So apparently there is a thing called the Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen, and one of the items on this year's list is to get a "published SF author" to write a 140-word story with the phrases "Misha," "Queen of England," and "Elopus" in it.
Well, shoot, son. Y'all have come to the right place, I tell you what.
Hit me up on Twitter @scattercat or here in the comments; I get e-mails either way. Drop a few dollars in my hat over there to the right and you'll have your story ASAP. :-)
Showing posts with label contest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label contest. Show all posts
Monday, August 4, 2014
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Mirrorshards Giveaway #1
So my little bit of flash flush, "Apartment 14B," is in the Uncle John's Bathroom Reader Flush Fiction anthology, a collection of 87 flash fiction stories from all over (available now from Amazon and other fine retailers), and the nice folks at Uncle John's have offered to do a giveaway via the blogs of the authors who appear in the book. (As a note, the faintly scatological title has nothing to do with the content of the stories; it's just an Uncle John's thing.)
So here's the rules:
Below, I'm going to write the first line of a story. If you want to be entered to win a free copy of Flush Fiction, post a comment below. In your comment, you must continue the story. You can do as little as one or two words (if you're not feeling very creative) or as much as a sentence. (Don't do a super-long sentence, please. Spirit of cooperation and all.) You can post more than once, but you'll only get one entry in the drawing no matter how many times you do, and I'd ask that you wait for at least one other person to post before jumping back in. (Not that y'all are prone to that sort of behavior, of course, but just to establish the expectations.)
After, oh, say, a week (so midnight on April 11), I'll wrap it up. I'll use one of the myriad of random number generators available to me to pick one lucky entrant to receive the free book, and then I'll clean up the story text (adding an ending if need be) and post it in the Pages section (up at the upper right), so that we can all bask in our co-author status together.
Now, I'm not shipping the book, so I'll need a name and address to give to the publisher so you can receive your prize. If you don't want to post that kind of thing in a public comments section (and I wouldn't recommend it), then please at least post an e-mail or something where I can contact you to gather that information in the event it becomes necessary.
---
In honor of the anthology, the opening phrase of the story is:
Of all the things I'd expected to encounter in the guest bathroom, I hadn't been prepared for this.
So here's the rules:
Below, I'm going to write the first line of a story. If you want to be entered to win a free copy of Flush Fiction, post a comment below. In your comment, you must continue the story. You can do as little as one or two words (if you're not feeling very creative) or as much as a sentence. (Don't do a super-long sentence, please. Spirit of cooperation and all.) You can post more than once, but you'll only get one entry in the drawing no matter how many times you do, and I'd ask that you wait for at least one other person to post before jumping back in. (Not that y'all are prone to that sort of behavior, of course, but just to establish the expectations.)
After, oh, say, a week (so midnight on April 11), I'll wrap it up. I'll use one of the myriad of random number generators available to me to pick one lucky entrant to receive the free book, and then I'll clean up the story text (adding an ending if need be) and post it in the Pages section (up at the upper right), so that we can all bask in our co-author status together.
Now, I'm not shipping the book, so I'll need a name and address to give to the publisher so you can receive your prize. If you don't want to post that kind of thing in a public comments section (and I wouldn't recommend it), then please at least post an e-mail or something where I can contact you to gather that information in the event it becomes necessary.
---
In honor of the anthology, the opening phrase of the story is:
Of all the things I'd expected to encounter in the guest bathroom, I hadn't been prepared for this.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
All at Once
Part of the Six Birds storytelling event at I Saw Lightning Fall.
---
They found the birds before the sun rose in the morning. Harker had his key in the library door when he noticed the first one. Then a second. A third. Six in all.
Little gray birds, lying on the low wall. Not neatly, like a butcher would lay them out. Haphazard. Fallen all at once.
“Like a sacrifice,” Harker said.
“Or an offering,” said the Gollimog.
“Same thing.” Harker unlocked the door and held it open. The Gollimog hopped in, squeezing his moist green bulk through the doorframe.
Harker started reshelving while the Gollimog read the news on the Internet. They had to keep up-to-date in case anyone had questions at the Reference desk. The Gollimog grunted and muttered to himself while he read, but Harker ignored him. Harker didn’t read anything new if he could possibly avoid it. That was why he and the Gollimog worked so well together.
“It’s begun,” the Gollimog announced around mid-morning. Harker barely paused his cart of books. He was getting a lot done with the library so quiet. The Gollimog continued, raising his croaking voice to chase Harker into the 700s, “We should prepare. It’s not going to stop this time.”
“The supplies are in the basement, where they always are,” said Harker.
“I can’t work the doorknobs.”
Harker sighed and set his cart against the wall.
The first refugee arrived twenty minutes later. Harker was wheeling a second cart of bottled water up next to the checkout. The Gollimog was in the basement, wrestling blankets and mattresses with his webbed forefeet and many a dire curse. Their visitor was Mr. Pemblesthwaite, clutching a satchel filled with a random assortment of clothing, a can of pitted olives, and three overdue books.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” said Mr. Pemblesthwaite.
Harker ushered him inside, casting a wary eye at the growing chaos out in the streets. With a strangled cough, a small hawk spiraled out of the sky to land, twitching, on the street. In the distance, sirens howled. Harker smelled smoke and frowned. Fires were dangerous, even with the Gollimog around.
There was no flood of supplicants; barely a trickle. It was a unique sort of soul that, in times of crisis, found itself drawn to the library. Some of them brought supplies. Some of them were injured. All of them brought their overdue books and some choice selections from their own libraries. Outside, the rising storm wailed and thrashed. Inside, Harker carefully sealed the windows and doors while the Gollimog gave rumbling, rambling sermons to his confused and frightened audience. They took comfort from his words. Later, they all had tea. Someone screamed when the lights went out. The Gollimog permitted no flames of any kind inside the library, and flashlights were immediately put on strict rationing to make the batteries last.
Without power or windows, the library was a dark and hushed place, isolated from the outside world. The Gollimog chafed at the lack of a computer and his daily wallow in various newsfeeds, but his own intuition provided a clear enough guide to current events, and he knew it. Harker permitted the indulgence of two hours’ reading aloud by flashlight each evening before bed. The books were selected by lottery, but Harker retained veto privileges.
The water ran out after three weeks. They endured on dregs and squeezings for seven more days, but at last there was no other option. Harker distributed masks and gloves from another of his carefully prepared packages. With some ceremony, he prepared to unseal the front door. The nails creaked as they came out, and there was a thump-thump-rustle as the wood and plastic sheeting stripped away.
Mrs. Offentreacle gasped when the door swung wide and the watery afternoon sun seeped in. The bodies outside lay in rows. Not neatly, like in a funeral parlor. Haphazard. Fallen all at once, in a strange pattern radiating outward from the library.
"Like an offering," said Harker.
"A sacrifice," said the Gollimog.
It took a long time to put things back in the right order, but Harker and the Gollimog were punctilious and thorough in their organizational talents, among their other skills. The Gollimog was most pleased when they finally got the power station running again, even if many of the news sites weren't updating anymore. Function, form, and content were all separate things, he would say, and we must make do with what we can.
Seven months after the first new website updates - the Gollimog's own, cataloguing the new additions to the library's collection and modestly revealing some of the other services they now provided - Harker coughed to gain the Gollimog's attention and pointed out the window. The Gollimog heaved himself up from his screen, peered out, and grunted approvingly. They snapped a photograph and included it in their update: a thin and ragged flock of little gray songbirds.
---
They found the birds before the sun rose in the morning. Harker had his key in the library door when he noticed the first one. Then a second. A third. Six in all.
Little gray birds, lying on the low wall. Not neatly, like a butcher would lay them out. Haphazard. Fallen all at once.
“Like a sacrifice,” Harker said.
“Or an offering,” said the Gollimog.
“Same thing.” Harker unlocked the door and held it open. The Gollimog hopped in, squeezing his moist green bulk through the doorframe.
Harker started reshelving while the Gollimog read the news on the Internet. They had to keep up-to-date in case anyone had questions at the Reference desk. The Gollimog grunted and muttered to himself while he read, but Harker ignored him. Harker didn’t read anything new if he could possibly avoid it. That was why he and the Gollimog worked so well together.
“It’s begun,” the Gollimog announced around mid-morning. Harker barely paused his cart of books. He was getting a lot done with the library so quiet. The Gollimog continued, raising his croaking voice to chase Harker into the 700s, “We should prepare. It’s not going to stop this time.”
“The supplies are in the basement, where they always are,” said Harker.
“I can’t work the doorknobs.”
Harker sighed and set his cart against the wall.
The first refugee arrived twenty minutes later. Harker was wheeling a second cart of bottled water up next to the checkout. The Gollimog was in the basement, wrestling blankets and mattresses with his webbed forefeet and many a dire curse. Their visitor was Mr. Pemblesthwaite, clutching a satchel filled with a random assortment of clothing, a can of pitted olives, and three overdue books.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” said Mr. Pemblesthwaite.
Harker ushered him inside, casting a wary eye at the growing chaos out in the streets. With a strangled cough, a small hawk spiraled out of the sky to land, twitching, on the street. In the distance, sirens howled. Harker smelled smoke and frowned. Fires were dangerous, even with the Gollimog around.
There was no flood of supplicants; barely a trickle. It was a unique sort of soul that, in times of crisis, found itself drawn to the library. Some of them brought supplies. Some of them were injured. All of them brought their overdue books and some choice selections from their own libraries. Outside, the rising storm wailed and thrashed. Inside, Harker carefully sealed the windows and doors while the Gollimog gave rumbling, rambling sermons to his confused and frightened audience. They took comfort from his words. Later, they all had tea. Someone screamed when the lights went out. The Gollimog permitted no flames of any kind inside the library, and flashlights were immediately put on strict rationing to make the batteries last.
Without power or windows, the library was a dark and hushed place, isolated from the outside world. The Gollimog chafed at the lack of a computer and his daily wallow in various newsfeeds, but his own intuition provided a clear enough guide to current events, and he knew it. Harker permitted the indulgence of two hours’ reading aloud by flashlight each evening before bed. The books were selected by lottery, but Harker retained veto privileges.
The water ran out after three weeks. They endured on dregs and squeezings for seven more days, but at last there was no other option. Harker distributed masks and gloves from another of his carefully prepared packages. With some ceremony, he prepared to unseal the front door. The nails creaked as they came out, and there was a thump-thump-rustle as the wood and plastic sheeting stripped away.
Mrs. Offentreacle gasped when the door swung wide and the watery afternoon sun seeped in. The bodies outside lay in rows. Not neatly, like in a funeral parlor. Haphazard. Fallen all at once, in a strange pattern radiating outward from the library.
"Like an offering," said Harker.
"A sacrifice," said the Gollimog.
It took a long time to put things back in the right order, but Harker and the Gollimog were punctilious and thorough in their organizational talents, among their other skills. The Gollimog was most pleased when they finally got the power station running again, even if many of the news sites weren't updating anymore. Function, form, and content were all separate things, he would say, and we must make do with what we can.
Seven months after the first new website updates - the Gollimog's own, cataloguing the new additions to the library's collection and modestly revealing some of the other services they now provided - Harker coughed to gain the Gollimog's attention and pointed out the window. The Gollimog heaved himself up from his screen, peered out, and grunted approvingly. They snapped a photograph and included it in their update: a thin and ragged flock of little gray songbirds.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
BONUS EXTRAVAGANZA!!!
Today is officially the day Mirrorshards accumulates enough 100-word stories to count as a novel (minimum 50,000 words). As a special not-really-a-contest, I offer this Super-Duper Not to Be Repeated Offer:
Post a comment with a two to five word premise that you think would be awesome when viewed through my cracked little lens. I will then write you your VERY OWN flitterfic in which I attempt to foster the growth and general welfare of awesome within my usual 100-word confines.
In other words, post a concept and get a story.
Try to mention what name you want to be credited for inspiration; otherwise I'll just use whatever your blogger name is. FWIW, I will also link to your blog when I post 'your' story if you like. Default is not to link, so mention it if you want the awesome power of my 15 daily readers at your beck and call.
This offer is open to everyone who reads this here post right here on Thursday, March 25, 2010. You need not be a regular commenter here. Even anonymous commenters will be welcome. Spread the link to all your friends! It's a crazy story bonanza!
1) Nathan reserves the right to maybe take longer than just the one day to actually finish all the stories, especially as he's working all day Thursday.
2) Stories will be written in strict chronological order. First come, first serve.
3) As a correlary of sorts, if you snooze, you lose. Submissions to the Mirrorshards Storygasm Bonanza must be posted by midnight on Thursday.
4) In the event of an unexpected rate of return (more than six, say) stories will be posted to the "front page" of Mirrorshards over several days in order not to blast people's RSS feeds with Nathan's crap.
5) Nathan also reserves the write to discard a given prompt in the event of an obvious troll.
6) Nathan requests that you leave him some space to elaborate and not try to be all clever and stuff. "Hippopotamus eating Rice Krispies treats" only gives so much room to work with, whereas "Laser cufflinks" opens up worlds of possibility.
7) Nathan will now cease referring to himself in the third person, as he keeps forgetting he's doing that and writing in first person and having to revise.
Post a comment with a two to five word premise that you think would be awesome when viewed through my cracked little lens. I will then write you your VERY OWN flitterfic in which I attempt to foster the growth and general welfare of awesome within my usual 100-word confines.
In other words, post a concept and get a story.
Try to mention what name you want to be credited for inspiration; otherwise I'll just use whatever your blogger name is. FWIW, I will also link to your blog when I post 'your' story if you like. Default is not to link, so mention it if you want the awesome power of my 15 daily readers at your beck and call.
This offer is open to everyone who reads this here post right here on Thursday, March 25, 2010. You need not be a regular commenter here. Even anonymous commenters will be welcome. Spread the link to all your friends! It's a crazy story bonanza!
RULES OF THE GAME
1) Nathan reserves the right to maybe take longer than just the one day to actually finish all the stories, especially as he's working all day Thursday.
2) Stories will be written in strict chronological order. First come, first serve.
3) As a correlary of sorts, if you snooze, you lose. Submissions to the Mirrorshards Storygasm Bonanza must be posted by midnight on Thursday.
4) In the event of an unexpected rate of return (more than six, say) stories will be posted to the "front page" of Mirrorshards over several days in order not to blast people's RSS feeds with Nathan's crap.
5) Nathan also reserves the write to discard a given prompt in the event of an obvious troll.
6) Nathan requests that you leave him some space to elaborate and not try to be all clever and stuff. "Hippopotamus eating Rice Krispies treats" only gives so much room to work with, whereas "Laser cufflinks" opens up worlds of possibility.
7) Nathan will now cease referring to himself in the third person, as he keeps forgetting he's doing that and writing in first person and having to revise.
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