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!
The Rules
* You get five minutes to write a piece of prose or poetry in any style or genre
* You must directly reference today’s prompt: clarity
(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, Jeff Pfaller, @pfallerj 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.
moments in time
that pierce the fog
and expose the world
for what it is.
clarity.
@alanagarrigues
http://writercize.blogspot.com
The fog twined around her legs to the knee with a clarity not unlike pea soup. Meg stomped through it as if to punish it for inconveniencing her.
Clouds obscured the sun and she scowled at that too. Wisps of wood smoke that she scented from time to time were her only compass. She could still find the village. It would just take longer. She growled to herself and trudged on.
The boy was waiting in the crisp, cool sunlight ringing the farm. He watched the wraith move with determination through the empty field across the road. No one else could ever see her in the daylight, but he saw her often, frowning and intent.
“Did she ever find her way?” he asked his father, once the trail of his story faded away.
The old man shook his head. “Nope. Died in that field yonder.” He jerked his head across the road. “Folks say if she could ever find the village she’d be able to rest, but until then, she wanders.”
The boy nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Maybe I can show her the way.”
“Are you sure this is going to work?”
“Mr. Smith, I promise you, I have done this countless times.” The woman in the white doctor’s coat smiled benignly, looking like a loving mother instead of a doctor.
“And I won’t feel a thing.”
“I promise. Once the drops go in, you’ll feel a tingle and in less than fifteen minutes, it will all be over.”
“Just a tingle? Is that a medical term?”
“Yes, it’s right between ‘just a little’ and ‘just a vasectomy’ in the MD handbook.”
Mr. Smith cringed slightly at the ‘V’ word.
“Let’s not go into other elective surgeries while talking about my eyes, okay?” Mr. Smith muttered through gritted teeth.
“Of course.”
A few seconds later, the nurse returned and gently patted the nervous Mr. Smith on the hand. She glanced up at his blood pressure reading and tilted her head.
“Did you take the Valium we prescribed?”
He nodded.
“Ready?” she inquired sweetly.
“As I’ll ever be,” he sighed, taking off the coke-bottle bottom thick glasses he had worn for decades if he had had any hope of seeing with any sort of clarity. Thin lens technology could only go so far.
“Then just tilt your head back and relax.”
@dejeansmith
The young prince Haider had muddled through the first 20 years of his life, relying on advisers and his father to guide him. The agony sultan had even arranged his marriage to the Celtic princess, to ensure powerful allies. But he had never seen things so clearly as now, looking at the fiery beauty before him. He wanted her with every finer of his being, would do anything to see her be his.
Except he’d been betrothed to her sister.
I ducked and ran through the forest, my breath catching like wildfire in my throat as my legs pumped without thinking. I didn’t dare look over my shoulder. Doing so would waste time – time I decidedly did not have.
The rock seemed to jump up out of now where, grabbing my foot and twisting. I went down in a heap of arms and legs, my cry coming out in a shuddering wail that echoed back and forth among the trees.
I lay there, my lame foot hanging painfully to the side. I was rendered useless. The rough leaves, brown and dead, made my exposed skin crawl. I wondered what bugs lie beneath the detritus; whether they would have a chance to crawl into my clothes … gnaw on my flesh.
The thought made me whimper and try to move. It was a mistake. Pain like a white-hot poker screamed up my leg and sent black and red dots dancing across my field of vision.
The forest was silent save for my racing heartbeat. I turned my head from side to side, listening. Silence didn’t mean I was safe. They could move without making a sound.
A branch snick-snacked in the distance, signaling movement. I gasped and held my breath. I heard them whooshing toward me on all sides. Suddenly, one pale face loomed over my prone body. Fetid breath that stank of death bathed my face.
“Clarity, my girl,” the wretch hissed. “You been bad. Real, real bad.”
I didn’t even have time to scream.
@JenD_Author
In an effort to gain clarity on ths situation, I went to the roof. Atop the 104th floor, above the layers of exhaust fumes and smog, the city seemed almost pristine.
From this distance, you couldn’t tell that a murder was just committed and a body had just been discovered. From these heights there was no sense that the entire police force was on the hunt, following the single clue that was left by their serial killer who had just made her first mistake. From here it was hard to tell how close they were to finding me.
Clarity. I knew I rushed this last one. But he wouldn’t stop screaming for Christ’s sake. I had no choice but to end it quick. Of course straying from my plan meant things got sloppy.
I’d left my calling card, a dried black widow spider placed delicately on his cheek. In spite of my mess, I couldn’t very well walk away and not claim him as my own. Not I needed to think.
Clarity. Clarity. If I willed myself to think it would come.
I couldn’t keep that voice in my head quiet this time. I knew I’d left something behind. Something telling. Something solid for the police.
What could it be?
Walking back to the roof access door, I realized with a cool chill my mistake. My keys were missing.
@corinneoflynn
Corinne’s Blog
The scene was chaos and it was being broadcast live.
“Sir!” the reporter yelled, “Sir! If you don’t mind could you provide some clarity?”
The crowd was turning into a mob. The press conference was a mere five minutes in when a single word turned the world upside down.
“Sir? Did you mean to use the word , ‘contagion’?” the reporter yelled as he held out his digital recorder.
“People!” the White House Press Secretary called out over the crowd. “You need to calm down!”
“When the White House said that Atlanta had been ‘contained’, what exactly did you mean?” another reporter asked just as she was shoved from behind.
People were rushing in all directions. Some were trying to get closer to the podium, trying to do their jobs. Others were running, pushing, and shoving for the doors. Many were on their cell phones.
“Honey,” one man said, “just listen. Don’t pack anything, just grab the kids and go. Get into the mini-van and head north.”
“Is it true,” another reporter began, “that the outbreak started less then five hours ago?”
“Atlanta has been contained by the Unites States Army and the President will address the nation—“
The screen went blank.
@redshirt6
I looked at my latest victim, but didn’t see her. My eyes were filled with the clear, unbroken blue sky behind her. That sort of color that spirals out, into infinity, and a mere mortal such as myself struggles to find a hope to cling to within it. My sight filled with a kaleidoscope of pale shapes, stretching out into that space, struggling to fill it, to give it purpose or meaning. My mind does the same thing.
What have I done with my life, but take others away. Blood staining my hands so deeply that I can never get them clean, though I try. Even now, the cracks have broken open again and weep out the excess that I could never contain. What sort of meaning have I ever had, but to cull the herd, and what sort of life is that to have?
Perhaps this is better, perhaps this is as it should be…
I felt her hand against my chest then, my arms pinwheeled, and the clear blue sky behind her head laughed as I tumble into its arms.
@nrbrown
She peeked around the stalagmite. The view was like nothing she’d ever seen — the dust whipping past her face did nothing to dim the clarity of the planet. It glowed blue and green. If she looked hard enough, she imagined she could see tiny little figures scurrying around.
“Is it all that you’d hoped for?” Noah asked.
Mackenzie bobbed her head but slipped back to sit on her rock. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah. Real pretty.” He sat beside her and set his hand on her knee.
“It’s too bad, you know,” she said. “It looks like fun. Like we could have a good time.”
“I know what you mean.” He smiled, but it was anything but happy. His kiss lingered at the corner of her mouth, and it spoke of longing and sadness and wishes that would never come true.
“Better get ready. Here it comes.”
The wind blew harder now, and the air heated. Noah pulled Mackenzie to his chest, and she nestled her nose into his neck. Her tears on his shoulder numbed the flames licking around them as the meteor entered the atmosphere.
#
Markus pulled his eye away from the telescope and nodded to the men sitting around the table. “Prisoners D42 and Z876 have been executed. Next.”
@nicolewolverton
Margret’s co-worker just wouldn’t shut up.
“And that’s when we all threw down our towls!” she said, laughing at her joke.
Margret just blinked and returned to her computer.
“Oh, your busy,” Maria said, “Yeah, I get that, I’m busy too. Just this morning, Mr. Tate came to me and asked me to fill out this report in triplicate for him. As if I don’t have anything better to do than to fill out his reports for him.”
She continued on about the stupid reports. Margret tried to ignore her and focus on the spreadsheet before her. Numbers she knew. Numbers she liked. Spreadsheets and numbers were simple, clear… predictable. People were annoying. Especially Maria.
“And I told him that I needed a full hour and a half for lunch, because there just wasn’t any other way to get back in time after driving to the mall and waiting for my meal, but what I really was doing was looking at the super cute shoes in the display of the Macy’s.”
The words interrupted the steady flow of numbers. Margret ground her teeth. She looked at her purse on the desk next to her, where the new gift from her husband lay. She shook her head and returned to the spreadsheet.
“And that’s when the cute guy behind the counter decided to stop talking to me and began flirting with that big breasted hussy selling cheep perfume. Can you believe it? Flash a man a little cleavage and he’ll just drop everything.”
Margret growled. The spreadsheet was starting to turn red. She reached for her purse and unzipped it. Maria kept on talking, not even looking. Margret pulled out the shiny new gun in there, whipped it up to Maria’s chest, and pulled the trigger.
A few seconds later, she had all the blood cleaned off her monitor and was typing away at the spreadsheet. Numbers equaled clarity, especially when there were no other distractions.
@blanchardauthor
She looked into the mirror. She knew it was there. She knew nobody else could really see it was there at the same time as she knew it was hideous and made her face all out of proportion and was the first thing anyone saw when they looked at her.
She was being crazy, and she knew it. She was not being crazy, and she knew that, too. Ever since her mother had taken her to the doctors and put her on the meds, they’d said the thoughts would go away. That she would see herself with clarity. That she would see herself as others saw her.
Now she saw the blotch. The big, pink blotch that was absolutely obvious and huge and veiny and peeling in the dead center of her left cheek, and she knew it was stupid, but it was still there. And she was bloated from drinking so much because her mouth was always dry now. And she kept having dizzy spells. And one of her eyes didn’t this weird blinky thing when she was tired. But they said she had to stay on the meds and finish high school and she looked fine and to just wear a scarf. To put mittens on her hands.
So she stared at herself in the mirror at 6:45 in the morning in April with a muffler around her face and mittens AND tape around her fingers, and she breathed. In and out. In and out. She told herself that she would not lose her mind and be publicly ridiculed if she didn’t fix that flap of skin. She told herself it was the other way around, in fact. She knew that. She did, she knew it.
And she unwrapped the muffler, just to see. Just to check. Not to do anything. No, just to make sure the meds were working and really really really hoping that she would look at her face and it would just look normal. Like Sue or Jessica or Patty’s face. But it didn’t. The blotch was there and it was hideous.
She wasn’t going to go out of control this time. She’d just even it out a bit. With just one hand. She took off one of the mittens — the right one — and untaped just her thumb and index finger. And she just peeled that little bit that was sticking out. And that left an uneven space that she had to fix. So she worked on that. And then the right side of her face didn’t match, and there was a WORSE spot there, so she took off the other mitten, too, without even really realizing it, and tried to even it out. With some concealer, it would be OK.
It was 7:30 and her mom was calling from the kitchen that she had to eat, she’d be late, come on already.
“Just a minute!” She yelled, really panicking now because of how hideous she looked — how blotchy and red and spots of blood, but also, it was STILL not even. It was still all wrong. And her mother would kill her, absolutely kill her. And she’d have to go to the doctor again, who treated her like she was eight. And she knew that if she could just fix that spot on her chin and then use a LOT of concealer and foundation, it would only take a minute.
And it was 8:20 and her Mom was shrieking, “Why are you doing this to me? Why are you punishing me? Why do you have to act so crazy? What did I do to deserve this?”
And she was crying, because she was a terrible daughter, she knew it, and she also was angry and so confused because how could her mom not see it was not about her? It was about her face being WRONG. And the crying, oh god, the crying. They’d make her go to school, and the crying had made her face puffy and pink and worse.
She looked into the mirror again. She could just fix it. Just fix it before her mother dragged her to school.
@aftergadget
Candice took a deep breath as she glanced around the restaurant. Sitting in the lobby, she once more looked outside the window.
No sign of him.
Looking back down at her cell phone, she still hadn’t received an answer to her previous text. All she knew was that Andrew wanted to meet her there. While she was on time, he wasn’t…as usual.
Someone settled next to her.
“Hey.”
Candice looked over and smiled at one of the waiters who had been walking through the sitting area. He smiled and pushed some of his raven hair behind his ear. “You’ve been here a while, huh?”
Candice nodded. “Yeah. Just meeting for dinner with a friend.”
The waiter tilted his head slightly to the side. “Just a friend?”
She shrugged and looked back down to her cell phone. “So, he’s more than a friend. Doesn’t matter. He said he was coming.”
After a pause, the waiter replied, “It’s been over an hour. You sure he’s coming?”
Slightly annoyed, Candice answered, “If he says he’s coming, he’s coming.”
Raising his hands in defeat, the waiter smiled, “Hey, take it easy. Just saying. In my experience, an hour is usually a good sign you’ve been stood up.”
“No, Andrew wouldn’t do that to me. He’s probably giving some excuse to…”
She stopped speaking abruptly, realizing her mistake. This simple waiter didn’t need to know all her business. Hopefully he didn’t catch on.
Unfortunately, Candice saw the moment of clarity flash in his deep green eyes. “Married. You’re waiting for a married man.”
Shrugging again, Candice replied, “What’s it to you? He says he’s going to leave her. It doesn’t matter.”
The waiter leaned forward, as if he needed to drill the information into her head. “He’s married. That and the fact that he’s late aught to tell you something.”
“Like what?”
“You’re meeting him on his terms.”
“So?”
Placing a hand on her shoulder, the waiter asked, “Aren’t you sick of meeting someone on their terms? Wouldn’t you rather have a man be on yours?”
Realizing her moment of clarity, the waiter stood and went back into the dining room.
Title: Life in a Dream
I awoke in my bed, much the same as every day, wishing it was not. My husband’s clothes were tossed about the room, wherever he decided to throw them and his collection of coffee cups littered his bedside table. My frequent requests for him to clean up after himself always went unheeded and I was tired of picking up after him. We had three kids already. I didn’t need or want a forth.
With a grumble, I trudged through the mess into the living room. Again, it was much the same. The destruction that only kids could create was aided by my husband’s increasing laziness. The dish washer was full of clean dishes just waiting to be put away, while the sink was full of dirty ones. Shoes were all over the floor, interspaced with the occasional dog toy. Jackets were flung over the back of the couch in a pile.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I sighed with resignation and started to pick up the room. As I turned with an armload of shoes, I tripped on a dog bone. The last thing I heard was the clatter of shoes.
I woke on a wicker lounger on a beach with a tanned, buff man kneeling next to me with a plate of chocolates and a bottle of wine in his hands.
“Are you okay, Shar?” he asked, setting the plate down and running his hand down my arm.
“Yes, I think. I had such a horrible nightmare,” I replied with a moment of clarity.
“Was it the messy house again?”
I nodded as he fed me a piece of chocolate. As the treat melted on my tongue, I smiled at my little slice of perfection.
@MLGammella
(dedicated to @CaraMichaels!)
Rado stared at the four dimensional matrix of space-time, for the hundredth try in as many days. It made absolutely no sense. That wasn’t surprising. It made no sense to anyone, really.
Still, Huang’s seminal paper had postulated that there was a way to find a shortcut through this shifting morass. Her equations had proven, mathematically at least, that the universe had to be riddled with such holes, or passages, or froth, or however you wanted to call it. It’s just that no one had ever figured out how to do it.
Rado adjusted a half dozen meters, changing time-spectra, and blueshifting the field. Nature was supposed to be simple, he’d always been taught, even when it appeared fearsomely complex.
And this was a natural system. So, what did it look like?
A mikshake in a blender, he though, sourly.
Or…
He made another adjustment. Filtering out the visible wavelengths of light humans are so prejudiced to use, and even the near IR and UV.
What was that?
In a moment of clarity, something like a micrograph capillary system in appearance. Blood circulation as an analog. A way through the maelstrom.
It might take years to get right, to find the way in and out, but that was it. Rado had it.
@_Monocle_
Time’s up! See you all at 2:00 with the finalists.
Emailed entry that I missed the cut-off for. 🙁
Roswell picked up the dipper and took a long daught, the cool water overflowing, rolling down his parched his chin and chest, leaving trails of wet in the trail dust that clung to his clothes and skin. His eyes catching those of the woman holding the pail of water before he turned his gaze to the far horizon. It was blue sky and land as far as the eye could see. And he loved it.
Not bothering to wipe his face, he dropped it back into the pail with a dull splash and sat back on his heels pushing his Stetson back on his head. “Thank’ee, Ma’am,” he said to the woman. Phrasing the words carefully; making sure to face her. She was a lot like the land, beautiful, and sometimes, a bit sad.
Roswell’s drawl was soft, with long vowels; very different from the crisp Montana speech of the other men in the region. But then again, Roswell was a long, long way from the red dirt of Georgia. In that, they were very much alike. And very much alone.
The woman looked at him thoughtfully. He wasn’t a smart man, but he was hardworking and had been kind to her and her two small children. Setting the pail down, she gestured, her hands moving in intricate signs and symbols. He’d only been with them a few months but unlike the other ranch hands, he had taken the time to learn her language.
Perhaps it was time to reconsider her future. Perhaps the clear sky and clear waters of Montana…and a family, would be an answer for two lonely people.
@DayAlMohamed