle, dreaming of Grant, fantasizing about getting him off that horse, about what it would take to woo him. She’d go to the water cooler several times an hour, just to glance out the window and sneak a peek at “her man.” If only he would turn his head this way! But he never did.
She tried applying self-bronzing lotion and spent her lunch hours in his presence, but he never noticed.
When she began to dream in verdegris, she knew she was in real trouble.
I read over the thick paper again, trying desperately to hold my face still. The courtiers were all talking, their small groups scattered about the room, but even the dogs at my feet shifted uneasily under their glances.
I stood and the room went quiet.
“We will grant the Prince of Kisscine an audience. We wish to end this war.” My voice carried over the room, and eyes went wide. I know longer cared what they thought, only that they were safe.
@Sachula
The ticking tok of his pocket watch would eventually drive him mad. And noble Barnes, who spun such yarns, asked to show the world what he had. His entreaties at night, he did them despite, the fact that he didn’t believe in God. Well the sadness he consumed, by the light of the moon, tempted him to return to his pod. The glow it did dim, and his every whim, seemed gradually more out of place. On the back of his door, though it left him quite sore, he stared in the mirror at his face. Lines around his eyes, and his bittersweet lies, he failed to recognize. Who he’d become, someone so dumb, someone he could only despise. Ghostly words came, and so did the rain, and loneliness hunched his shoulders in. He wanted to be free, to get off his knees, but he didn’t know where to begin. The only thing that stayed, the thing that never swayed, was the tick of his watch in his pants. Out on the street, little kids with bare feet, started to run, skip and dance. But little Barnes stared, move he did not dare, for the devil was upon his back. The sky it did break, lightening did rake, and he gathered his things in a sack. As he left the house, quiet as a mouse, his mother called, “Return to me soon.” Ten years dead, the woman stayed in his head, and Barnes cursed the batty old loon. For crazy did run, and not very fun, in the family he called his own. But truth be told, as he grew old, he realized he was all alone. On and on he did rant, forgiveness he did not grant, for the foolish life that he lead. And Barnes did leave, his heart on his sleeve, his sorrow he wanted to weed. In the light of the day, nothing seemed okay, and he felt the tears start to fall. As he walked on, he felt so wrong, and his mother she did call. To him she said, go back to bed, but sleep was the last thing on his mind. So, he took a few steps more, like he did a hundred times before, searching for a sanity he’d never find.
To be a priestess meant forever asking boons of those much more powerful than herself, to kiss the feet of spirits who could crush human bones with a wayward thought. It was to sit until her back ached, hunched over until her spine resembled that of a turtle’s. She had done this for many seasons on end, since she was old enough to set foot in the temple. She grew to womanhood hunched over, hands pressed flat against the stone floors as she begged the spirits to hear her plea, to intervene in the ways of the world.
She had thought they had answered her prayers when from the ashes of a dark world came a hero, one keen of eye and brave of heart. Her bows had turned to excited rocking, praising the gods for their goodness.
A summer later, she had watched the hero fall. His blessed body had been dashed on the rocks; the next spring’s seedlings would be nourished by his blood.
She entered the temple with her back straight. She passed her hunched sisters, ignoring their gasps. She set her feet firmly on the altar and lifted herself to her full height. She would beg no longer. The time of mercy had passed. This time, the spirits would not receive pleas.
This time, it would be the priestess who gave the commands.
John looked out the window of the train. Was he really here? He blinked and looked at the sign, but still couldn’t believe it. Grantville. He was here at last. He stood, pulled down his luggage and got off the train. He stood there for a few moments on the platform, but saw no one. His buddies were all getting off and rushing towards signs with their names, or families, or girlfriends, all hugging and tears. John just stood there, with no one there to see him.
He sighed. He picked up his luggage again, slinging one bag over his shoulder so he could carry it all, and lugged it to a taxi. It was the longest taxi ride ever, alone, heading back home to a small town just outside Grantville, where his parent’s farm was. Home. Was it really that? He had been away for so long, see and done some much. Could he really call any place home anymore?
And what was worse, no one seemed to want him back.
The taxi pulled up just outside of the one road village and stopped. When John asked what he was doing, the driver said “I got a call to drop you off here. So I’m dropping you off here.”
John growled, got out of the taxi and pulled his luggage out of the trunk. It felt like that was all he had done since he arrived, pull his luggage. Then, he walked down the main street towards the Bank of America, where there would be a phone. That was when the confetti fell from the sky.
John looked up, and heard music. A high school marching band. A banner fell from the top of the bank, and it read “Welcome Home John!”
Tears felled his eyes as he saw the band march from around the corner, followed by a parade of the whole town. They were all cheering, and his parents came running up to him.
“Welcome home, Son,” his dad said, hugging him. “Welcome home.”
@blanchardauthor
“I will grant you one wish. Should you use that wish to wish for more wishes, the original offer of a wish will be voided. Do you understand?”
Brad looked from the empty Coke bottle in his hand to the genie and back again. Someone slipped something in his drink while he was taking a leak. That explained everything. But why chose a genie to hallucinate? He frowned, more at his fucked up subconscious than the green creature giving him an impatient look.
“Well? I’m not going to float here all day.” The genie tapped a pen against the contract laying on the table.
“No one else can see you.”
“They didn’t summon me. Now sign the damn thing. I’m missing a Buffy marathon.” A green hand slammed the pen down.
“Okay, fine.” What did he have to lose?
Brad scribbled his name at the bottom of the contract. The genie grinned, showing off a set of chompers a piranha would be proud of. “One more step before you can wish.”
“Wha- Ow!” Brad glared down at the pen. A thin blade stuck out of it. Blood welled up from the small wound in his finger and dripped down onto his signature. It soaked into the page and vanished.
“Now that the legal bullshit is over, mind telling me what you want?” The genie gave a bored look.
“Yeah, sure.” He grabbed a napkin out of the metal container on the table. “I wish Joss Whedon never created Buffy.”
@RCMurphy
“Is it done?”
My eyelids fought gravity as I lifted my head to meet my partner’s anxious gaze. With a sigh I pushed the printout across the desk.
“Done and submitted.”
Vera dropped into the chair across from me with a sigh that expressed every ache and worry wracking my body.
“We need this grant, Fi.” Her gaze, purple and surreal, held mine and shoved down the swell of frustration.
“I did the best I could, my friend.” She dropped her head, colorless hair swirling free of its netting for a brief moment. I watched it halo around her head. The populus didn’t know how to handle the Outer Reaches’ newest immigrants. They couldn’t accept they were just as real as a human was.
A quicksilver tear streamed down Vera’s cheek and I caught it, lifting it to let the sugary sweet drop explode on my tongue.
“Let’s go home, love,” I whispered, tugging her to her feet. “We won’t know for at least a solar cycle whether we’ve a chance.” Vera yielded to my touch and I led her from the office.
We were compatible.
And if we got our grant we would prove just how much. Until then I was more than happy to distract my friend and lover reminding her what we sought was more than our dream.
@AislingWeaver
“Oh, look at this! Isn’t this just beautiful?” Sally held up an antique glass bottle. It shimmered with a rainbow of colors in the sun.
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” grumbled Mike, wondering how much this little flea market excursion was going to set them back. He watched, squinty-eyed, as Sally handed over what appeared to be several bills for the stupid bottle and then carefully placed it into her bag with all the other junk she’d purchased. *God, I hope we’re done soon. I need a beer.*
An hour later and they were home. Mike grabbed a couple bottles of beer and headed to his den. There had to be some game on. There was no way he was getting roped into helping Sally find places for all the stuff she’d brought home. She’d probably pile everything in the middle of the dining room table while she figured it out. His life sucked.
His stomach grumbled. *A sandwich would be good.* Mike lumbered into the kitchen. He was just turning out of the fridge, arms full of food, when ~crash~, he heard something glass break. A noxious grey smoke billowed up from the floor. Choking and gasping, bent down to see what had broken. It was the rainbow bottle Sally had just bought. He was going to have hell to pay. Ew, there had been some sort of something alive in the bottle, too. Mike lifted his foot. Just as he brought it down, he thought he heard a small voice shout, “I can grant you three wis…”
@_Robin_Michelle
The sound of the guns in the distance roared, the booming cannons quivering the earth’s flesh beneath her feet and his knees. Wagons raced past, women and children grasping the side boards for dear life. Mary Watkins shouted from the head board of hers, slowing slightly, ‘Martha, you MUST hurry, they’re coming, and fast, make haste dearheart, make haste!’, then she disappeared in a cloud of dust from the track, her horses’ hooves thundering into the distance.
‘I love you, Martha, I don’t know long I’ll be gone, or if I’ll ever come back, but please, I must go fight. Grant me this one wish before I go, promise me you’ll be my bride, my sweet, beautiful, passionate bride upon my return. I cannot bear the thought of months or years of this fight unsure as to whether you wait here for my return or will some other fellow steal your heart, please, I beg you, answer me now’. Ben had pleaded, his hands clasped together, his brow furrowed, on both knees in front of her for her promise.
”Ben, my love, my love is yours. Should you die, should I never see or hear from you again I will carry my love for you into eternity with me. Should you be harmed and unable to speak I shall speak for you if you wish it. Should you be blinded and unable to see, I shall describe for you in every detail all that mine own eyes shall see. Should your legs or arms be broken and beyond repair I shall fetch and carry all that you could need or wish for. I promise to be all that I can be for you. Carry this knowledge with you alway, there is endless, infinite love here for you, let is sustain you when your body is sore, your mind tired and your spirit weakened; feel it, remember it and let it give strength.”
He rose to his feet, tears streaming down his face as she cupped his cheeks in her hands and moved her lips towards his for the most tender of kisses, perhaps their last…..
@AlcyoneAlchemy
The queen had power. She could order ones death or grant a pardon at the wave of a hand. Upward meant life, downward meant a sharp, searing pain to the neck and a coffin that was 12 inches shorter then it would normally needed to be.
She knew her power. She liked it. She had been raised with the understanding that one day her power would be absolute. She could be as kind or as ruthless as she wished to be. In her 21 years of life, she had been kind, granting pardons as they came to her. She couldn’t imagine becoming a tyrant.
Never had she imagined her hand would be forced like this.
When they brought her enemy to the throne room for trial, surprise filled the great hall as she started to laugh. For endless minutes the delirious laugh pierced castle walls. Of course it would be him. She was blind and stupid to think her lover would never betray her. The lesson of the day was one she would take with her to her grave. She let him stand there squirming for endless minutes as she laughed and laughed.
Finally, with tears in her eyes, from laughing or not no one could tell, she let her hand drop then sat and watched as his head did the same. Swift, final punishment. The tyrant unleashed.
@JulesCarey
An Diabhal sa Fear ciúin
Long ago, a village lay at the foot of the Mourne Mountains. A collection of drab, white-washed cottages topped with yellow and brown thatch. One day a stranger rode into town on a tall black horse.
“The name’s Flanagan,” he said in an exotic Yankee drawl, as he stooped to enter a smoky hostelry. He had returned to the old country in search of his relatives, he told the assembled patrons. None had heard of any Flanagan’s living locally. Save for one old boy, but he kept his whist, drained his whiskey and slunk out the door.
He had a memory of a Flanagan alright, Mary Flanagan. He was but knee high to a grasshopper at the time, but he still remembered vividly the night they dragged her, spitting and cursing from her cottage. Witch and Devil’s harlot they called her. His face was pressed to his mother’s skirts, lest he witness the black deed done that day. But he still remembered her screams.
“Can I buy you boys a drink,” the tall Yank asked three local lads.
“Aye, sir. That’d be grand.” The three supped pints of porter.
“Do ye like a game o’ chance?” they asked the stranger, winking at each other, for they had a quare way o’ dealing a hand of cards, in the shadow of the Mourne Mountains.
“Why I like nothing better,” the stranger grinned, good naturedly.
With neither a curse nor a frown the strangers pile of Yankee dollars crossed the table, while the boys drunk his black ale and gut twisting whiskey. “Well you’ve plum cleaned me out, I’ll grant ya that. I’ve not a dime left.” he said.
The local lads had done well, but greed is an awful thing and the accumulation of wealth is as frustrating to a young man as chasing its tail is to a dog.
“Have ye nought left to wager, what about yer watch?” said one
“Or yer gold cufflinks?” said another.
“Well I do have one thing,” the stranger grinned, fishing a gold sovereign, thick as your thumb, from his waistcoat pocket. “What would you boys stake for this little ol’ thing? Would you bet your immortal soul?”
The old man who ran from the inn reached his cottage just as a wind wailed across the mountain, he shivered at remembered tales, from his youth, of banshees riding the mountain winds.
The stranger put down his cards, four aces. The boys put down there’s one by one. All their cards were blank, not a mark, not a symbol. The man began to laugh, not the good natured rumble of before but a harsh, mocking cackle. The three young men of the village covered their ears with their hands, but nothing could drown the demonic howl.
The old man heard laughter in the air, a woman’s laughter. An image of Mary Flanagan came unbidden to his mind.
Nya couldn’t seem to close her mouth. Everything had frozen. Her thoughts, her fingers (which still clutched the old perfume bottle), her face, and most particularly, the giant orange genie that hovered in the air five feet away from her.
It had all started with a flea market. Nya’s father was obsessed with them. Every Saturday she couldn’t go to the mall, couldn’t hang out with her friends, couldn’t go to a movie. No, she got dragged from the house at ungodly hours and was forced to follow her father through table after table of other people’s junk. Junk that then became her father’s junk. Junk that had taken over their entire house until it had pushed her mother right out.
The funny thing was, Nya’s father thought she liked these outings. “And then you bought the pink parasol with your very own money!” he would shout, retelling the story of their very first flea market journey.
Yes, she wanted to say, but that was ten years ago when I was five years old. It had never occurred to him that she might change her mind.
She saw the bottle on a table. It was the palest coral color with a fancy glass stopper and, of course, her father was happy to buy it for her. She’d fingered it all the way home, remembering how mom’s favorite dress had been just this color.
It seemed like an ordinary bottle until she opened it up and the orange, beaming genie appeared in a cloud of yellow smoke.
“I shall grant you three wishes,” he pronounced.
Feeling her face slowly unfreeze, Nya smiled. This was going to be good.
@SonshineMusic
The Reverend stepped backwards, his arm outstretched, holding the rusted bronze cross in his hand so tight that he could feel the intricate detail being indented into his palms.
“Get back! Filth, non-creature, I command you to get back!”
The thing in front of him smirked, drool the colour of dirty grey dripping down onto his chin. His skin was puckered with age and burns and black, and his eyes gleamed at the Reverend, promising pain and
The Reverend gagged, the smell of its semi-rotting flesh catching at the back of his throat and in his nostrils. He could feel it seeping inside him, like a deadly gas, the blackness flooding through his body and gripping his organs with its cancer. He retched, doubling over and almost losing his grip on the cross, his only source of safety in this moment. He held it up again, and spoke, his voice
“Stay away! Creature of the night, stay away! Oh lord, grant me the strength to do away with this unclean thing, grant me the power, grant me the…”
“Your god can do nothing now,” said the creature, spitting out the words like bile, his strands of matted grey hair sticking to his skin. It cackled, the sound low and ugly. “You’re alone. All alone. In here. With me.”
The doctor looked in at the man brandishing his toothbrush out in front of him, as if it could protect him from the monsters in his head. His white hospital gown hung open at the back, showing the bones sticking out sharply from under his skin, and his buttocks, pale white like the rest of him.
“As you can see, there’s been no obvious change.”
The other man, dressed in a checked shirt and tie, sighed. “Such a shame. He has a family doesn’t he?”
“Yes, a wife and two kids.”
“Do they visit?”
“Sometimes.”
“A shame. Such a shame.”
@Skyfall2
1 Kings 12:11b
“‘My father scourged you with whips; I will scourge you with scorpions.'”
The cafe next to our hotel handed out weapons with every order. The proprietor was a short bowling ball of a man with an unpronounceable name and a drooping pushbroom mustache – the only spot of hair above his neck.
The cafe tables were standing-height. Most customers were dine-in and stood around silently with the morning paper and, like mercenaries awaiting deployment, their weapon hung on their belts, slung on their purses, or right on the tabletop. When they left they deposited their weapons in a basket near the counter.
Every so often the busboy would fetch the basket and dump its clattering contents into some unseen bin behind the counter. This is what we saw being done when we entered and we tried our best overlay our surprise with nonchalance. Martha almost turned right back outside if it weren’t for my firm yank on her sleeve.
The man in front of us purchased a small cappuccino with a shot of something, and with it on the saucer came a pair of previously used brass knuckles. They clinked dangerously against the porcelain as he taxied to a table.
Martha ordered a medium Americano. “Ah,” the owner said. His bristling facial hair sensed our nationality. “You get wheep of cords. Ess good choice.”
She received her drink and flung the whip over her shoulder calmly, giving her short-haired head the look of an off-center, discolored ponytail.
“Ah,” the owner repeated with a proud demeanor and brightening Arab eyes when I ordered a large Americano. “You the first. I grant wheep of scorpion.”
It wasn’t the first time I knew I had a rex regina-complex, but it only was after we downed our beverages and fled the cafe that I resolved, in a world of republics and symbolic regencies, to actively pursue the monarchy.
@jaybreak
“What’s your plan, Doctor Malevolent?” Captain Amazing said through gritted teeth as he struggled in vain against the nega-beams holding him. “What is the end game?”
Doctor Malevolent smiled wickedly, “Endgame. Such an appropriate word for this occasion. Grant me an opportunity to inform you of my plans,” Doctor Malevolent turned to the monitor with the countdown display (currently at 04:13:27). “In approximately four minutes the world will be destroyed. My super-virus has already infected all major military computer networks across the globe. It only needs to be activated, and then all missile installations will be under my control. The vast arsenal of the United States and Russia alone will destroy the world a hundred times over in sweet beautiful nuclear annihilation.”
“But you’ll be destroyed along with everyone else! Why would you do that?” Captain Amazing’s eyes betrayed a hint of fear swelling deep within him.
“I’ve grown tired of this game called life, Captain.” Doctor Malevolent said. “It’s time to to bring things to a close.” Doctor Malevolent sighed. “I rather hoped it would not be this easy, the destruction of the human race. All well. We can’t have everything we want, can we? Make peace with your God, Captain Amazing. You have two and a half minutes.”
@briefconceits
http://briefconceits.com
They say misery loves company.
Well, that person lied. Katie is the most miserable person on this earth right now. How could she be, you ask? Well…isn’t that an excellent question.
How is it that she could be in a swimsuit, lounging on the balcony of her hotel room, watching the sun rise? In Cancun, no less. There is a nice, soft breeze blowing through the thick tresses of her hair, golden light pouring down on her from the sky, and a nice cocktail sitting next to her. She doesn’t think it’s too early to start drinking.
It’s the drinks that’s sort of keeping the misery at bay.
There’s a noise beside her where someone is settling into their chaise. She looks beside her and sighs. This is the reason why she’s so miserable.
Her best friend, Cheryl is here. Cheryl shouldn’t be here.
Grant should be.
Grant should be her husband by now. Grant should be here on their honeymoon.
“Why are we here?” Katie sighed, looking at her friend. “I don’t want to be here.”
Cheryl smiled. “Because, you need a vacation and it was too late to cancel this without getting your money back.”
“I don’t care about the money!” Katie exploded, watching Cheryl flinch. “I want Grant…I…” Katie began to sob. “Why, Cheryl? Why did he have to get in that car accident? Why did he have to…”
Cheryl quickly sat beside her to hug her. She held Katie as uncontrollable sobs racked her body. She rocked Katie as though she were a baby who couldn ‘t quite get to sleep. “I’m…I’m sorry, Kate.”
Katie looked into her friend’s eyes. “I wish he would have just left me at the alter. I wish he would have broken up with me. Cheated on me, even! I’d much rather live in a world without him where he still lives than in a world where he’s dead. Nothing compares to this pain, Cheryl. Why did he die? Why not me?”
Cheryl smiled weakly. “I don’t know, Katie. And while it may not seem like it now, things will be ok. They aren’t now, but they’ll be ok.”
They were silent, while watching the sun continue rising. Still, Katie didn’t believe misery loved company. She’s the definition of misery right now. What she want’s more than anything is Grant back.
And if not that, she wishes she could be alone.
Time’s up!
Have fun? I didn’t know where that was going, and I really didn’t mean for mine to be so depressing. Eeekkk!
Nice to see you all and the new faces! Come back ’round at 3:00 when we post the finalists and vote for the winner.