Congratulations to our nine Flash Micro Winners. Interested in our Flash Memoir Contest? Go to https://writeradvice.com/latest-contest-information/ to read all the details.
Flash Micro Winners
Some sent Dribbles (50 words), some sent Drabbles (100 words), and some sent Micros (up to 500 words).
Our winners had pieces that resonated—often because of the ending, sometimes because of the situation, and usually because something happened that was shown in a unique way.
All contests are subjective. That said, these were our favorite pieces, and we hope they’ll be yours too.
All nine are equal winners, and we’ll post one piece a week, every Tuesday, until the end of February. All of them will be up in March.
And the winners (in the order they will appear) are
John Adinolfi
Ruth Carhuff
Brian Shea
Alfred J. Garrotto
John Sheirer
Mia Blixt-Shehan
Carol J. Wechsler Blatter
Robin Church
Luanne Castle
Our Flash Memoir Contest will close on March 2. Read about it under Current/Latest Contest. We’re eager to read your work.
Uncatitional Love
By Luanne Castle
After the long drive in never-ending traffic, I fumble the key. When the door opens you are waiting for me, just as I expect. You sit still, facing me, your paws together. A fountain of love wells up in me. Your upright ears and wide-open eyes reveal your excitement. I drop my suitcases and bend to pick you up. You snuggle against my neck, rub your silky face against mine, determined. Purrrrrrr. Our bodies relax together. You are lightweight as a gossamer fairy, the scent of the petsitter’s lavender lotion lingers. You jump down and huff off. You’ll show me.
Luanne Castle’s recent fiction can be found in Bending Genres, Roi Fainéant, The Dribble Drabble Review, Does It Have Pockets, South 85 Journal, and The Ekphrastic Review. She has written several award-winning poetry books.Luanne lives with five cats in Arizona along a wash that wildlife use as a thoroughfare.
Family Scene One
By Robin Church
An old man sits rocking in the corner of the living room, stains on his hands, waiting inside a grey cloud. A young woman pirouettes by the coffee table, spirals of light shooting from her body, bare feet pressing the floor in pink circles which ripple out through the front door. The woman in the kitchen wears a full apron as she prepares another supper. Slicing purple onions thin as glass. Mincing garlic. Boiling Ditalini. Crushing Roma tomatoes in a large blue bowl. Rinsing and wiping as she goes, keeping everything neat and tidy, none of them knowing this will be his last meal.
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Robin Church has loved writing and reading poetry since she was a girl. Now that she’s retired she has time to devote to state and local poetry organizations; she belongs to two writers groups with people she adores; and she hopes to publish a chapbook someday.
Gathered in Their Brokenness
By Carol J. Wechsler Blatter
No seat, you stood along the wall and joined so many who hovered and prayed. Her casket was prominently placed. Remains of a life incomplete. Severed abruptly. You mourned for the person you thought you knew. For many years, she assisted in your care. You remembered her smiles, her gentleness, her many kindnesses.
What had been concealed was now revealed. She took her life. Did she take drugs or pills, did she suffocate, did she hang herself? Who found her? Her mother? Her adult children? Her siblings? In shock and disbelief. In grief. Weeping. They gathered in their brokenness.
Carol J. Wechsler Blatter has contributed writings to Chaleur Press, Story Circle Network and Writing it Real anthologies, Jewish Writing Project, Jewish Literary Journal, True Stories Well Told, and has poems in Story Circle Network’s Real Women Write, and Covenant of the Generations. She is a recently retired psychotherapist, and a wife, mother, and grandmother.
Most Authentic
By Mia Blixt-Shehan
“I’m so happy we finally got a table here,” Linda chirps. “Rhonda from Accounting told me this has the most authentic Mexican food in the metro area.”
The waitress arrives. “What can I get for you?”
Linda smiles. “I’ll have the bacon cheeseburger with fries, please. Make it American cheese.”
Mia Blixt-Shehan is a library professional by day and a rock musician by night. She lives in Chicago, Illinois, USA, with her husband John and an excessively large collection of Pokemon plushes.”
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Low Flow
By John Sheirer
After the divorce, Roland splurged for a “low-flow” showerhead at his new apartment. He was amazed that the thing produced so much comfort while using so little water. His kids loved it when they usually visited every other weekend. Roland noted how clean he got before weekly trips to his therapist and the unemployment office. Some days, he turned it to the edge of scalding and soaked in the flow until the water ran cold. And Roland appreciated that the showerhead was loud enough to drown out annoying sounds. Fists against bathroom walls, for example, or a grown man weeping.
John Sheirer lives in Western Massachusetts and is in his 31st year of teaching at Asnuntuck Community College in Northern Connecticut. His most recent books are For Now: One Hundred 100-Word Stories and Stumbling Through Adulthood: Linked Stories. Find him at JohnSheirer.com.
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My Wartime Sacrifice
By Al Garrotto
On the afternoon of Tuesday, December 8, 1942, our whole family, including my two-year-old sister, huddled transfixed around our Zenith radio. President—Saint in our home—Franklin D. Roosevelt stunned us with a somber declaration that America would go to war against Japan.
This followed a horrific attack on Pearl Harbor… wherever that was. Did anyone on our block know Japan existed? Not my parents. Not me or my older sister. Did this mean another Great Depression? Living as we did on Southern California’s West Coast made us wonder if we might be the next target in Japan’s sights.
The holidays came and went with few joyous shouts of “Merry Christmas” and “Happy New Year.” Amid the palling gloom, Santa delivered the greatest present a seven year old boy could hope for… a shiny metal Ferris wheel! Complete with swinging seats. It stood so tall it came to my shoulders. My parents weren’t rich, but we weren’t poor either. Daddy had an important job that other dads on our block must have envied. Night janitor at MGM Studio in Culver City. The one with Leo the roaring lion mascot. Dad knew all kinds of important people, like still photographers who took his picture and, with their miracles of darkness and light, made him look like Clark Gable, pencil mustache and all.
The calendar turned. 1943. In a vacant lot across the street from our duplex a sign went up: “Scrap Metal Wanted. Leave It Here.” Little by little, patriotic neighborhood folks brought their older pots and pans. Some left dented car fenders, broken tools, and who knew what people had hidden and forgotten in their black widow friendly garages. As I played across the street with my prized Ferris wheel, I watched the heap grow taller, imagining someone’s junk becoming the wing of a speedy fighter plane.
As yet I had done nothing for the cause of victory. America’s young men got drafted or volunteered to fight for my safety. Three uncles answered the call. At my age, I’d never get a chance to fight for my country… but I could still do my share for Uncle Sam.
No! Not my prized Ferris wheel. Yes. No-no-NO! Yes… no… YES.
Without telling anyone, I picked up my favorite Christmas gift and crossed the busy street, but only after looking both ways as I’d been taught. Standing before the growing pile of assorted junk. I saw nothing as new and cherished as my shiny and most valued Ferris wheel. I inhaled… held my breath and let out a groan….
“Don’t do it!” barked a naysaying voice inside my head.
“You’ll get spanked like never before,” warned a woman’s stern voice—my mother’s. How would I explain my decision if challenged?
My well-rehearsed response? “Saint Franklin asked me to.”
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The Arts in all forms are Alfred J. Garrotto’s lifelong passion. Born into a theatrical family, he began working in films at the age of seven. As an adult, he settled into a writing career and has authored 16 books, including fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. Only recently has he discovered the joy of “flash” writing. He now lives and writes in the San Francisco East Bay Area.
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DORK SUPERMAN
By Brian Shea
A Boeing 707’s wingspan has nothing on Joseph when he slides into the pool, a dolphin. He’s a wiry, hunching dork on campus. And yet.
We know his scrawny body can’t actually change shape, but what other explanation is there? People have taken photos with special cameras. His scapulae spread, sure, and his neck elongates, and his shoulders rotate without limits — though none of that is beyond the musculature of an athlete.
Joseph, dork and unlikely superman, is bound to break records at Delmont High, and maybe someday at the Olympics, too.
If only he’d stop killing the neighborhood cats.
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Brian Shea recently completed The Half Owl, a mystery based on Native American ledger art from the Great Plains. His short pieces have been selected for anthologies from Sisters in Crime and the Florida Writer’s Association, and KQED radio.
Brian earns his living as a freelance book designer while continuing work on a political thriller.
Photo by Gentrit Sylemani at Unsplash.com
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St. Peter’s Review
By Ruth Carhuff
It wasn’t an accident, it was deliberate.
I had 3 vodka shots, then drove.
She told me she was pregnant. It wasn’t mine.
Now it’s not hers.
I’ve lost my football scholarship and my future.
Will I convince God, St. Peter, that I don’t deserve hell?
Maybe not, as I’ve created enough hell on earth for my parents, hers, and the teammate who slept with her.
I hear hell is hot, St. Peter, is it true?
Ok. Now I know what to expect.
Thanks for listening. I know you need to review the next unlikely candidate for admission to heaven.
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Classical flutist Ruth Carhuff translates her love of music into the tone of creative writing. She lives in New York and enjoyed two years of study at the Writer’s Studio in New York City.
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A Different Christmas Story
By John Adinolfi
My boss is making me work Christmas Eve. I know it’s the company’s busiest day, but he’s got plenty of full-time team members. Why me? I’m not even one of his best temps. And his regular guys don’t like me because they think I’m “different.” They never wanted to work with me before, but now, suddenly, I’m OK because the boss picked me.
Anyway, it’s time. The weather report says tonight will be a cold, damp, and foggy mess that’ll make travelling a real drag. I better shine up my stupid red nose so I can see where I’m going.
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John Adinolfi is retired from a career in marketing. His stories have appeared in Writer Advice, Flash Fiction Magazine, Streetlight Magazine, and 365 Tomorrows.
