Third Place at Mash Stories Contest

Excellent news. I entered the seventh Mash Stories quarterly flash fiction contest with a post-apocalyptic story called "Wichita," received valuable feedback from them, and was shortlisted along with fifty-four other great stories from hundreds of entries. Today I heard my story had won Third Place, which made me very happy. Thanks to everyone who helped spotlight my dark little tale by voting, rating, and commenting. I truly value the online writing community and have thoroughly enjoyed my experience with the excellent Mash Stories and their supportive staff.

To explain in a little more detail: the competition itself has few rules. They ask that you keep your story to no more than five hundred words and that you incorporate three random keywords in your entry. On this particular occasion, the words were congress, art, and jealousy.

Anyway, here is my story.

Wichita

Nothing more lives in the fields of dead corn. Unless ash itself is alive.

A doomsday synod of shivering crows gathers on the wires, funereal linemen eulogizing lines long abandoned by the thrum of life. All pointless, everything ashen with the eradication of hope.

“Well, heck, I never expected to see you here, honey.”

On the cracked and silent blacktop, a compact woman in a smeared and outsized Abercrombie & Fitch hoodie and streaked black leggings adopts a greeting stance, outstretched arms, a twist of smile, a fierce and knowing eye.

She feigns the art of sanity with great finesse, since there is no one here to greet or be greeted by. Unless she wishes some grim new congress with soot, stubble, and starving corvids.

Unless. Unless is the great dead word of the world. There is no unless anymore, only terminus. All words are more sound than meaning, now, cessation the long hushed echo of ceased.

“We should head for the coast, child. See what’s up. Might be more of us.”

In response, a small gust skitters something light and dry over the ruined asphalt, the curtain-call ghosts of nature cooperating with this theater.

“Mmm-hmmm. Sure, child. We got ourselves a deal.”

Another cold blast from the north; she pulls her mangy fur-lined hood over her head and leans into the weather. Up ahead is a three-way intersection; turn right in the direction of the distant ocean, and she won’t have to battle the wind head-on.

“Feels like the right call. … What’s that you say, hon? Yeah, me neither. We got a trek ahead of us, for sure.”

She begins to sing, her voice a drop of shimmering blue in a monochrome vignette. Un petit piaf noir. Singing about Wichita. Singing about the sea.

But haunted theater aside, a living companion would notice the trail of dark blood behind the woman, and feel pity. Knowing she won’t reach sand and salt before insatiable death with its bitter jealousy seizes her as it’s seized all others these last chill months. And ceases her.

Flash Fiction Contest

Should have blogged about this a lot sooner, but last week I won the Indies Unlimited Flash Fiction Contest for a second time. The premise was a comic one, involving a caveman named Og and a deer or two, and it was an opportunity to write something very different. So I grasped the deer by both antlers and went for the funny bone. Apparently it was just funny enough to win. The thing is, aside from the feeling of pride you get from winning a fiction contest—itself reward enough—the winning stories will be anthologized at year's end, so it's a worthwhile stab at a form of immortality alongside some other excellent writers. Anyway, without further ado, here's Og's story:

© K.S. BrooksOg Hunts

by David Antrobus

Og lonely. Wish had friend.

Wait. Deer! Og move slow, get close to deer. Drum inside chest pounding. Breathe slow. Jump up and throw rock. Og miss, but deer not run away. No. Deer run toward. Head down. Og surprised. Catches Og’s loincloth with pointy head spears. Tries to shake Og off. Can’t. Og’s teeth and bones hurt. Deer panics, runs into water. Og breathing water. Og scared. Notices log. Tries to grab it. Not log. Log with teeth. Log bites deer on leg and starts to spin. Og spins too. Loincloth rips. Og naked. But Og free. Deer not so lucky. But here come other logs with teeth. Fight over deer. Og doesn’t think. Og wishes Og thinks more. Og grabs bloody part of deer and runs, heads for cave. Thinks tribe will like him again now. Make friends. Piece of deer is almost deer.

Arrive at cave. Tribe home. Og smiles. Tribe look at Og naked and laugh. But then not laugh. Tribe look over Og’s shoulder. Og and bleeding deer gut trail been followed by big cat with mouth spears. Tribe scream. Run. Big cat with mouth spears eat two of tribe, Glug and Grog. Tribe sad.

Next day, Og lonelier. Og hunting far away. Very far. No rocks this time. Sunburn in bad place.

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David Antrobus also writes for Indies Unlimited and BlergPop. Be sure to check out his work there if you like what you read here.