UPDATED WITH WINNER: LitReactor's Flash Fiction Smackdown: July Edition
Flash fiction: A style of fictional literature marked by extreme brevity.
How This Works
We give you something. It could be a picture or an idea or a sentence. You write a flash fiction piece, using the thing we gave you as inspiration. Put your entry in the comments section. One winner will be picked, and awarded a prize.
- 250 words is the limit (you can write less, but you can't write more)
- Any genre
- Give it a title
- We're not exactly shy, but stay away from senseless racism or violence
- One entry per person
- Editing your entry after you submit it is permitted (though don't go crazy)
- LitReactor employees can enter, but they can't win
- All stories submitted on or before July 30th will be considered. We'll run the winner on July 31.
This Month's Prize
Disappeared by Anthony Quinn: A Catholic detective in a Protestant nation, Celcius Daly knows too well the agonies of sectarian strife. To solve a string of murders, he must reach decades into the past, confronting a painful history that Ireland would prefer to forget. Great book from a debut author. Winner gets a digital copy of the book in the format of his or her choice.
This Month's Judge
Anthony Quinn, author of the book we're giving away as this month's prize! Quinn is an Irish author and journalist, born in Northern Ireland’s County Tyrone. He has written short stories for years, winning critical acclaim and, twice, a place on the short list for the Hennessy/New Irish Writing Award. Disappeared is his first novel.
And the winner is... Emma!
Our judge said he was won over by the "compelling use of imagery, her talent at describing the macabre in an entertaining fashion, and the strong authorial voice throughout." Congrats, Emma!
They lay underground, snug in their holes and their tombs and their pine boxes. Some drum their insubstantial fingers against wet earth, others play games of pick-up-sticks with the small bones of their former hands. The lucky ones, those in the mausoleums, might have a book or some nice needlework to pass the time. Those with slightly more sadistic tendencies amuse themselves by pulling the legs off of centipedes. One likes to compose songs to the tune of footfalls overhead (if only visitors came more often than two or three times a year, he laments to no one in particular). The point is, they all have their little hobbies.
The popular notion is that there is no sunlight underground; that simply isn’t true. Sunlight is stronger than you’d imagine, as is mist, and both filter down through the sod and the mud, tunneling along the same routes as the beetles and worms, becoming gradually filtered by soil and humus so that instead of yellow the light takes on a brownish quality, and perhaps the mist is a bit murkier, but it’s still there.
When the last of the day’s light drips down through the earth like the last bit of honey poured from a jar, chased by darkness, they make their preparations. They pack up their needlework, finish torturing that last beetle, reassemble their left hand. They’ve been waiting all day, and it’s time to come out.
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