(You may note here that, due to forseen circumstances, i.e. me being an idiot, the 5MinuteFiction Blog Tour schedule has been slightly changed. The tour will begin March 8 and continue through April 5. Same great hosts, I just had to move Sam to a week OTHER than the one he told me specifically wouldn’t work for him.)
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: crash
(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, ME, 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.
Darn day job!
Look, I know you’ll think I’m crazy when I tell you this but my neighbors, the Petersen’s, are cannibals.
There. I said it.
We’ve gone through twelve mailmen since I moved here a year ago. Twelve. This is not a normal turnover rate.
Then there were the guys working on the Petersen’s house. Started out with ten workmen. Then it was five. One day, I heard a loud crash, a scream and then silence. The next day Mr. Petersen was finishing the work himself.
Still think I’m nuts?
The old lady, Mrs. Tyson, who lived on the other side of the Petersen’s disappeared one day. How many eighty-something-year-olds just disappear?
The cops looked for weeks and never found the old bat. Now her house is for sale.
When my mom was sick last week, the Petersen’s stopped by to wish her well. They brought meatloaf.
Mom, dad and my stupid sister loved it. I almost gagged and had to leave the room.
Now I’m told that I’ll be cutting the Petersen’s lawn this summer for ‘college money.’ I’m leaving this note on my Facebook page in case you never hear from me again.
And Mr. and Mrs. Petersen? If you’re reading this, I hear sixteen-year-old boys are tough and chewy. My sister, however, eats nothing but ice cream all day and I’ll bet she’d go nice with a crisp white wine.
@rbwood
They’d tried. By gum, they’d tried. They’d done everything they could to get off the stupid island.
You wouldn’t think it would be that hard; they were interstellar explorers. They were trained for survival situations far more dire than a tropical island with plenty of fruit and small local mammalian-like animals to eat; they had their kits with them, and between their knowledge, their kits, and the remains of the craft they’d landed in (if you could call it a landing), they should have been able to get off the damn island. They should have been able to rejoin the rest of the team; they should have been back on the shuttle by now and back to civilization. But every time they tried, /every time/, they found themselves buffeted back to the shore.
It was when they saw the footprints in the sand that Junie began to get an inkling of what was going on. It was ridiculous, of course, so she didn’t say anything, not until the cannibals landed.
Cannibals! They even looked mostly human! Sighing, she told Robert and Pat, “we have to rescue their captive.”
“Why?” Pat argued. “We’re not supposed to interfere, if there’s really a sentient species here.”
“Because that’s the way the story goes,” she answered, sighing.
She stared at the green box, her palms sweating, her breathing shallow. She couldn’t pull her eyes away. Danger.
She’d worked so hard but there it was anyway. She thought she’d been so careful. She’d stayed away from anywhere they might see her, find her. They were ruthless. They didn’t care if all she’d worked for came crashing down around her. If they killed her dreams.
They’d found her. Their green box sat there on the table. It seemed to pulse, to hum its siren song, coat its sinister, delicious threat in promises of pleasure.
She’d almost made it through Girl Scout cookie season. Yet, there on that desk, was a box of Thin Mints.
There was only one thing to do. She had to get it out of the house. She had to get rid of it.
And she did. One delectable cookie at a time. With milk.
The official report called it an accident. Everything on paper, cut and dry. Absolutely no questions left to ask. Unless you knew him. Then there were nothing but questions.
Adrian is… was a careful driver. Hands always at ten and two. Mirrors positioned just right. Hell, he refused to even turn his cell phone on while he drove. So when the call came in that he’d wrecked his car two miles outside of town, Ruby knew the accident wasn’t an accident at all.
He’d finally done it.
For years Adrian battled demons. Never in physical form, though. His demons were all locked away in his mind, scrambling his thoughts until north became south. And south became an all-consuming pit of depression.
Ruby tried to watch out for him. Tried to get him the help he needed, but sometimes the demons win. And sometimes you have to let the official reports read as lies to spare a good man’s memory.
@RCMurphy
There were ways to get off the island, but none of us had any desire to leave. We had food. We had sun. We had each other. The thought of venturing back home sent an icy rush down my neck. What had meant to be our punishment became our paradise.
The four of us grew up together, crammed into separate cubbies of the same crumbling building. We saw each other on the streets and we bullied the same weak kids for scraps of their lunches. We were buzzards on leashes. We didn’t matter, until we crossed some line we didn’t even know was there–and were sent to the rock…
Twitter: happy__things
“Oh and you come crash into me, yeah
Baby, and I come into you
Hike up your skirt a little more
And show the world to me”
The lyrics and music just rolled over Tami while she laid on her bed with her eyes closed. It was James’ favorite song to play and sing to her. When he did it always made her tingle with arousal. His resonate baritone gave her goose bumps especially when he would slow down during his favorite cores. He loved when she wore her short and sassy skirts. But what he loved more was when she was commando under them.
As James finished his song, Tami rolled on to her stomach and gave him a smoldering look.
“What are you thinking, babe?” James asked.
“You know exactly what I’m thinking.” Tami slowly sat up, running her hands over her hips, grabbing the bottom of her tank top and slowly pulled it over her head. She heard James’ stifled groan as the tank top hit him the chest.
James slowly pulled the tank to his face and inhaled her scent. He slowly opened his eyes and devoured her. He threw the shirt to the floor and set aside the guitar before standing and stalking over to the bed, where his temptress sat waiting for him.
Silently I sit alone in a dark room. Memories crash into me one after the other like waves upon the seashore. Relentless. Unending.
I am four and I’m awoken from a nap only to be chased by a monster. I find my mother and she cannot help. I wake again, my mother over me. From that day forward, I was never sure of reality.
I am fourteen. My first kiss. Or it would have been if I hadn’t chickened out. My first kiss wouldn’t come for another three years.
I am seventeen as I make my way across the country in an Eighty-Eight Oldsmobile. One stretch of empty highway in Kentucky I floor it. The needle passes beyond the markings. I laugh and enjoy the freedom.
I am twenty-two and my heart is broken. I had to cast away the love of my life. I wished it wasn’t so. For eight months I didn’t want to live.
I am twenty-five. I sit alone in a dark room, letting memories wash over me.
@briefconceits
http://briefconceits.com
“Get out, quick,” Richard said as he slammed his shoulder into the door. His force worked and the door jared open a crack, light flashing in from the outside. Weather it was daylight, or more fire was hard to tell. I didn’t hesitate to find out, though, the fire inside the shuttle was more than enough to convince me that I needed to get out.
Richard was right behind me, pushing me slightly in his rush to get outside.
“Keep running!” he shouted, which was unnecessary given that we were communicating through our helmets. But, I nodded and chased after him. We ran as hard as we could, which was difficult given both the terrain and the slightly lower gravity. After w few moments, we reached a rise, and we both turned to look back at the shuttle. The fire had spread to the outside, and the only place not burning as we watch was the cockpit we just escaped from.
I turned away from the wreckage. The crash was horrible enough, and I flinched at the memory of a piece of hull piercing through Hobbs. Instead, I turned my eyes towards the landscape before us. It was a lush jungle on the other side of the mountain, with what appeared to be fruit hanging from the trees. I wondered briefly if there was any animal noises. It would be impossible to hear through the helmet. I didn’t want to take that off to find out, though. The sensors before we crashed indicated that the atmosphere was poisonous.
“Well,” Richard said, finally turning away, “that’s it then. I managed to save some equipment, but not the radio. We’re stuck here.”
“I hope the signal got through,” I said. “Otherwise, getting out of the shuttle only delayed the inevitable.”
@blanchardauthor
I stood on top of the thatched roof and felt the heat from the sun and the warmth from the wind. I also felt the sagging of the roof under my weight. I wanted to be here, on top of my home, when the eclipse occurred today. I wanted to witness the stars come out. I knew that moment was when wishes are granted and miracles happen. It was hard getting on the roof because leg was in immobilized in a thick cast and fresh stitches in my arms and face stretched and strained as I climbed the bamboo ladder my grandfather built decades ago. But I made it and stood on the top of the roof, which was on the top of my, which was on the top of the highest hill in our village. I wanted to wish for my miracle, to healed and whole again. To be able to run and play again. As sky began to darken and the sun began to disappear little by little the old roof strained and protested more of my presences. I felt the leaves and branches snap and twist and shift under my weigh. Suddenly I the roof gave way and I felt myself crash into the house and hit the floor. I looked up through the hole and could see the stars just starting to twinkle in the afternoon darkness. I missed my chance.
“Crash ’em in,” Jacob says with a smile. “Time’s up.”
“Crash? I think you mean CASH them in,” I correct. I always do that.
“I meant what I said. You in or what?”
I pass Jacob my tally sheet. The crisp paper nearly slices my finger off in the exchange. Gambling, it’s a real hazard. Jacob eyes my sheet for a second.
“You serious?” he grumbles.
“What?”
“This ain’t a sheet. You barely got any kills.”
“Two kills,” I correct. I always do that.
“Two kills ain’t goin’ to win you shit.”
“Who says I’m done?” I pull out my .38 and press it to Jacob’s oblong skull.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” The words are loud, thunderous even. Jacob wants to catch everyone’s attention. It works.
“I’m going to prove I’m the best killer here,” I whisper. The ends of my lips curl into a impish grin. I pull the trigger – down goes Jacob, down goes Kyle, down goes than presumptious fuck in the corner… What’s his name?
Doesn’t matter now.
The game’s over. I win.
Gambling. It’s a real hazard.
@jpdenen
Troy set his jaw. It slipped sideways and he reached up to push it back into place.
“Soooooo…” Haley said, dragging out the word as she poked him in the side. Her finger sank between his ribs and she pulled it back so abruptly her finger popped off. Bets laughed as the finger bounced down the hall and Haley pulled off another finger and threw it at her.
Greg, the newly dead, tried to scurry after Haley’s finger (he’d had a massive crush on her since he’d reanimated), but he still wasn’t used to the fragility of his body and his feet popped off and he crashed to the floor.
Troy sighed, extricated himself from Haley’s grasp, and helped Greg put his feet back on. “I haven’t asked her yet, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he said to Haley. She had gathered up her fingers, pulled off another one and was juggling them one-handed. She’d been in the circus before she’d died and she loved to show off.
“Hurry up,” she said, fluttering her eyes at him so quickly that her eyelid flew off and she dropped her fingers again trying to catch it. However, the mishap couldn’t distract her from her objective. “The Death Day Dance is next week and all the good girls’ll be taken by the time you get around to asking Viola.”
What she was really saying was that she was going to be taken, but Troy ignored the implication. He wasn’t about to tell her that he’d already asked. And been shot down. Viola was still his safety net – the thing that kept him out of Haley’s grasp. No need for Haley to know he’d already crashed and burned.
@SonshineMusic
Sarbin stepped warily out onto the blinding white upper surface of the Magener Delta. The great wedge he’d called home for his life up to this point now flew in formation with dozens other shapes, more than he – or anyone else his age, had ever seen before. He recognized the aubergine-and-yellow striped flanks of Halir’s Chevron, Magener’s best trading partner, ahead about thirty-plus-twnetyfive, and the colors and forms of most of the airborne arcologies he and his family conidered allies or neutrals.
Neither Sarbin, nor any other of his emerging entourage could ignore the vast toroid that made even Grevus’ Leviathan look modest. He could almost feel the heat pressure radiating from flat black bottom of the Palace, even at this distance. This unprecedented constellation floated with seeming laziness above the sulfuric acid cloud deck. Sarbin understood the reason, of course, but he wasn’t sure which disturbed him more – the fact the water-worlders were coming – again – or the fact that the Emperor looked like he was going to try to respond, this time.
Magener had pride of place in the grand formation. Sarbin’s own son had invented the “Radio” that had given them the first hint that life even existed on the cold third planet. “Earth” they called it. Magener had spread the word fast as couriers, could fly before the first visitor had plummeted through their skies to crash on the inferno surface far below. Since then there had been one or two more, even miniscule, almost humorous balloon visitors, dipping into their sky and clouds – and releasing the plague that completely depopulated Oorna Disk.
As the Royal-crested ornithopter descended to the main landing cross, Sarbin frowned in thought. The first Grand Council in four thousand years. The future of two worlds was about to change, and he could not guess how.
@_Monocle_
Air whirring past my ears,
falling fast, I heard no warnings,
I cared not for forecasts,
only his voice.
Such a searing sun on my skin,
kissing every inch,
seeking to know each crevice,
seeping into my darkness.
Flying, soaring, swooping,,
”hold my hand” I’d say,
he’d take it as we flew vertical
to the sun, the moon,
the stars our playground.
The crash carnage deep,
inevitable given the heights we’d flown.
Shattered limbs, splattered ruby patterns,
smeared in our own emotional viscera,
we stood.
I see, know, love
& would crash eternally.
@AlcyoneAlchemy
I had crashed the wedding, I know, but I hadn’t been able to help myself. The way his hazel eyes had meet mine, daring me to following him in to the room, the whole situation just seemed surreal. An out-of-body experience and I was walked up to stand behind him, waiting for a chance to introduce myself. He turned, raising a hand.
“Ah, here she is, my lovely date for the evening.” He said with a glimmer of amusement in his eye.
Startled, I remember blushing; I met his eyes before introducing myself to his friends.
“Hi, I’m Carolyn. Sorry, I know I’m not dressed right, I’m afraid the airline lost my luggage.”
It’s been three years now, and my husband’s friends still ask if I ever got my luggage back.
@Sachula
Ulrich Larson slowly walked across the moonlit clearing. His boots crunched on the frost covered grass, despite the heavy coat he wore he felt the chill right to his bones. He reached the centre of the clearing and waited , his eyes anxiously scanning the dark trees. This was the most dangerous time, just before sun up, when his quarry were anxious to go to ground, to hide from the fatal rays of the sun.
Larson was a vampire hunter and he hated them. These were not aristcratic noblemen or teenage girls fantasies, these were ugly, grotesque killers of men, drinkers of blood. They stank of death and decay. He cocked his favourite weapon a crossbow loaded with silver tipped bolts, slung across his back was a great war-axe. He looked more like an ancient warrior than a modern day hunter.
He had been tracking this clan for months, normaly they would have simply ran from him but it was almost dawn and they were afraid he would discover their lair and destroy them while they slept.
The first one crashed through the tree line, a large male, it snarled and charged. Larson fired hitting it in the chest, stopping it in it’s tracks. Two more followed, two females, they bared their breasts. As if he would somehow find their white, dead flesh erotic. He re-loaded and fired again, killing the first, dropped the crossbow and unslung the axe. The second female came at him with terrifying speed. With one stoke he took off her head.
Slowly the rest emerged. He cursed he had not realise the clan was so big. He knew he would never take them all. Fear rose as bile in his throat. One bite, one scratch and he would die. Four of them ran at him, snarling and wailing their terrifying high-pitched shrill. He bobbed and weaved, each swing of his axe took down another. Until he stood panting at the centre of the clearing alone.
He noticed a small wound on his arm, he cursed, already the poison would be spreading. He had ways to cure it, but he needed to get to his own safehouse. Up above the sky changed colour as the sun slowly emerged over the trees. The clan fled, he could not follow now. He needed to get to safety himself.
With regret he turned from the trees. Tomorrow there is always tomorrow. he thought
“This could happen to anyone,” I say as I struggle to hold the needle straight. “It doesn’t matter how poor or rich you are. Your skin color doesn’t matter. Addiction can grab anyone.”
The knock at the door grabs my attention. I’m crashing too hard. The sweat is building up on my forehead like a rock-slide.
“Yes?” I say. My hands won’t stop shaking.
The door opens. The well groomed lady seems more nervous than me. “They wanted you to know it starts in a few more minutes.”
“Thank you,” I say as the tip of the needle hovers above my vein. I glance up as the sleeve of her five hundred dollar business suit exits the room. I don’t need to be ashamed. I’m not alone, right?
I want to stand up. I want to throw this syringe out the window of my top floor penthouse. I can’t. Not because I don’t want to get rid of it. I lack the will. I’m a slave to this liquid. I don’t know how it happened. Wait, that’s not true. I do remember, it’s just a blurry memory.
This is the last time. It’s what I always tell myself, but this time I mean it. I just need it to get through this speech. No one understands my stress. No one is capable of grasping my responsibility. Well, except for my formers. We are on the brink of war. No one will deny me the help I need. Yes, that’s it. This is help. My help. One of my many advisors. I need advisors.
I feel the tip of the needle against my skin. I clinch my teeth. The tip presses down until it breaks the surface. I slide the needle deep into my vein. It doesn’t hurt anymore. I just don’t like watch it. I lower the plunger. Clarity is returning. I can do this now. Someone’s knocking at the door. The syringe is empty.
A man leans into my room. “We’re ready for you now, Mr. President.”
@timjasonwallis
It was a great picture.
Really. It was.
Probably didn’t deserve what was coming to it, but such is life. Right?
I remember the day it was taken. Who doesn’t remember their wedding day? That beautiful work of confection called a wedding dress made me look absolutely gorgeous. Thanks to my many fittings, it really did fit like a glove. Covered every inch of my size six frame. And look at that smile. Actually, in this one I was laughing. My newly made hubby had just shocked me by picking me up.
And we were laughing together. My hands held both his cheeks as he leaned his forehead against mine. We were laughing and nothing was funny. We were laughing, because we were happy. John did make me happy.
Once.
Of course, now I’ll never quite be a size six again. Thanks to me birthing not one, not two, but four of his children. As cute and adorable as babies are, they do things to a body that just shouldn’t be done. The stretch marks, the cellulite, the…bigness of me now? Blame all four of them. I’ll never be anything smaller than a 18 again.
Oh, but my sister, Ally? Who just so happens to be in this picture too, by the way. Laughing it up with us, like she was happy for me. Yeah. Still a size six like she was that day. Still has that perfect dream body
John happens to like that body.
And Ally has always been a giver.
Yeah. Let John have her. He’ll destroy her body with children just as he has mine.
He’ll destroy her future. Just as he has mine.
Problem…he’s still standing here. In front of me. Pathetic.
“We didn’t mean for it to happen, baby,” John stands before me, both hands held up in surrender. “Ally and I…we aren’t meant to be. Not like you and me. That was a mistake. It was just.”
“Get out,” I sighed, gripping the picture.
“But…”
The picture that was once in my hands, that was once the memory of a great life coming up, that was once my favorite thing in the house, flew out of my hands and into his face.
There was a beautiful crash as it hit the floor.
I love the sound of breaking glass.
“GET OUT!”
Sobbing now, and grabbing anything (made of glass preferably) and throwing it his way, he finally ran out of the house.
Let’s just hope he doesn’t come back.
He logged in to five minute fiction…but it was already 1:45!
Damn!
Too late!
Crash and burn, baby. Crash and burn.
@thatneilguy
Have fun? Well I’m digging into the hard work of picking the finalists, so leave me alone. I’ll see you at 3:00 when I post them.
Later!
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I gotta say, I really love Cornelius’. 🙂
Thanks for moving my twitter address, Leah!