Flash Fiction Contest Third Place Winning Entry

Third Place - D. Kay Valentine, Dragon vs. Toddler

Fact, toddlers toddled. Also, a fact, snakes slithered. And if one resided in the northern mountains of Arkansas, it was entirely likely that toddlers and large leggy winged snakes could end up face to snout in the Ozark Forest.

The toddler, a three-year-old girl wearing only a diaper, had toddled away from her trailer nestled into the side of Magazine Mountain. She’d been sitting in front of the trailer with her faithful hound Scratch enjoying mudpies and juice while her momma hung the laundry out to dry.

Momma had never enjoyed laundry day, especially since the dryer stopped working three months prior. Momma did, however, enjoy a sip or two of ‘shine, which after the dryer broke had become a major part of laundry day. On that day she had enjoyed a full glass of moonshine while she did the wash. She had enjoyed a second while she hung the wash on the line, and a third while she stared at the wash waiting for it to dry in the summer heat.

Scratch knew something was wrong with Momma when she had leaned over to rest her forehead on the cool wet sandy ground and never raised back up. It had been over four hours. Momma was not likely to raise back up, ever.

The toddler, Prussia had been crying, apple juice and mud pies long gone.

Scratch had gently taken the girl’s hand in his mouth and led her slowly into the forest. He took her to the lake to get a cool drink of water. That had always made him feel better when he was hungry and there was no food.

At the lake he found an enormous reptile sunning on the banks. He’d seen the beast before. He growled and put himself between it and Prussia.

The beast raised its head and quirked an eyebrow.

“What have we here, dog?” it asked in a deep voice neither male nor female.

Scratch growled again, ready to protect the child at any cost.

“Don’t’ worry. I won’t eat her. She is too small and most likely too fatty,” said the beast chuckling harmoniously.

Prussia moved around the dog towards the large reptile. Scratch immediately snapped onto the toddler’s diaper and tried pulling her backwards.

Prussia giggled and wiggled out of the Huggies, running towards the monster. She fell forward, arms around the long green scaley tail which twitched in a serpentine motion while she laughed.

“Hmmm, she isn’t afraid of me,” it noted with a pleased expression. It spread its wings and raised up on its hind legs, looming almost two stories over the girl, still sprawled atop its tail.

She beamed up at it, pink cheeks and gapped grin, and giggled.

“Uncky Gree!” she exclaimed.

“Am I your Uncle Green?” chuckled the beast, the voice shaking the woods around them.

Scratch was still trying to corral the girl, but she was too delighted to be herded by the mutt.

“Dog!” commanded the beast, “I am of the great Dragon Clan Gowrow, and I give you my word I will not harm the child. Stop acting foolishly.”

As the dragon spoke, the ground quaked and the air sizzled, noting the binding words.

Scratch whimpered and backed away at the commotion.

“You may stay and help protect the child,” it said.

Scratch couldn’t help wagging his tail at the assignment.

The dragon turned its attention back to the girl.

“Tell me, what is your name, child?”

“‘m Pru-sha, an ‘m tee,” she said holding up three fingers proudly.

“I see. Well, this won’t do at all,” said the dragon. “You are too young to be in the forest alone. You will need to stay with your Uncky Gree. Tell me, what is your dog’s name?”

“Dawg?” asked Prussia.

The dragon pointed a clawed forefinger at the dog.

“Scratch!” said Prussia proudly. “Scratch is scratch!”

“I see education was not in the forefront of your family’s mind. Let’s see what we can do. Dog, Scratch, can you bring her something to wear that is not made of plastic? Don’t worry, you have my word. The great dragon ‘Uncky Gree’ has decreed the girl’s safety.”

Scratch reluctantly backed away from the beast. Prussia was still perched on top of its tail like she was riding a pony when Scratch left the forest by the lake.

He returned later with a cotton sundress that had been in the laundry basket. It was mostly dry from sitting in the sun. Momma had still been lying below the laundry line, eyes open, motionless.

When Scratch returned, the dragon was snout to nose with the toddler singing to her in a language that he didn’t recognize, although his English vocabulary was limited.

Prussia was fast asleep. He sat the sundress down at the dragon’s hind legs and backed away low, in deference.

“Dog Scratch do not fear me. You are now the young-one’s knight. You will protect her and guide her through the forest. I will educate her and teach her the ways of my kind. She will be my person and someday we will ride together.”

Flash Fiction Contest Second Place Winning Entry

Second Place – George Bowden, Third on a Match

Marlboro. Barton lit up another and passed the lighter to Thomas.

Crazy. Smokin’ a Lucky Strike. Chest exploded before he exhaled.

The last whisps from Charlie’s Camel blurred the setting sun.

“Hunter, you waiting for an invitation?” His sergeant, a bulldog who relished the scars of too many fights, growled, “Get your butt over here, or I’m gonna kick it to the goddammed Yalu River.”

Charlie joined his squad; with oversized fatigues and dirty faces, they looked like a grenade-toting Boy Scout troop.

The sergeant pointed to a North Korean prisoner, “Hunter, you guard this asshole.”

The sergeant nodded down the hill toward a slum of three tin-topped shacks and looked at the other Marines. “You boys have work to do. And I promise -- there’s no mama-san waiting for you down there.

“Don’t worry. If you don’t come back, we’ll pick up your bodies in the morning.” Fuckin’ lunatic. Charlie knew he’d be a dead man if the thought reached his lips.

The Marines found the prisoner in a gully. They saw his hands in the air, then watched him stand up, as timid as a zit-faced boy asking a gun-toting prom queen for a dance.

He’s maybe a little older than me. Tall for a Korean. Probably the son of a hooker who took a sailor’s last five yen.

Charlie motioned him toward a downed tree in the brush. He sat on a stump, facing the prisoner.

“That sergeant is a lunatic,” Charlie complained, confident his words were meaningless to the prisoner.

“He enlisted with a high school friend right after Pearl Harbor. Lost it at Iwo Jima when he found his buddy gutted in a cave. Grabbed a flamethrower. Took out three machine guns before the medics caught him, Shot him up with morphine, took him back to the beach.

The prisoner drew random patterns in the dirt.

Charlie pulled an Emma’s Diner menu from his pocket and held it up to the dimming sunlight. He scanned the Black Knights’ football schedule on the back and traced his finger across the calendar.

“We’re playing Forestburg tonight. District champs. We can take ‘em. What am I doing here? My senior year, and I’m stuck in Korea. I go from running over linebackers to running from snipers. A good season this year, and I’d be playing at UVA or West Virginia next year.”

The prisoner chuckled. “Our backs at USC are twice your size. You wouldn’t stand a chance playing college ball.”

Charlie jumped on the comment as it if was a fumble.

“Are you kidding me? I’d blow through … what the hell?”

The prisoner laughed as if he’d just said checkmate. “I was a freshman at USC last year.

The Japanese ruled Korea for decades. A few years ago, they started sending my friends to Tokyo to work in the mines. My parents sent me to live with an uncle in the United States. When the war started, I came back to Pyongyang to find my parents. Two soldiers grabbed me on the street; I ended up in a uniform. Name is Chan-woo. In the States, ‘Johnny W.’”

Charlie shook his head and smiled as if he’d lost his last dollar in a rigged shell game.

“So,” Charlie asked, “USC going to the Rose Bowl this year?”

“I wish. The Golden Bears will be back there again.”

They parried until almost dawn. Elizabeth Taylor or Jayne Mansfield … Sugar Ray against Marciano … Rosemary Clooney or Doris Day … Yankees vs. Phillies … Mitchum or Lancaster … ’49 Mercury convertible or the new Cadillac V-8?

In the dusk, they walked down the hill and stopped for a smoke next to one of the burntout shacks, its embers a warm break from the morning’s finger-numbing chill.

The sergeant walked another prisoner past them, his .45 at the prisoner’s ear, nudging him toward the remaining shack. They disappeared around the corner. “Boom!”

The sergeant stepped back onto the trail, holstering his pistol.

“Gotta smoke, Hunter?”

“I’m out,” Charlie mumbled.

The sergeant stopped, “He was trying to escape.”

“Yeah, with a .45 at the back of his head.”

“Grow up, boy. This ain’t the senior prom and that gook there ain’t your cruisin’ buddy. You keep your mouth shut and take him to headquarters … Or it’ll look like both of you were trying to run.”

Johnny W. looked away, up the hill overlooking the shacks. A quick glint caught his eye. He smiled and pulled three Camels from his shirt pocket and lit one for himself. He handed two cigarettes and the Zippo lighter to Charlie. Charlie lit one and exhaled. Johnny W. nodded, and Charlie passed the Zippo and the last cigarette to his sergeant.

The sergeant placed the cigarette in his mouth, opened the lighter and rolled the flint wheel. The Camel flared.

Charlie stared stone-faced into the sergeant’s eyes. He pulled the bolt back on his M-1, checked the clip and snapped the bolt shut. The sergeant dropped his hand to his pistol.

Charlie spat, “You fuckin’ lun…” – A sharp crack echoed from the top of the hill. The sergeant’s body slammed to the ground, the cigarette smoldering in the blood pooling next to him.

The sniper’s next shot pinged the dirt next to Charlie’s heel. Johnny W. pushed him behind the shack. Johnny W. knew the rules about snipers. Leaning against the wall, he smiled at

Charlie, “Guess that sergeant was unlucky number three.”

Flash Fiction Contest First Place Winning Entry

First Place – BJ Condike “Seeing Pink”

I hate doctors.

They act as if they’re more important than everyone else. They get mad if you’re late for an appointment but they’re never on time themselves. You describe the source of your pain and they poke it and ask if it hurts. They stick their fingers in places where fingers should not go. They’re vague with diagnoses, and often get them wrong altogether. I griped to myself about these things as I waited for my 1:30 appointment with Dr. Parker. By 2:30 I was still waiting and knew my afternoon was shot. I’d have to call my boss and tell her I wouldn’t be in until tomorrow, putting me behind in my accounts. She disliked my frequent absences and groused about my being a hypochondriac.

I felt overdressed in the waiting room as the only one in a suitcoat and tie. But I had come from work, and it was our office dress code.

“The doctor will see you now, Mr. Thomas.”

After another wait, Dr. Parker strode into the examining room.

“So, how are we feeling today?”

We shook hands. Her hand was cold and thin like her demeanor.

“That’s what you’re here to tell me, right?”

Dr. Parker sat and put on a serious face.

“I have the results of your tests,” she said as she leafed through a file folder. “Your case is unusual. You presented with chronic complaints of periodic dizzy spells and of seeing spots before your eyes. Pink spots.” She looked up. “Are you still having those symptoms?”

“Yes,” I said. “I have dizzy spells and see pink spots. Almost every day. Not as much on weekends, but pretty much all the time.”

“Hmm.” She examined a sheet with columns of numbers. “The results of your blood work revealed the presence of blastoma cells. They’re not always a problem, but together with your symptoms they indicate a rare condition called Reichenfruiters Interplanetary Microblastoma.”

That’s not what she said, but it began with a German name, followed by a lot of syllables I couldn’t follow, and ended with “blastoma.”

“And…? What does that mean, exactly?”

“It’s serious, Mr. Thomas. The disease has progressed to where it’s untreatable. You have six months to live.”

The words didn’t register. I must have zoned out, because I heard her speaking again.

“Mr. Thomas? Mr. Thomas! Have you been listening to me?”

“What? No. Look, there must be some mistake. I’m only fifty-three. Except for the dizzy spells I feel fine. I go to the gym. I run half-marathons. I do yoga, for crying out loud!”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but there’s no mistake.”

I paced around the small room. “This is wrong. I take vitamins! I don’t smoke, I don’t drink, I don’t do drugs. I’m a vegan! Why did I do all that if I was going to get sick anyway? This is not supposed to happen!”

“I wish things were different.”

“Wait! What if you’re wrong? How come I’ve never heard of this Reichen-whatever thing before?”

“Your condition is known as an orphan disease. It has so few cases that drug companies don’t study it. There’s no profit in curing orphan diseases. The government’s the same way.”

“I don’t believe this. You must be mistaken. I need a second opinion.”

She nodded. “You’re right. You do. I needed one also, so I reached out to two of the best-known experts in the field, and they’ve confirmed my diagnosis. Look at these.”

She handed me two pages with fancy letterheads. Both physicians confirmed Dr. Parker’s diagnosis.

“You’ll feel great right up until the end,” she said. “Then…” She shrugged and patted my shoulder.

I left the doctor’s office deflated and depressed. I was alone and without family and with no one to talk to. Even so, by the next day I had made decisions about my abbreviated future.

The first thing I did was visit my firm’s personnel department. I resigned without notice and cashed out my 401k. I wheedled my attorney’s secretary into arranging an immediate appointment with him. That afternoon I executed a durable power of attorney authorizing my accountant to manage my money for me until the end. I had the accountant put my bungalow on the market and told him to sell or donate all my possessions except for my phone and a few clothes.

The following day I visited a travel agent and booked a six-month trip around the world, first class. I also arranged and paid for my funeral.

On my trip I traveled to 86 countries on all seven continents. I viewed breathtaking vistas of cities and oceans and mountains. I broke from my old habits and gorged on exquisite cuisine and drank the finest wines.

On the way home and with two weeks left I stopped at Saville Row in London to buy the suit I’d be buried in. The tailor was a diminutive fellow named Wilson Reeves. He wore a conservative three-piece suit and had a pencil behind one ear and a tape measure draped around his neck.

“You selected a fine wool gabardine, Mr. Thomas,” he said. “Let me take your measure, and we’ll have this ready for you on Thursday as requested.”

I played mannequin as he stretched out his tape, calling the measurements out loud as an assistant wrote them in a tattered notebook.

“Waist, 34. Inseam 36.” He examined my midsection with a critical eye. “I’d say you carry left, is that correct?”

Only a tailor would notice. I simply nodded.

He continued. “Chest, 42. Neck seventeen. Arm 34—”

“Wait. I have a sixteen-inch neck, not seventeen.”

Wilson Reeves frowned and re-measured. “It’s seventeen, Mr. Thomas. You need a seventeen-inch neck.” “

But I’ve always worn a sixteen. I’ve been wearing a sixteen since college.”

“You can wear the smaller size if you like, but it’s not good for you. If you persist, you’ll develop periodic dizzy spells and see spots before your eyes. Pink spots.”

I hate doctors.

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Flash Fiction Contest Winners!

Congratulations to the 2024 Flash Fiction Contest winners. More to follow in our newsletter.

• First Place – BJ Condike “Seeing Pink”

• Second Place – George Bowden “Third on a Match”

• Third Place – D. Kay Valentine “Dragon vs. Toddler”

• Honorable Mention – Katie Moriarty “Beyond the Wall”

Flash Fiction Contest Underway!

See Contest Page for More Details

2023 Flash Fiction Contest Winners

2nd Place Award Winner:

Rescue, Out of This World
by Alice Wooten

The summer was coming to an end and school would start in a few weeks. Three years ago, when I was ten and my sister, Julie, was eight, Dad started an annual tradition of taking us on an end-of-the-summer, learning, camping trip. Dad was a middle school science teacher and there was a lesson in everything we did. He always had science experiments, magical tricks, and nature walks to identify foliage and wildlife. Fun adventures tempered with learning.

            “Well, kiddos, it’s time again for our camping weekend. James, you, and Julie may want to bring the new telescope we built this spring. I’m sure there’ll be some great constellations we can see with the clear skies we’ve been having.”

            Julie and I simultaneously shouted, “Yea!”

            We were at that glorious, nerdy age where we thought our parents knew everything, and it was fun to hang out with them. Oh, did I mention our dogs, Trixie and Russell, would be joining us on our trip. They were always up for an adventure.

            Mom would not be joining us. Although we had progressed from tents to an RV, she preferred to spend time with her younger sister, Aunt Taylor, while we enjoyed nature.

            Preparations began. Dad was a grill master, but Mom always packed a small feast. I think it eased her conscience to prepare a nice meatloaf or brisket and some great sides in case we failed to catch fish. She always included staples like chocolate chip cookies, brownies, and rice crispy treats.

            The big day arrived. Dad packed the RV, hooked up the trailer with our canoe,  and we headed out early Friday afternoon. We waved goodbye to Mom and Aunt Taylor and began the short, hour drive to a camping spot at a nearby lake. We passed several campsites but knew exactly where we wanted to stop.

            “Here it is kiddos, our special spot,” Dad announced.

            “Can we go fish, Dad?” I asked.

            “Yeah,” Julie chimed in.

            “Sure,” Dad agreed.

            We offloaded the canoe and within a few minutes, we were fishing.

            We caught enough fish for supper. Dad cleaned and grilled them. Coupled with Mom’s mac and cheese, they made a great supper. Dad suggested we make a small campfire and light our lanterns before we went for an evening near the center of the lake for a look at some constellations. We would wait for the telescope until tomorrow when we had more time to set it up.

            It would be dark by the time we got back, so we lit lanterns around the camp, tethered Trixie and Russell near the RV, and left the campsite ready-to-use when we returned. We took turns rowing the canoe, but Dad did most of it.  It was peaceful and quiet except for the crickets chirping, the frogs croaking, and the occasional trout splashing on the water’s surface. To offset the chill in the air, Julie and I wrapped ourselves with our blankets.

            As we headed back to the shore, we were awestruck by an eerie scene on shore from the “safety” of our canoe. Tall, I mean really tall, like over seven feet, extraterrestrial-like creatures grabbed our lanterns and started waving them around like they didn’t know how to use them.

            Our dogs were always friendly, but by the pitch of their barks, they were scared out of their doggie minds. They cowered under the RV and whimpered pitifully.

            My heart pounded, and my mouth was dry. The light from the fire and the lanterns was dim, but the creatures were visible.

            I screamed, “Look Dad, aliens!”

            Dad tried to stifle my scream, but it was too late. Despite still being a distance from the shore, my voice traveled across the water. The creatures heard me.  They quickly swung the lanterns higher to look toward the scream’s origin. The lanterns’ beams fell all around us. Shock and panic engulfed Julie and me as we quickly sought shelter under our blankets. 

            Dad instructed, “Be quiet.” Talk about a teaching moment.

            He started to row toward the shore to get a better view of the creatures. Probably other campers playing a prank. The human-like creatures walked closer to the water’s edge.  As Dad tried to evaluate the situation, anxiety overcame him, and he dropped both oars.  We were now literally up the lake without a paddle.

            Julie and I peeked from under our blankets. The creatures recognized our peril and huddled together as though deciding what to do about our predicament. There were three of them. Their stature was human-like, but their disproportionately large hands made it difficult for them to hold the lanterns upright.

            They put down the lanterns and pointed toward us. Our canoe started to gently rise above the water.  Supernatural indeed.  Julie and I were astonished and looked wide-eyed as we hovered several inches above the water. It was a gently lifting sensation and we steadily moved closer toward the shore.          As we reached the shore, Dad jumped out and pulled the canoe onto land. We were no longer suspended above the surface.

            The three creatures stood stoically and dropped their arms. Julie and I sat in a frozen state looking at each other. The dogs peeked from underneath the RV.

            The creatures backed away slowly. Always calm, Dad raised his hand and gave a friendly wave. They looked at each other and imitated Dad’s wave. They walked backwards until they were out of sight in the star-filled night.

            We calmed the dogs and huddled around the campfire to ascertain what we had witnessed. I was convinced it was one of Dad’s magic tricks, you know, like holograms. We waited for Dad to confess.

            Julie pointed to the sky and exclaimed, “Look Dad, a meteor!”

            “No,” Dad said, “Not a meteor. That’s the spacecraft of the friends who saved us tonight.”

            A chill ran down my spine.

            Maybe not holograms.

Honorable Mention Award Winner:

Song of the Siren

by Tiffany Seitz

“Excuse me, ma’am. We are arriving at your destination.”

Assana turned, smiling as she accepted the nervous sailor’s arm. He escorted her to the rusted railing.

“There ‘tis, ma’am.” The young man pointed at a brown lump of rock in the middle of a blue-gray sea. It was her first opportunity to view her new home. Her prison.

“Carter!” A shout came from behind her. “Return to your duties and leave this…creature be.”

The sailor protested, “But, sir—”

“You are dismissed, Mr. Carter.” Commander Evans closed in to supervise both his sailor and his prisoner. Assana kept her features neutral in light of his disapproval.

“Aye, sir.” An apology in his eyes, Seaman Carter bowed to her before following orders.

“You will not use your wiles on my men,” the commander growled, stepping to the rail and faced her.

She almost laughed, considering the ship sailed with a skeleton crew—a precaution deemed necessary by the court considering the passenger and her crime. Other than the captain and Mr. Carter, the sailors had stayed out of her view.

“That’s a shame, Captain,” she purred. “Mr. Carter was helpful in pointing out my newest abode.”

“It’s more than you deserve.” Evans glared at her. “Ten fine men are missing because of your feminine wiles, including my first lieutenant.” He shook his head. “You should have swung for your crimes. Confinement on a deserted island is too kind for the likes of you.”

The look in his eye served as a warning before he left her side.

She said nothing. Considered a danger to mankind, she faced exile for the disappearances. She’d been accused of their murders but couldn’t be convicted without evidence. The investigators and the prosecutors were most vexed by the realization that there were no bodies. But that didn’t stop the persecution. Neighbors, friends, people she’d never met came forth to bear witness to her alleged crimes. The all-male judge and jury determined her guilt and sentence within minutes based on a single thread of evidence found in her bed—a strand of wool matching one missing man’s coat.

The commander was the only volunteer to administer the sentence. Even his crew had been hesitant to join the mission. In his arrogance, the commander had promised double wages for the crossing. When enticement wasn’t successful, other incentives were employed.

The wind whipped at her full skirts and pinned hair as she watched the looming island draw closer. Her new home was isolated; the only approach was by boat. A small hut served as the only habitable shelter—or so she’d been informed. Arrangements for food and clean water were to be delivered monthly, but she would have contact with no others. Ever. Little did they know she would be surrounded by the only thing a siren needed—the sea.

She inhaled the sweet, salty aroma. Trapped on land for too long, she was finally returning to the sea. The wind whistled as the sails brought her closer to her prison—her home. Waves beat a welcoming rhythm against the rocks. She smiled, humming the familiar seductive tune as the ship docked. She was home.

“Commander,” Assana called over the song of the waves against the rocks. “I will need a tour of my new home.”

Mr. Carter had been kind. He would survive to bear witness. The captain? He would disappear.

New Publications by Tiffany Seitz

Our fearless Leader/President, Tiffany Seitz (TASeitz.com), has new stories in the following publications available on Amazon and other booksellers. Congratulations, Tiffany!

On the Rocks in Detectives, Sleuths, & Nosy Neighbors: Beard, Mark, Cedeño, N M, Falenwolfe, Tracy: 9798223961536, May 17, 2024.

A Vague Threat in Notorious in North Texas: Metroplex Mysteries Volume III Kindle Edition by Sisters in Crime North Dallas. Michael Bracken (Editor), eBook, April 20, 2024.
Notorious in North Texas: Metroplex Mysteries Volume III Paperback – by Sisters in Crime North Dallas. Michael Bracken (Editor), Print Book, April 20, 2024.