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Showing posts with label Flash Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Flash Fiction. Show all posts

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Shorty--Art Class

Our first bit of flash fiction comes to us from Liza. Thanks for playing with us! If you want you can check out her blog after commenting on her flash fiction.

I'm still working on my story, and if you are too, send it in when you're ready. Send it to unicornbellsubmissions@gmail.com with Shorty in the subject.

--
Art Class

The scissors dug into her back pocket.  Natasha pulled at the hem of her tunic to cover the bulge.  There would be no time for fumbling.  When the moment arrived, she’d have to make one fluid movement, a subtle flick incorporating a stab and a twist like the one she’d practiced for two weeks in front of her bedroom mirror.  She’d rehearsed it with her eyes closed—reaching back for the handle. Whipping the shears out she’d parried like a fencer, assaulting the imaginary canvas, jerking the point down, before sliding the weapon into her front pocket. She’d planned her exit too. Hands behind her back, she’d stroll the length of the hall pondering each of her classmate’s paintings. Then she’d move on to the sculpture exhibit.  That would be the hard part, remaining in the art center after defacing Abigail’s blue-ribbon winner.

Daughter of a master, Abigail had more aptitude in a fingernail than Natasha would experience in her lifetime.  Could anyone understand the agony of always finishing second to an artist whose gift came unbidden—whose talent wasn’t driven by anything related to hunger or desire? How many times she’d heard someone compliment her rival, only to watch the girl shrug and roll her eyes.  “Sure. Whatever,” she’d say.  “Who wants to go rollerblading?  Wait.  I’ve got a better idea.  A friend’s going skydiving today.  Let’s watch.”  She’d wink. “If he’s got a harness maybe I’ll see if he'll tandem.”

Natasha always opted out, preferring to mash burnt umber into white, teal into sienna, striving to mirror the hue of the golden trees outside the window as they passed from summer to fall.  This time, a scholarship hung in the balance.  With her mother’s wealth, Abigail didn’t need it.  Yet, the picture she’d painted stunned everyone. A girl, sitting on a cloth-draped sofa, the light on her face ethereal, wisps of hair highlighted in the afternoon sun. Natasha’s abstract landscape earned kudos too, but she had no illusions.  Abigail would win the prize and Natasha’s time in art school would come to an end. Flat broke, she’d have to find a job.  She swallowed unfairness like bile.
Now, sweat coated her back as she stood absorbing the unplumbed depths of Abigail’s painting, the subject’s eyes, hard, pained, waiting and clearly wanting.  It was a shame really.  Quashing a pang of regret, she glanced over one shoulder, then the other.  Inhaling she reached for the scissors.  Plunging them into the canvas, she withdrew her arm, stuck the tool into her front pocket, counted to fifteen and moved on, just the way she’d practiced.

Twenty minutes later she stared sightless at Turner Elliot’s bronze sculpture.  A soft arm slid around her waist.  Natasha froze.  “I took myself out of the running for the scholarship,” Abby said, pointing behind her.  “I adored painting this one, though.  It bled through me.  Oh Tash, how I envy you. Finally, I understand your passion.”


I loved the emotion in this story, the desperation. The story gives us glimpses of the history between the two characters, shows us what's at stake, shows us the choice Natasha made and carried out and then a great ending. 

What do you think?

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Silence


Yay! An entry!

I was hoping someone would pick this picture. This guy creates amazing works of art by folding and cutting paper. Then taking pictures of it. Beautiful.

Now...Read the story...my comments follow in purple.







Silence
The platform of concentric tiles curved like an orange peel. Black space framed the symmetric magnificence.
Salina sucked in another breath of stale air, the leftovers of her spacesuit’s oxygen supply. Why the manufacturers couldn’t come up with a better air system that didn’t smell so bad was beyond her keen.
Not that it mattered now.
She let the slight momentum carry her, twist her like a leaf from a tree. Odd that. Thinking of trees and blue sky. Of gravity and windy days and Oklahoma on a hot, dusty day in July. A long way from her job as an engineer tech on Meridian.
The theories about terrestrial-type planets orbiting Barnard’s Star were right. A group of three planets, all within the same mass and size of Earth, became the object of much interest. Two planets, Wreath and Zenith, orbited outside the ideal range.
But Meridian; it called to dreamers of other worlds like a Siren. Green and golden, blue water and ice fields at the poles, it filled the cups of every hopeful spacer.
The Corporation’s highest scientists aided by political monies and interests, studied Meridian’s sun, temperamental red dwarf, Barnard’s Star. Calculations and greased palms judged the star safe. In its youth, the star would have burned the surface of its planets into cinders. Now, ancient in a galaxy nearly as old as the universe, the star put out just enough energy to sustain a vibrant planet with warm rays of heat and light.
Colonists ventured to the new planet held in place by a dodgy star.
Salina volunteered, following her heart and allegiance to the Corporation. Turned down by a faceless committee, Salina lost hope of becoming a part of the Meridian group when someone at the Corporation made a special point of asking her to join. Her skills, he said, were in short supply.
Functioning in space, building the way station that bridged the beyond with the planet below, creating the blueprints and technology; all her shining moments. Her biggest hurdles were surmounting the naysayers and suck-ups who barely survived without an imagination.
A proud moment, a fulfillment of her wishes and dreams came with a pin, a blue six-pointed star that proclaimed her promotion as Chief Engineer to the way station, Bideawee. All her ambitions, work, and motivations rewarded at that ceremony.
 But, like static left from the Big Bang, the cosmic radiation that continually bombards the universe, Salina always felt uneasy. Mutterings came from the fringe, the unsophisticated underground of alarmists. Loudest of these agitators was Coxa.
Named for a star in the constellation Leo, he formulated marches, interrupted meetings, and staged protests to gain attention for his theory; that Barnard’s Star was only sleeping.
At first, Coxa spoke reasonably, passionately about his findings that Meridian’s sun was not to be trusted. Internal forces bubbled and would explode, he said. When none took him seriously, Coxa grew strident, anxious. Still no one listened.
“Barnard’s Star is gonna split open and spill its guts,” he said at an attempt to disrupt the launching of another platform. The authorities pinned him to the side of a memorial wall built as a reminder of Earth. His cheek pressed flat against the carved stone, his gaze caught Salina’s like hooks of supplication.
“Please,” he’d said through a broken mouth. “Listen to me.”
But they didn’t and now…
Salina slowly cart wheeled past the white tiles of the station. Her fuel packs were full but she chose not to stop her revolutions. Why bother? And Bideawee? Unfinished? Mentally she shrugged.
She didn’t bother to look behind her at the planet. Mostly black now but spots of orange still sparkled the last time she’d looked. Salina needed no more confirmation.
Coxa was right. Barnard’s Star had one last puff left in its stellar body, a momentous solar flare that sheared the planet’s atmosphere and cooked everything on the surface.
She’d had a ringside seat to the show. Alone, Salina had cruised her one-man vessel to the station that morning, a privilege accorded to her promotion. An inspection, she’d said to her crew. They’d laughed and waved her off, knowing she loved her creation like a newborn child. Communing with her station was one temptation she couldn’t resist.
Behind a heat plate designed to withstand most radiation, alone on her station, Salina had witnessed the destruction of her home.
Gone. And no one but her in orbit.
At that moment, a primordial instinct struck. The human craves belonging and community, for safety or fellowship. People survive being alone but always there is some tie to their species. Or to a living element.
Salina was utterly alone with no connection to anything or anyone. Her eyes wheeled as if looking for some movement, a biological, living, breathing entity.
Foolishness, she said to herself. But panic creeped into her soul despite her stern admonition. In the dark recesses of her mind, the cancer of terror multiplied. Flourished. And overwhelmed.
She breathed harder, felt sickness creep into her throat and mouth.
She screamed and flailed. Mindless without any quality of human left to her, she took big gulps of air to scream again. Over and over.
But only the Silence took note. Dispassionate and uncaring. Unforgiving.

I am keeping it anonymous...but you can reveal yourself if you want. :)  

I love the feel of this piece. How it starts out, not exactly light and fluffy, but Oh Hey! Remember Earth...This is what I loved about it...and everything is going to be ok. And then slowly, you twisted that down into everything  not being ok. Sort of like how the picture twists. 

You can sense that something is a bit off when you start in, but you're not sure what. The movement from the quiet reserved/removed voice...to even explaining how the planet died in a very scientific way. Sets up the end very well.

I did get a bit tripped up in all the names, but I do tend to speed read (a bad habit from years of college) so I simply re-read it..and they came together.

I also felt the end was very believable. If you're the only human left. And you believe the only BEING left. Yah. Panic in the extreme.

Great piece of Flash Fiction! Thanks for the submission! 

Now....What are Your Thoughts? 

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Motivation

Did I mention the Fabulous Prizes!?

Hmm...

Maybe I have to post a picture of a kitten.

I will Pounce on your FACE if you do not send me Fiction!
There...

That should do it...

Phew. I'm exhausted.

Sunday, November 11, 2012

Flash Me!

So in honor of NaNoWriMo, I'm going to put on a Flash Fiction writing challenge here at Unicorn Bell.

WHAT!? Are you Crazy!? We're writing our Butts off as it is!

Maybe.

But here's my logic.

First of all it's flash fiction. Totally the opposite of what you're (supposedly) doing every day with meeting your daily word count challenges, plotting, thinking, character development...blahblahblah. You know. Writing a NOVEL! In a MONTH! *tweak*

Second of all...I'm going to bet a puppy that a good deal of you have gotten to the point where you're either 1) Slightly burned out. 2) A tad bit Stuck or 3) Just all out Full Blown Writers Block.

The best way to fix that? Change of scenery. Write on a totally different project. For no reason. Except to have Fun! And win Totally Fabulous Prizes! *more on those in a minute*!

So. The Rules are very simple!  There are Three pictures below.

1) Choose a Picture as your Muse.

2) Your Flash Fiction Must be at LEAST 500 words but no more then 1500.

3) That's it!

4) Email your submissions to me at unicornbellsubmissions@gmail.com with Flash Fiction in the subject.

Have them in to me by Wednesday. I will post them and give my critiques.

THEN! Because this is a very simple contest, and I want to keep it fun...Based PURELY on comment count.

Friday! The Top Three will get their choice of prizes.  (So, whoever has the most comments is Grand Prize, second most comments second Place, then third most comments third place.)

Prizes are:  1) $10 Gift Card to Bn or Amazon. Which ever one floats your boat. 2) A first chapter critique by me! and 3) a Soft Cover copy of Tad Williams "Otherland".  (Which I hear people absolutely are amazed with...I wasn't too amazed with myself)

So. Without further ado...Get Writing! Hope to see some submissions!

PICTURES:

Source: google.com via Alicia on Pinterest