Sunday, October 31, 2010

Flash Fiction Contest: Write a Story about May Bea Later

Write a story about May Bea Later
The contest closes Monday November 15, 2010

May Bea Later
11"x14" oil and mixed media on masonite






Click on pictures to enlarge.
 
The story you write should be a "Flash Fiction" which is a complete story in one thousand or fewer words.  Please post the story in the comment section, you will have to provide your name and an email address in order to be qualified to win or you can e-mail me at kmencher@ohlone.edu with your info.  There is a problem with how many characters can post (only about 4,000) so if you cannot post it.  E-mail it to me at kmencher@ohlone.edu


The contest closes Monday November 15, 2010.

Go to my website for more contests: http://www.kenney-mencher.com/

Winning flash fiction stories will be integrated in with an exhibit in San Francisco at ArtHaus Gallery (April 8th for the reception).

The show is called:
Renovated Reputations: Paintings and Fiction inspired by Vintage Portrait Photographs


The exhibit will include a series of 20-40 paintings and mixed media works ranging in size from 8”x10” to 18”x24” framed with thrift store and vintage frames.  In addition to the exhibited works ArtHaus is publishing catalogs signed by me and as many of the authors as possible.

Catalogs/books will consist of image of the painting with the text of the “flash story” surrounding the image.  If I can get the authors to come to a book signing/party, authors would sign their pages for some of the printed stuff.


We're going to have a photobooth for the show for participants
to play with and vintage costumes.

Of course I'll send the authors free copies of the catalogs. I will announce the winners the day after the closing deadline for the competition. I'm planning on doing one flash fiction competition a week every Monday from now until April. 

(If the conditions in the side bar are not to your liking, I'm totally flexible.  Send me a contract that you like and I will mail it back to you.  I just don't want to chase people for signatures when I publish the catalog!)

Go to my website for more contests: http://www.kenney-mencher.com/
_______________________________________________
This was sent in by e-mail:

Countdown to Zero by Jennifer Mills Kerr
            "May?  Are you in?"  Frau Hessen knocked at the back door again.
            May smiled through the window from her bedroom, peering down on Frau Hessen's finely etched part, a tiny slice of skin amidst her dark, lustrous hair.  The back door creaked open.  Frau Hessen's figure slid out of sight; she had come inside the house.  May shivered with pleasure as the woman's footsteps clicked along the kitchen linoleum that May's mother had mopped that morning.  It was 1920; the war had ended.  But her mother repeatedly scrubbed the house as if to set Germany right again. 
            May faced herself in the mirror.  She had just turned eighteen.  Her chestnut-colored hair was pulled back from her face, revealing her cheeks' peachy glimmer and blue eyes that glinted with resolution.  Now was the time.  She could feel it.  She ran her hands over her breasts slowly.  I'm beautiful, she whispered, a flush of heat filling her body.  Beautiful.            
            "May?"  Frau Hessen's voice resounded in the kitchen, more loudly now, more urgent.
            May began to count down from ten.  Her mother had always encouraged this in an attempt to instill patience in her restless, impulsive child, often called a tomboy, and occasionally, to her mother's mortification, "boyish".  She encouraged May to grow her hair, pluck her eyebrows, always wear stockings.  She instructed her on the benefits of long walks, regular hair brushing, the properly fitting bra.  All in the purpose of May finding a man so those in their acquaintence could never, would never, allude to her being like one.         
            Frau Hessen moved about the kitchen in small, ruffled movements, reminding May of a bird rustling its wings in a cage.  She had lost her husband in the war.  Not quite thirty, Frau Hessen wore snug wool skirts with heels and plum-colored lipstick which May imagined tasting like plum.  Now, her heels ticked along the floor like a bomb waiting to go off.  A drawer squeaked open—Frau Hessen was searching now—and she began to hum softly, just as May's pediatrician did while inspecting the private corners of her body. 
            May leaned on one foot so the floor creaked.  The sound was subtle, but distinct.           
            "May?  Is that you?"  Fright in Frau Hessen's voice—but excitement too.  For the first time, they were alone in the house.  Three months before, Frau Hessen had befriended May's mother at church, but she latched onto May, hunger in her dark eyes.  The war had taken so many men.  Like other widows, Frau Hessen went to church to quell the flame of anger and bereavement, and there, she had discovered May, the sweetness of her, the youth of her, the decency of her, a young woman who attended church, volunteered at the hospital, tutored the neighborhood children.  She began to knit May sweaters, one the color of sand, one sky blue to match May's eyes.  She brought her pies—blackberry, peach, green apple.  It seemed so innocent, May thought, all so innocent. 
            Then Frau Hessen's visits became more frequent, and longer.  She began to ask May if she had boyfriends, what body cream she used.  She even touched May's hair sometimes, commenting on its silkiness; how did May create such a shine?  Women could ask the most intimate questions without suspicion.    
            May leaned on her foot again; another creak from the floorboards.  Would Frau Hessen dare climb the stairs?  Would she come into May's bedroom?        Ten, nine, eight… May began to count as Frau Hessen's legs whispered as she approached the stairs.  May felt a heat glowing inside of her.  Still, she waited, pressing up against the discomfort until she completed the countdown
            …three, two, one.  Ready.  She left the shelter of her bedroom and found Frau Hessen, at the bottom of the stairs, pale face upturned.  Her hand lay on the bannister, her high heel was poised on the first stair.
            "That is you," she said, fingering the buttons on her dress. 
            May didn't move.
            Frau Hessen said,  "I brought you a pie."
            "Thank you, Frau Hessen."
            "You're not wearing any shoes," she said.  "My dear, it's cold."
Her eyes lingered along May's bare feet and calves.   
            "My mother won't be returning for a few hours," May said.  She lay a moist palm against her thigh.  Slowly, she drew her hand upward, lifting her skirt slightly.  "We're all alone."
            Frau Hessen's gaze drifted to May's face.  Her lips parted.  "Young lady, I—"  she stopped, swallowed.
            "I'm eighteen," May said.  "Not that much younger than you."
            "That's true," Frau Hessen phrased it like a question.
            "I have the same desires,"  May said.  Her body pulsed in a warm, delicious heat.  Would Frau Hessen climb the stairs?  The woman's eyes travelled along May's skirt, tucked about her thighs in a firm embrace.  May began counting.  Ten, nine, eight… What was Frau Hessen waiting for?  May had seen the hunger in her eyes dozens of times, her need to believe there was good in the world, and that desire for one sweet, convincing taste.  Four, three, two… Now was the opportunity for Frau Hessen to have it.  If she would dare. 
            Then May saw the squint about Frau Hessen's eyes, the flash of hate. 
            "You're disgusting," she whispered, twisting away, rushing from the stairs.  May heard the indelicate clap of her high heels against the clean, shiny linoleum, tended by her mother's hands.  The door slammed.  May's heart swelled with sadness—not for herself, but Frau Hessen.  Retreat was failure.  Every German knew that. 
_____________________________________________
Before you read this next story you have to know the following to get it!  This is from Wikipedia (I never thought I'd ever admit to using something from it!)
The Alderson drive, named after Jet Propulsion Laboratory scientist Dan Alderson, is a fictional device that enables instantaneous interstellar transportation. It is featured in the CoDominium series of science fictionnovels by Jerry Pournelle, including the Mote series by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle. Dan Alderson helped Pournelle work out the notional science behind the drive, and how it should work to be a useful plot device.

It Didn't Matter Anymore by Ron Slattery
 
It was a warm night. We stood outside the hanger doors. The clouds filled the sky with a dull glow.

He asked me the question again. "Do fortunes ever change on their own?". I looked into his unblinking eyes. Head turned slightly to the left, he seemed puzzled. He repeated the question. I knew the answer that he wanted to hear. It wasn't time.... yet.

I drew a breath and decided to burst his balloon. No easy gifts would come from me. I said one word "Always".

The muscles of his jaw grew tight. He seemed to grow larger. "Then what happened to our fortune" His voice was low.

"It changed" I said grimly. I held out my hand. The tube from the Alderson Drive.

As if on cue, the clouds parted and the moon shone like gold our faces. He reached for the tube. I let it fall. It shattered on the tarmac. There would be no return trip. Not this year.

He spat on the ground and walked toward the security building. He'd be back with others.

I looked up at the moon in a dream. I could hear her voice from the other side. It didn't matter anymore. 

____________________________________________
By the way, Ron runs the most awesome blog in the world called 
Big Happy Fun House.  

4 comments:

  1. "No obstacles..." sez the fortune cookie slip. I brush my hair back and briefly recall various objects from my now-alien past. More of a "lapsus memoria"...a slip - something I excel at doing. Mostly, I slip back in time with vintage clothing and style while at the same time away from my sex. I think of Oscar Grant's last words: "you shot me". In the back. By a cop surrounded by cops while handcuffed on his stomach. Judge Perry ruled that Mehserle's "muscle memory" slipped up and as a result a cop got half the sentence Michael Vick did for fighting dogs.

    My thoughts wander again to the silk slip I'll wear for Sam later tonight. Then return to obstacles. Sam. Tell him before or "in flagrante"? He really is such a dear and I do wonder how he views Adam and Steve? Not that I resemble Steve anymore. I wonder if Oscar was trans would the community come out as powerfully as it did? Where do I stand in the hierarchy of the marginalized? Forget about me. I wonder at the situation where Mehserle's wife had literally just given birth when Oscar's mother lost her son. By summer of 2011 Mehserle will likely be reunited with his child while Wanda will never hold Oscar again.

    I wonder what Sam will do to me when in the heat of flaring passion he discovers the truth? I think I love him though we have not known each other very long...well, longer than Johannes knew Oscar. As I look into the mirror, I think of "obstacles" to be overcome. I think I'm scared because Sam is a BART cop and may be later I'll be dead.

    by Sean Henry @ henry.ostang@gmail.com

    ReplyDelete
  2. THE MOON IN THE GIRL by Dee Turbon

    We had something. It was obvious. Everyone said so. The way we were together, shutting everyone else out, sitting so close we were touching. And when we walked of an evening, under a star-crossed sky, with no one about, it was the same pace we walked, like we were in step with each other, and she took my hand sometimes, her fingers knotted with mine, and I put my arm across her shoulders and she leaned into me. We had something. But looking back I am not sure what that was.

    Moon mad I was, giddy as hares in March – and I have heard it said that their madness is moon governed, too. And I told her as much. Not about the hares, but about my head spinning and the butter-ball moon making me itchy. She said she liked that. I waited for her to say more, but there was no more.

    I called her up at odd times of the night to draw her to the window. ‘Look at the stars. And though you are there and I am here, we are under the same stars. And if I could reach up and touch them, you would see me stretching.’ And I hung names on those stars making pictures in the night sky for her to see. Not the real names, but something like. Names I plucked from the pages of history and myth. Helen and Paris; Shah Jahan and his bride eternal, Mumtaz Mahal; and Perseus hand in hand with Andromeda, and I told her I wished the world still held dragons to slay, and I hoped she’d understand, and she laughed as though she did.

    And we wrote poetry, in the small time that we were not together, and she slid pieces of paper under my door when I slept, and I did the same, and we never met on those moonlight creepings, not more than once. I remember it was not morning and it was not night, and the streetlights where we were had gone out, and so there was a collision of sorts, a stumbling and a fumbling in the dark, and time plays tricks with memory so that now I think it might be something I invent, and I lost count of those moon made fleeting kisses, and they seem to me looking back to have little substance, so that they could be wishes or dreaming.

    And I thought we had something. Everyone did. So, taking courage and in the self-same dark, I told her.

    ‘And we do,’ she said. And she said, ‘truly.’ But she let go of my hand then, and she drew back from my touch. And she smiled up at me, and looking into her eyes I could not see what I wanted to see, could see only twin reflected moons. ‘Truly,’ she said again, soft as whispering, and she skipped away from me. And I shouted after her. I said would she call. And she said, ‘Maybe later.’

    There are years between us now, cataract years and grey, and the poems she wrote to me, the words, are all faded to nothing and the paper soft as cloth, and the moon does not shine so bright as it once did, seems now to wear a lunatic smile, I think. And in the dark of not sleeping, I wonder still what it was that we had, for it was not what I thought it was, not what everyone thought, and she never did call.

    ReplyDelete
  3. It was a warm night. We stood outside the hanger doors. The clouds filled the sky with a dull glow.

    He asked me the question again. "Do fortunes ever change on their own?". I looked into his unblinking eyes. Head turned slightly to the left, he seemed puzzled. He repeated the question. I knew the answer that he wanted to hear. It wasn't time.... yet.

    I drew a breath and decided to burst his balloon. No easy gifts would come from me. I said one word "Always".

    The muscles of his jaw grew tight. He seemed to grow larger. "Then what happened to our fortune" His voice was low.

    "It changed" I said grimly. I held out my hand. The tube from the Alderson Drive.

    As if on cue, the clouds parted and the moon shone like gold our faces. He reached for the tube. I let it fall. It shattered on the tarmac. There would be no return trip. Not this year.

    He spat on the ground and walked toward the security building. He'd be back with others.

    I looked up at the moon in a dream. I could hear her voice from the other side. It didn't matter anymore.

    ReplyDelete
  4. An addendum to Ron's post from Wikipedia (I never thought I'd actually use it!)

    The Alderson drive is not, strictly, a faster-than-light drive: it can more nearly be likened to a device able to use a form of wormhole, whose entry and exit 'Alderson points' are at either end of an 'Alderson tramline'. Alderson points are difficult to find. Alderson tramlines form between points of equipotential thermonuclear flux located near stars. Not all star pairs form Alderson tramlines, and not all those tramlines which do form are large enough to take a spaceship. This means that in order to travel between star systems, it is frequently necessary to carry out a series of Alderson jumps interspersed with periods of travel between Alderson points in normal space. Alderson tramlines, when they form, form instantaneously, and travel along them appears to take no elapsed time. However, sentient beings who travel using an Alderson drive experience "jump shock", a temporary period of extreme disorientation immediately following an Alderson jump. Computers are affected for an even longer period of time, making it difficult to automate spacecraft after a jump. Spacecraft are thus vulnerable to attack until their occupants recover from jump shock.

    At the beginning of The Mote in God's Eye, only one tramline leads to Mote system. Its inner end is well above the plane of the local ecliptic and its outer end appears inside the photosphere of a red giant star. The Mote civilizations had long been able to construct an Alderson-type drive but, because they had no Langston Field technology, their many attempts to use the drive always failed: their unshielded ships making a jump were burnt up by the red giant's photosphere. Then the battlecruiser INSS MacArthur arrived in their system, leading to the events in the novel and its sequel.

    ReplyDelete

If you are posting a story, please make sure you read the conditions of the contest on my website.
http://www.kenney-mencher.com/flash_fiction_competition.htm