What is 5MinuteFiction, you say? It’s an adrenaline-fueled, instant-gratification sort of writing contest. Sound fun? Great! Get in there and get dirty!
And to celebrate NaNoWriMo, for the month of November, all the prompts will be designed to feature YOUR main characters in your WIP. (If you’re not participating in NaNoWriMo, no worries. Just use the prompt with whatever characters you wish.)
The Rules
* You get five minutes to write a piece of prose or poetry in any style or genre
* You must directly address today’s prompt: Your main character sees his life flash before his eyes.
(Note: The prompt is above. The picture is for decoration/inspiration.)
* Post your entry as a comment to this post.
I’ll close the contest at 12:45. 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, Jaimie, @thejaimie will nominate five finalists.
I’ll put the nominees in a poll, and at 9:00 EDT tomorrow I’ll close the poll and declare the winner.
For updates, you can subscribe to my RSS Feed, “like” my Facebook Page, or follow me on twitter. Or follow us on twitter with the #5MinuteFiction hashtag.
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 or notepad. 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.
I would have expected to be happier about it. After all, my childhood could hardly have been worse, less than enough food, clothes, shelter. No hope of anything more.
And yet I’d become a famous physicist, I’d married the emperor. My daughter would be empress, my other children were wonderful in every way. I had friends of a sort. I loved my husband.
But as the images rushed past, of a life full of all the things everyone wanted, all I could think was, “not yet.”
It was Maïté Gautreaux, her therapist.
“No journal therapy submission today?”
“Oh shit…” she talked to the text.
Maïté Gautreaux’s journal therapy was more pressure, in addition to the creative demands of the film. Journal therapy was supposed to unravel the thread of personal issues woven through the emotional mess she had become. It was Dr. Gautreaux’s opinion that she should revisit and reframe her issues by writing. Sevvenn was resistant; doubting the value of the reexamination of her pain and shame. It wouldn’t change the past. She relived the nightmare that was Kosovo in her dreams; the bold red graffiti—Morto Serbi!, the massacres in Pokleka, Suva Reka and Krsvicka, the smell of death and the wandering frightened people, vacant-eyed robots, desperately seeking sanctuary. The provocative images were snapshots too vivid to forget. She could still smell the putrid breath of her captor as he lay on top of her. That memory made her want to have another drink.
Maïté Gautreaux claimed there must be a reason why Sevvenn deliberately and repeatedly placed herself in dangerous places. She could still hear the passionate therapist rambling on about hero complexes and subconscious death wishes and how a patient’s self image was perpetuated by early childhood memories, again and again. The wise and eccentric Gautreaux claimed it was an emotional litmus test to legitimize our world view. Most of what she said, Sevvenn didn’t understand, only that it was something that she had to do to prevent her self-destruction.
How she could she possibly explain her offbeat and colorful history to Maïté Gautreaux? It was like having her life flash before her eyes. She was the only child of Seth and Keiko Levy, he was Jewish, she was Japanese, young serious students at Berkley, caught up in the loose, free wheeling zeitgeist of the middle sixties. Sevvenn remembered the freedom and beauty of her childhood. Everyday was a party in a park, loud music and crowds of smiling people in colorful flowing clothes that looked as if they were playing dress-up. Everyone was lighthearted and playful, chasing iridescent soap bubbles that drifted freely through the air. Occasionally, everyone’s attention was diverted to a colorful sunset or meaningful songs that spoke of a coming utopian world. Most of all, Sevvenn recalled giggling and frolicking with friends named Sunshine, Rainbow, and Dharma. Everyone regarded her as shy and quiet, but she didn’t remember being timid, just observant; poring over the detail in everything. Perhaps that’s where her love affair with the camera began. Her life was a comfortable journey of blissful innocence. There was no dread, fear or sense of impending doom. All of that ended in 1978, when she was 14. The Levys moved to New York and nothing was the same; the music, sunsets and marching for peace were abandoned. Her father began his psychiatric practice, her mother became a cellist in the Symphony and owner of an art gallery in Tribeca. Sevvenn was forced to attend private school with haughty frowning girls named Muffy, Alexis and Stephanie. Her parents changed. Instead of conversations about exquisite sunrises and social justice, they discussed hedge funds and vacations to Monaco. Her mother berated her for trivial things involving appearance and her father talked to her like one of his patients. When Sevvenn made a statement about anything in her life, her father inquired, “And how do you feel about that?”
That was his regularly scheduled inquiry at dinner; a perfunctory casual question; not one of genuine concern. She wanted to scream and demand to know why they had changed, but she didn’t.
In New York, she wasn’t one of the pretty girls. She felt like a mutt, with her exotic almond eyes that didn’t match her long, slightly crooked nose, thick lips, and wild frizzy hair that always reacted in definite protest to the weather. She didn’t fit in, the way she was, so she created a new image to further distinguish herself from the herd of plaid-skirted divas. She became outrageously funny. Everyone wanted to be around her because she made them laugh. Her side-splitting humor was sarcastic and negative, ridiculing and mocking others with her clever command of language. Nothing was sacred or off limits; anything was material for a laugh. She made fun of her own Jewish and Japanese roots as a self-protection policy; when in reality, she wanted to be Muffy or Stephanie. They were blonde, wore pink and flipped their hair when boys were around. She chose boys that she hoped might transform her into an Alexis, but it never worked. She was always reinventing herself to please others. Silently, and in private, she believed she was undesirable and unworthy of love. If she ever revealed her deepest inner feelings and dreams to anyone, she regretted it later. People ultimately used them as weapons against her. There were always acrimonious arguments and she was always the magnet for the guilt and shame they hurled at her. There were too many failed love affairs in her past. The professor in Nebraska, the minor politician in India, a doctor in Houston. When she turned thirty, she chose to be emotionally unavailable to people and place all her real feelings into causes, photography and film. It was a futile route she traveled to avoid intimacy. She did have three dependable lovers, however; her work, travel to dangerous locations, and alcohol. Those things never changed or abandoned her for someone prettier, wealthier or less complicated. They were dependable and expedient. Her coverage of the world’s incessant cruelties exasperbated her sense of hopelessness. Maïté Gautreaux insinuated she was suicidal but Sevvenn didn’t believe that. She was merely seeking peace; for the world and for herself. Peace eluded them both. She had no idea how to obtain it; so she simply kept chasing after it.
How was she going to tell all of that to Maïté Gautreaux within the context of a journal?
TWITTER HANDLE:
CounselorCarol1
website:
http://www.carolmorgan.org
FACEBOOK:
CarolMorgan1
“Cursed sleeves.” Kenshin swore aloud as he tried, yet again, to fix the trailing ends of his formal kimono sleeves so they didn’t hinder his movement. Doing his duty was one thing, of course he would never ignore a summons from his daimyo. He just didn’t understand why all this frippery was necessary. He was supposed to be a samurai, a warrior, not some simpering woman, sweet smelling and layered in delicately embroidered silks. Despite the ornate kimono, his status was clear. Even dressed for court, his swords were in their usual spot, snugly nestled in the folds of his obi.
“Murakami-sama better appreciate this.” The low grumble went unnoticed by the hangers-on he passed in the corridor. They might be dressed alike, but it was very clear that these so-called advisers would not pose a challenge, should he find a reason to oppose them, so, for the most part, they faded to the side to allow him to pass.
“You summoned me?” he murmured as he bowed, straightening to look his liege in the eye.
“I need a favor from you, my friend.” The daimyo paced restlessly, eyes fixed on the floor as he concentrated on just exactly how to explain what he needed. “It’s my son.”
“Hiroshi-kun?” Kenshin’s breath caught, surely his lord didn’t know the truth. His life flashed before his eyes, and he lingered on the last memory he had of his lover. He took a deep calming breath, waiting to speak until he was sure his voice would be steady. “What did he do, get some pillow girl pregnant?”
“Nothing like that. But it’s time he left home and lived life away from his mother’s influence. He’s much too womanly, always going on about art and music. As a friend I ask for this favor. Take Hiroshi under your wing. Teach him what it means to be samurai. Protect him from my enemies and his own foolishness. There is no one else I trust to do this for me.”
Kenshin bit his cheek to keep it from twitching. ‘He knows’ his mind taunted. ‘Any minute now the guards will appear to take you into custody. You’ve been sleeping with his son, he can’t forgive that.’
“As you wish, my liege.”
School had hardly been back in a full week and he couldn’t seem to think about anything else most of the time.
First grade. The playground. The time he kicked a home-run with bases loaded in kickball. Mrs. Laramie’s class and how she always smelled funny. The heaters in the classroom, the old kind that were big and metal with a hundred coats of glossy paint and they had to fill with water. Opening the windows during the winter when an unexpectedly warm day happened because the hot water couldn’t be drained fast enough.
The first time he was allowed to stay up late enough to watch all of ‘Gone with the Wind’. Seeing his father cry while watching the final episode of M.A.S.H. Crying when his father died.
Heidi, the first dog he ever knew. The time she ran ahead and attacked that copperhead that was on the trail.
Christmas at the mall. The first time he ever saw Santa Claus in real life.
All of these memories and more passed through his mind as he steeled his nerve. Lilly Khols was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. It was all so strange and he didn’t really try to understand it. But this was something big.
As his entire life (that he could recall in just a minute or so) passed before his eyes, Stanley Weeber reached out and yank Lilly’s pigtail and boy did he yank it but good.
This just might be love, he thought.
@redshirt6
Jerry pulled his face into his best “I’m going to get you” scowl and raised the plastic scythe above his head, hoping it came off as fierce, even though he felt like a total tool. He’d been a plumber in life — what did he know of reaping souls?
The reaper with the gray-ish skin peer from his cowl. “Again. This time with more urgency.”
It was either audition to take souls or clean up the entrails after the daily hell-fire forking of the sinners. Jerry’d had enough of cleaning up after people who couldn’t be bothered to eat more fiber in their diets and didn’t really want to shovel guts in the afterlife. No, thanks.
He straighted his paper robe and leaped at the table of reaping agents, shaking the plastic scythe and screaming.
“Could you pretend you’re . . . oh, I don’t know.” The reaper with the palsied hands leaned forward and coiled her lips into the thoughtful grimace. “Maybe pretend you’re going to take Hitler’s soul. Give me spontaneity. Give me joy in what you’re doing while still putting the fear into the Fuhrer’s heart before you rip it out of his body.”
Jerry controlled the urge to roll his eyes and lowered the scythe, skittering back from the table’s edge. He’d show them.
Collecting all his remaining energy, he bolted for the agents and cackled, springing onto the table and slicing the scythe into the neck of the one sitting all the way to the right at the table. The blade bounced off the reaper’s neck and threw Jerry backwards. He landed flat on his back and groaned before scrabbling to his knees.
“I’m afraid you’re just not what we’re looking for right now. But perhaps the nightmare squad could make use of you.”
Rage rose from Jerry’s toes, but before he could say a word, he was escorted from the room by a squat man in lederhosen.
“Next!”
@nicolewolverton
As Juris fell, he realized he’d overplanned. He’d lived 114 years, done good, had few regrets. He’d always figured he wouldn’t have time to see it coming, so he ritually reviewed his life, most every day for the last 30 years at least. The good parts he smiled about. The bad parts he tried to learn from, and the regrets he tried to banish. He’d gotten quite good at the review – enough that the whole “life flashing before your eyes” thing was close to literally true – and summonable at will, and it always brought him a smile.
There really wasn’t any way he’d have been able to foresee the cascade of failures that sent him over the edge of a hundred and fortieth story balcony in Dubai. If he had to go, he supposed, it was quite the dramatic step to take. So he he thought about his life, and smiled.
Problem was, by the time he’d reach the 30th, he was bored.
Overplan-
@_Monocle_
It was happening in slow motion, like in some clichéd movie. David saw the gun pointed at him, wielded by the girl who had been the head of his fan club before he’d taken a restraining order out on her. He remembered, in that instant, all the stupid crap he’d done to get to this point, the fame and fortune. How could he have possibly thought that selling his soul was a good idea? At what point in his childhood Sunday school lessons had they glossed over the fact that it was a colossally bad idea?
‘At least I’m going out with a bang… like Cobain, Lennon…’ For a second, he wondered if they’d made the same deal. Then the trigger was pulled, a loud bang… and then Ember was in his arms, slumped down limply. A bullet hole was visible in the middle of the white blouse, quickly becoming stained red.
“I… I couldn’t let it happen…” she whispered, before the light left her eyes.
Birth. First Communion. Ugly glasses in middle school staring back at him through the mirror. Playing solo clarinet in the high school band competition. Making friends with a cool kid. Undoing his first bra. His first beer. One random page of a science book he loved.
And that was it.
John didn’t expect the earth to move when his time came to see the flash of life, but he had hoped there’d be more than this. What a measly way to live.
“Next life, I’m making memories – it’ll be full on,” John thought just before he took his last breath, hoping against all hope he’d be reborn as human again. His biggest fear his whole life had been that he was so inconsequential that when he was reborn, he’d come back as a spider. Tomorrow, he’d see – whatever was left of his conscious that is.
@alanagarrigues
Darci found herself alone in her thoughts. After talking to her youngest sister about what happened back when Darci was in college…it all became clear.
Darci thought back to how terrible she treated Jamal back when they first met. He apologized for accidentally dropping a bucket of red paint on her head…and she attacked him verbally every chance she got.
She thought back to when they were on dance committee’s back in high school. Jamal tried to be fair and listened to everyone’s ideas…and because hers weren’t good (even she knew it) she attacked him for telling her so.
Darci thought back to when they were in college and she baked cookies for her then boyfriend. Jamal ate them all…and for some reason, she baked twice as many to leave some for Jamal.
She thought back to when Jamal came to her dorm to warn her about her boyfriend cheating on her. In his anger, they shared one of the sweetest kisses she’d ever known. That kiss ended her relationship with her then boyfriend. Because of the anger she’s always had for him…she didn’t believe what he claimed and blamed him for everything else that happened to her.
She thought back to a month before, when she saw her ex boyfriend married to Jamal’s ex girlfriend…the woman her ex left her for. Darci couldn’t handle it. Seeing them happy together…she turned to alcohol.
Jamal was there, drinking with her to make her feel better about herself.
That’s what started this whole sham of a marriage, wasn’t it?
Except…it didn’t feel like a sham anymore. Hasn’t for a while now. Darci fought her feelings that have done nothing but grew.
But, it’s been growing all her life, hasn’t it? Love has been growing all this time. Right before her eyes. Darci was just too stupid to see it.
Her vision grew bleary…the tears making the view from her window run together like water colors. She saw all the times Jamal showed his love for her, and how she fought him at every turn. Darci groaned mercilessly at all the chances she missed at making their marriage for real. Jumping up, she decided it was time to make things right. Just as she grabbed her purse and turned towards the door, her door knob was twisting…
When the door opened, it was Jamal.
He was holding those ominous annulment papers in his hands…
Oops! Missed my twitter above.
@alanagarrigues
Al-Bart was in a daze. He was certain that he was dead. He remembered the blast, flying through the air, his 112 year-old body smashing against then through the wall then the commode crashing onto his head, now, here he was, speaking to ‘The Beyond’ who has now just informed him that the single most powerful thing Anywhere had been named by him, named by some silly theory that he had written eighty-years before and was stamped into a data stick, buried deep in a drawer of an unused desk covered in dust in his basement.
“Why can I not be here?” Al-Bart asked.
“You know too much. There are powers that wish to take me over, evil powers, things that would like to see exclusion from entering ‘The Beyond’. If you were to stay it would create pandemonium. Your few followers that you have now would grow, all would leave the comforts of their belief quadrents and roam freely. I would become unstable. The Dark Powers That Be would be able to penetrate my mind with this uncertainty.” It replied.
“So what shall I do?” Al-Bart asked.
“Leave, I will give you anything you want, but you must tell your followers that what you have told them is untrue, then step back into the Universe.” ‘The Beyond’ said.
“I want to go back to Earth.” Al-Bart said.
“You may.” It replied.
“I want to open a restaurant.” He said.
“Granted.”
“I want a spaceship that looks like a 1959 Pink Cadillac El Dorado.” Al-Bart said.
“Oh… kay.” ‘The Beyond’ paused. “As you wish.”
Al-Bart returned to his followers and did as ‘The Beyond’ asked then he did a quick side shuffle and was back in the vacuum of space. A neon sign in the distance said ‘The Restaurant at the Edge of the Universe’.
“It’s yours.” A voice boomed.
“Not quite what I was thinking of.” Al-Bart replied staring at the replica of Adam Douglas’ writings.
@DRyanLeask
Time’s up! See you at 2:00 with the finalists!
Bugger.
Who hoo! So fun to read guys! So much talent here. Makes me happy 🙂
Finalists yet?