~ Untitled 13 by Easywriter~

We painted our bodies, our faces, our limbs. We arrayed ourselves in feathers; with solemn countenances and hearts beating their own rhythm in anticipation of the drums we were prepared, to dance into madness.

***Management Note: These are all so hard decide upon. Thanks Easywriter for a very sudden fiction that leaves much to the imagination (in a good way)!***

~Untitled 12 by Fran~

The wigheads were so pretty to Walter. He loved to gaze upon them, to consume their rigid beauty with his eyes.

For a long time, since mother died, Walter lived alone. Working at the factory, cleaning the floors and toilets for more years than he could fix upon in his addled brain.

When it all started he was young and shy. Walter was a bit like a flower that would bud, but never open. Then the rotting comes, guaranteeing no bloom.

Mother grew ill in his second year of college. Oh he was shy, never good with women. In his head he had many lovers. And he treated them with respect! Not at all like the other fellows. They had cars and money. They had confidence. They were unkind though, disrespectful. Walter could just tell.

Mother got ill, Walter came home, one year turned to ten years, ten suddenly became thirty years.

Why couldn't Walter remember why he bought the first wig?

*** This is creepy, but we can't figure out why. A very sympathetic character, in his way.***

~Untitled 11 by Gabriel~

I woke with a start and felt the grittiness under my bare arms. "Where the fuck am I...?!" I muttered under my breath. "What the hell?"

I looked around and slowly my eyes focused. I took a deep breath and my nostrils were filled with the salty smell of the sea. I took in my surroundings and realized I was under a pier of sorts.

As I got up to my feet, my head spun and the back of my neck tensed up in pain. I sat back and rubbed it. It's as if there was a cloud hanging over me. For some reason, it's as if I'm seeing everything in muted colors.

"What the hell happened to me?" I said to no one. "What happened last night?"

I took a few moments and thought about my situation as the dizziness faded away. I stretched my arms and felt something thump against the left side of my chest, just under my shoulder.

I looked down and noticed a gun in a dark brown holster.

"Oh shit." I took the gun and studied it. "A Colt 1911 Automatic. Wait. How did I know that?"

I dropped the gun and scurried backwards in the sand... That's when it hit me. I don't know who I am or how I got here.

I stood up and cleaned myself off. I holstered my pistol and continued to clean myself. I felt a bulge in the left back pocket and pulled a wallet out.

"Two hundred bucks. Not a bad thing," I chuckled appreciatively.

I lost myself in a flood of questions until my reverie was interrupted by a man's voice in a curious accent.

"You alright there?"

I spun around and whipped out the pistol at the direction of the voice. "'Ere now! Watch where you point that shooter then, right?"

Standing a few yards away was a disheveled, unshaven fellow. Judging from his clothing, I'd say he was a transient. "What did you say?"

"I asked if you were alright. I swear you Yanks are a bit touched in the head, yeah?" He smiled and tapped his forehead.

"Yanks?" I stared at him and looked around slowly. "Where I am...?"

The bum narrowed his eyes. "You ARE a bit scattered, aintcha?" With a sweep of his left arm he bowed, "Welcome to Brighton, chum!"

"Brighton?"

"Yeah, Brighton."

"Where's Brighton?"

The bum guffawed as if he was told the funniest joke in the world. I already didn't like him. For some reason, I wanted to shoot him twice between the eyes.

"Why England of course!"

"England! What the fuck am I doing here?" I yelled in exasperation. "Just who the hell are you?!"

The bum backed off and raised his hands protectively. "'Ere... Relax, chum. If anything, I should be askin' you the same things and as well whatchoo doin' with that there stuff over yonder behind ya."

He pointed slightly behind me and I noticed a rather large black slouch hat and a long red scarf. On the blood red scarf lay a red girasol ring. It glowed faintly.

"Who am I...?"

***Management Note: Amazing what a picture under a pier does for you writers! Thanks for a very mysterious flash, Gabriel. P.S.--What is a girasol ring?***

~A Question of Shadow by Ann Walters~

This is not even a question of light or dark, of shadow or unshadow. This is not air on skin. An open window through which the trees can be felt breathing. This is not a wall, solid against the back, or a pillow tossed aside, useless for comfort, pointlessly malleable. This is no palm to the forehead, no taut muscle at the base of the jaw. This is not the moment when the phone call comes and every fear is met. It is the moment after, when the phone falls and the breath taken in has not yet been let out.

***Lovely and mysterious. Thanks Sharon! Choosing is always difficult. Thanks for all your hard work, writers. Beautiful.***

~Untitled 9 by Dragon~

He had been running for what seemed like hours, and still they pursued him, sometimes sniffing right at his heels, other times falling back, giving him the advantage, then disappearing altogether before popping out of knotholes or sewer grates a few steps behind.

The need for air scalded his respiratory system like strong coffee and his heart ached, but he could not stop. They would never stop; he could never stop.

Only one hope remained in his sweat-soaked mind: the water tower. From the top of the water tower, he could shoot off a signal. From the top of the water tower, a rescue party could find him. From the top of the water tower, he could steer the future.

He looked up from the bottom, took another scorching breath, and began to climb, and they followed close behind.

***Where is the future? From whom does he run?***

Token Insult by Clarke O'Gara

‘Within 5% either way we’re looking for it to be representational as per government employment regulation 2017.’
(p.219, Internal Recruitment Proposal)

‘Please Check Appropriate Box [This Survey will not be used in the selection process]:

White British
White Other

Asian British
Asian Other

Afro-Caribbean British
Afro-Caribbean Other

Other [Please State]
Rather Not State’
(p.8, Assessment Centre Equal Opportunities Survey)

‘…but what they don’t know is that under the 1988 Data Protection Act and the updated 2013 Data Protection act all data recorded on an interviewee can be requested by the interviewee and must not be adjusted. This covers everything from notes written on the back envelopes to recordings of phone interviews…’
(Use the Law against the Law, Andre Everyman, 2016)

‘She isn’t the strongest candidate but she is the IDEAL candidate. Considering that we are struggling to hit representational quotas, it is worth noting she is female, black and partially deaf…’
(Internal HR Memo)

‘…yet when an ideal candidate does learn why she [it is invariably a she] was selected on her race, gender or disability it can often become more demeaning than rejection on those terms.’
(The New Racism, Graham Sullivan, 2014)

***This piece really asks the reader to make up his or her own mind about quotas. It is worth noting that only the title gives a clue as to the author's point of view here. It is also worth noting that this blog entry is circa 2007 and these are fabricated quotations.

We are not sure whether to be heartened, threatened, offended, or otherwise. Perhaps this is one of the marks of a very thoughtful piece.***

PSA: Housekeeping

Instructions

1. View picture.
2. Write a sudden fiction (on an open contest) as a comment, leaving a title if you like.

• Open contests have "open" in the tag section.
• Closed contests have accents around the titles ~Like This~, and the author is tagged (you can click a name and view all pieces from that author).

"Judging"

The Management chooses a winner, without much of a rubric or strategy. Other pieces are still linked from the # writer/s writing link, and we encourage you to repost your work on your own blog.

Link Us Up

Please publicize the site and favorite it (if you get into Technocrati, etc.). The more writers we have, the more we get to read, and the more fun! If you win, please contact The Management with a blog address (or email, if you like) and short bio!

~Untitled by Mike Ivsin~

***Management Note: The creative work of Mike Ivsin, who entered a sudden fiction on one of the 'non contest' blog entries. We are impressed. Thanks Mike. (We have no email for you. If you send a title we can rename this to your liking. Please write again!)***

Creating something from nothing calls for some skill and patience. Hermes' tablet helps even if it has worn out some at the edges.

The first step is nigredo where much gentle heat is called for. I skipped a step somewhere but then the sudden flash in the pan -- well, what you see is what you get.

I don't mind starting over but I am not sure how to make nothing out of something. Called on Hermes to help me fix it but he left this planet after falling out with (several) daughters of men. So I am told.

Lettuce, anyone?

Of course it's fresh -- just made it!

Public Service Announcment

From the Management

Due to a surge of fantastic writing, we will not usually be commenting on individual works as they appear.

Please accept our grateful, envious, and sincere praise right now for all the work you will be doing in the weeks (months? years?) to come. The talent already here is impressive and humbling.

How can we possibly be qualified to choose a 'winner'? Anyhow, we shall try.

~First Contact by Clarke O'Gara~

“Did you arrive on earth in the correct form?” Asked the captain of the mother ship.

“Of course we did,” she replied somewhat annoyed, “We took the form of the Columba livia, the Rock Pigeon, they had the red carpet out for us and everything. They were amazed that the first intelligent extraterrestrial race looked like a Rock Pigeon.” There was silence over the communication link while the captain of the mother ship was thinking to himself. First contact had not gone as expected.

“And it was just humans everywhere?” He’d asked that question about three times already. “Yes! It was just fucking humans everywhere. I saw some Pigeons outside but they didn’t recognise the greeting.” There was more silence.

Two big questions hung in the air. What had happened to the super intelligent pigeons they’d placed on earth all those millions of years ago and where did all these homo-sapiens come from?

***Management Note: We are tickled indeed. Please also check out Sharon Hurlbut's piece in the comments for a mysterious fairy tale.***

~More Money and a Trailer by FranIAm~

Daddy tole me that it would be ok to merry cousin Joe on account of Joe got some money and a good trailer to take me to.

I don't know. I feel a little scared in my tummy. Mama says not to be afraid but I know what he is gonna do with me later.

This white dress is real pretty though and I feel like a real grown up lady even though I am only 15.

Daddy does that thing with mama and thats why theres so many little ones and I have to marry Joe.

Will that happen to me to?

***Management Note: The use of voice in this piece is brilliant. What innocence. Thanks FranIAm!***

~Untitled 5 by Clarke O'Gara~

Lots and lots of washing is the only way to get the blood off. Zombie blood stains just as much as human blood and it has that the same metallic smell that you can only smell when you’re around it in large quantities. It is just as fresh.

What you’ve seen in the movies is claptrap. Zombies are not rotting, living dead who stumble around making yawning noises, they’re much more subtle and they look human like you or me. The phrase, ‘the lights are on but nobody is home’ couldn’t be more apt.

On the same note they’re not dangerous either; they tend to be benign… mostly. And it is a good job; I live in a town of zombies.

You wouldn’t know it though. Tell them a joke and they laugh, play them soothing music and they smile. They respond to stimuli exactly the same as if they were human, on the outside they’re human, yet inside they have no brain. You never get used to the screams though. It took four blows to the head last night before the zombie on my bathroom floor stopped screaming. They sound so human.

But this one had to die, he wasn’t benign he was getting hungry for my brain. Trying to send me to the hospital but I’m not stupid I know that’s where they get your brain.

"You’re autistic.” He said, “A lack of empathy with other human beings. This is why you think everyone is a zombie. You need to go to the hospital so we can do a brain scan.

"Autistic? Brain Scan? I’m not stupid, this zombie had to go.

But they do sound so human when they scream.

***Management Note: Definitely not where we would have gone with this, but intriging nonetheless. Thanks Clarke!***

~The Bright Side by Ann Walters~

The fields are burning. Close the curtains. It’s caught hold of the old farmhouse next door, and the barn, too. Close the curtains. It’s those winds that ride down the hills, they brought it here, too close to home. Too close to Grandpa’s orchard, to Mother’s prize vegetable patch, to baby Jack’s tiny grave in the family plot. The sky is an illusion behind black smoke. The fireman beckons in his bright yellow coat, but I will not leave. Hope is blinding. Close the curtains.

***Management Note: Great use of repetition. You said a lot in just a few words.***

~Untitled 3 by Cynthia~

Looking around the yard, all I see are grimy fences surrounding me. Tall trees, reaching to the sky, are on the outside of the fence, along with the one road out.

On my side, there are old buildings with peeling paint and creaking doors. Sometimes I think if I lean too heavily on a wall, the entire structure will cave in, burying me beneath its rotted wood.

On my side, there are years of sameness. Same routines, same wants, same broken down castles in the air. Looking upward, all I see is untainted space.

***Management Note: Thanks again to Cynthia!We love the contrast between grimy fences and untainted space.***

~Untitled 2 by Al E. Yus~

Arrived at the beach about two and assessed the situation. Our designated timeshare was listed as a "container cabana." I don't know about the cabana part, but it certainly was a container; nearly a dumpster. Oh well; it took so long to get here, we were all exhausted, so took a swim, ate some burgers and then slept for fourteen hours.

We awoke at dawn to the sound of a whistling air blast. Stumbling out of our box house, we froze in our tracks in disbelief. There, hovering fifteen feet above the beach, was what I can only describe as a flying pod. It extended four long legs and settled onto the sand. A door opened and a man, a woman, and a little girl stepped out on to the deck. The couple shaded their eyes and looked toward the beach. The little girl looked over at us standing there slackjawed. She spoke.

"Our beach house is better than yours."

***Management Note: What a whimsical take on this photo. Thanks Al E. Yus!***