Next week is Hint Fiction’s birthday, so it makes some weird sense that my most recent publications are hint pieces (well, one is a hint piece, the other is slightly longer).
“Terms and Conditions” (25 words) appears in issue 7 of The Los Angeles Review, alongside work by Benjamin Percy, Rick Bass, and a slew of other great writers. (My deepest thanks to Stefanie Freele for being kind enough to accept the story in the first place.)
“NSFW” (34 words) appears in the premiere issue of Sententia, alongside work by Roxane Gay, Adam Robinson, and a slew of other great writers. (My deepest thanks to Ryan W. Bradley for accepting the story in the first place.)
I’m thrilled to be included in both publications, and to show just how thrilled I am, I’m having another giveaway/contest, this one in honor of Holden McGroin.
You see, because Narrative didn’t seem to want to hire Holden as an intern (I can’t imagine why not), his Penultimate Paragraph Contest idea has not seen fruition. So I figured I’d help him out and host the very first Penultimate Paragraph Contest!
What do you need to do to enter? In the comments section simply post the penultimate paragraph of one of your short stories. The stories don’t have to be published, but if they are published online, please provide a link so we can check out the rest of your story (note that if you do provide a link, my site might think it’s spam and hold it for moderation, so if that does happen, don’t fret, it will appear shortly).
Deadline is Friday midnight eastern time, with winners announced at some point during the weekend. This giveaway/contest will have two winners: one person whose penultimate paragraph I’ll pick as my favorite, and another person selected randomly. (Note that if you’re reading this on Facebook and want to enter, please do so at the main website.)
Come on, people, this will be fun. Get crack-a-lackin!
Much, much later, he’d realise that this was what being an adult always felt like: driving a car willing for an accident; travelling overseas in the hope of danger; reading books and watching films and getting married in the hope of fighting and mayhem and hate. Max had learned something that morning, or maybe unlearned it. Whatever the case, the knowledge took him even further away from his brothers and his family. That kicking and crying and dying guinea pig signposted a juncture in Max’s life that people would eventually look back to and say ‘Was that it?’ And it wasn’t remarkable.
(from http://scribbligum.com/gum_leaves.html)
Dillon took off his clothes and folded them neatly on the bench next to him. He walked toward the showers, giggling like someone was giving him a raspberry. When he stepped into the shower room, the shock of the cold, tiled floor ran through his body, calming his laughter.
(Good ol’ Holden McGroin! I’d vote for him.)
The day your parents die will be the happiest day of your life. You’ll no longer be governed by strict rules. Locked under the stairs for accidentally using the wrong kind of spoon at supper time. Whipped until your flesh splits because you got your times tables wrong at school.
Buntz and I get floggings from our parents. Buntz is grounded for four weeks and his parents put him on a low dosage of Yidalin—the kosher stimulant. I get six weeks—three for the accident, three more for keeping them in the dark and bothering poor Mr. Smothers instead. Mrs. Buntz bakes Mr. Smothers one of her famous Buntz cakes. Buntz gets no Buntz cake.
http://www.prickofthespindle.com/fiction/2.2/mangla/how_to_be_a_badass_junior_edition.htm
(just recently accepted into a print anthology)
As another jarring explosion erupted somewhere behind him, he found himself looking at the peculiar fish that swam so close to the shore, so close to the death of the island. He wondered if they swam so close because they knew what was happening. Maybe they were simply waiting…waiting to evolve, to adapt, waiting for their gills to become lungs, their fins to become legs. And then perhaps they would stumble ashore one day and place their hands upon the golden debris that had wiped the world clean for them.
His wife grunted softly, and Francis shuffled back to his side of the bed and sat down, looking at the faint shadow his figure cast on the wall in the nearly horizontal moonlight. Suddenly remembering the knife, he looked around for a place to put it, and finally decided to stick it in the top drawer of his nightstand. He’d put it back in the morning, he told himself. As he dropped the knife into the barely open drawer, he heard a soft but clear clink, as if of metal on metal. Puzzled, he pulled the drawer open, felt around in the dark. His fingertips brushed the knife handle, and then another, and then another. He didn’t remember bringing more than one knife up with him, but after a while he decided that no matter where they came from, he’d bring them all down tomorrow morning.
Hi Robert,
First of all, congratulations on the two Hint pieces being published in The Los Angeles Review and Sententia. That is awesome! Thank you for paving the way for us Hint Fiction writers! Happy Birthday next week to Hint Fiction ~ you must be a proud papa.
This is from my flash fiction piece, “Victims of the Night,” which is on my blog. I responded to Daniel O’Shea’s “The Steve Weddle Memorial Airport” flash fiction challenge to create an 800 word piece that had something to do with an airport. The entire piece can be found here: http://j.mp/4nkGXZ
“‘Blood in’ — right, Wicked?” She stared into his cold, dark eyes that looked like portals to Hell. “Oh, and this is for killing my brother and injuring my father in a drive-by last year, you piece of shit. My mother died of a broken heart after you shot her only son,” she said, slicing his throat with the razor blade. “What was that you said? ‘Slice or be sliced’? I’d say that’s a buck fifty, easy. But you don’t have to worry about stitches, now do you?”
From story called “Old Bones.”
I began with thinking, and I ended up hearing, hearing something coming up through all those layers of soil, something that had sent out for skin and had the spiders come to clothe it, something that had been put together all wrong and was pushing its way up through the tibias of monkeys and the teeth of horses, something that was behind me now, right behind me. I turned off the light. It seems I had found what I was looking for.
Hey that’s my bridge up there Robert! LOL. About a mile from my house.
The penultimate paragraph from the story, “How to Date a Flying Mexican”:
Fourth, enjoy your flying Mexican. Life is short and we all need to take delight where we can find it. A corollary to this is that you should learn to accept your lover’s special talents even if they’re annoying.
Full story first appeared in Exquisite Corpse:
http://www.corpse.org/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=234&Itemid=33
Heh–you made me realize how often I finish a story with two single-sentence paragraphs. Shame on me.
This one is about as close to a full penultimate paragraph as I ever get. Originally appeared in Everyday Weirdness, here: http://everydayweirdness.com/e/20090428/
Looking back, I shiver to think how low the window always was—how nothing but my own height kept me from realizing it. I’m glad I never knew. How easy would it have been, with better perspective, to climb onto the changing table, stretch out a tiny hand to unhook the latch, and open the window into the flames and lava and black germ-devils of my fears?
As if he didn’t lounge around the house enough since he got disability, now he just watches the game shows all day long, hogging an entire couch cushion (like he needs it) and staring at the screen with those creepy little crab eyes. I know, he’s my father, he can’t help it–but yeech.
From this story in Brain Harvest.
Say a prayer for me, baby – I need all the help I can get. My thumbnail scrapes the patch. Three drops, shiny and viscous, ooze into my palm, liquid crystals. Remorse pricks me, and disgust I’ve come to this again. Today is the last time, I swear, but I lick my hand, greedily suck the patch. Calm gilds my mouth and throat, spreads to my chest, my fingers, my world, and I forget. The door opens, the blonde mourner floats from the room. I surrender to the velvet-lined bench and the world cradles me.
–
Break Time. A flash story due out in a forthcoming anthology. Peace, Linda
And mucho congrats on your hint fic pubs. Very cool. Peace, Linda
From “Accidental Enlightenment”
I’m maneuvering around the flares, cursing at the black Suburban that’s riding my tail, when a smear of yellow catches my eye. My heart does a few hard thundering beats, like a stereo with the bass turned up way too high. I’m halfway into a pact with God before I realize that the crumpled yellow Mustang only partially visible from beneath the tractor-trailer can’t be Jenny’s, because Jenny’s car is in the shop, and Jenny is sitting right next to me. I turn to look at her. She’s become so relaxed that now she’s softly snoring.
http://www.swimmingkangaroo.com/newsletters/aug07.pdf (page 9)
First (really short one):
As you are aware, only my brother has the authorization to bring someone back from the dead.
Second try:
“No, the man should have been an actor, but he has good enough taste that the women he picks are sensitive enough to not make a scene in front of the children. At least, not since one of the early ones. Our oldest was five, and she caught us at the mall. Huge scene in front of everyone. That was a bad one.”